But somewhere between his awkward apology, the folded blanket for her knees, his quiet habit of leaving the better portion of meat on her plate, and the way he always asked before touching her, desire had begun growing beneath practicality.
She wanted him to look at her and not see the woman from the station.
The disappointment.
She wanted to be wanted.
Not tolerated.
Not appreciated only because she could scrub floors.
Wanted.
She hated that need.
Because it gave him power.
The sun dropped.
The rancher returned after dusk.
He opened the cabin door.
Stopped.
The scene in front of him looked impossible.
Clean counters.
Lantern light.
Fresh biscuits.
Steam rising from a pot.
Washed blankets folded neatly.
His wife beside the table in the burgundy blouse and cream apron, chestnut hair partly loosened after a long day.
The house smelled like food instead of grease and ash.
He stared.
“What in heaven’s name happened to my cabin?”
His wife brushed flour from her hands.
“Wash them.”
“What?”
“Your hands.”
“Supper is ready.”
The rancher looked around again.
“You did all this?”
She gave him a small, uncertain smile.
“There was not much else to do.”
He looked at her hands.
Red.
Work-worn.
Then at the floor.
The kitchen.
The meal.
Something inside him twisted.
Four days ago he had looked at this woman and thought he had made a fifty-dollar mistake.
Now he could barely recognize the home she stood inside.
He removed his coat.
Then noticed the ledger.
And the invoices.
His wife saw the moment.
“Wash first.”
He did.
When he returned, she did not immediately serve supper.
She closed the ledger.
Placed two invoices beside each other.
The rancher frowned.
“What’s that?”
“Sit.”
He stared.
She raised an eyebrow.
He sat.
She pushed the invoices toward him.
“Read the numbers.”
He looked.
“Both 418.”
“Amounts?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Twelve forty.”
Then:
“Twenty-one sixty.”
He looked up.
“So?”
She placed another pair.
Then another.
His expression changed.
“Where did you get these?”
“In your records.”
“You went through my papers?”
The question came sharper than intended.
Her face hardened.
“Yes.”
“This house became my concern when you married me.”
He immediately knew he had stepped wrong.
“That’s not—”
“Read them.”
He did.
The room became quiet.
His wife placed the ledger beside them.
“These higher entries are not in your hand.”
He stared.
Then recognized the writing.
“No.”
She waited.
The rancher looked again.
His face tightened.
“That’s the foreman’s.”