“For you.”
His breath caught.
She smiled.
“I did not come through that door for the ranch.”
She pressed the deed more firmly against his chest.
“I came for you.”
He lifted his other hand toward her face.
Stopped just before touching her cheek.
She noticed.
The question.
She answered by leaning into his hand.
His thumb brushed lightly beneath her cheekbone.
Then she whispered:
“Do not kiss me because you are grateful.”
The cowboy’s voice dropped.
“I am not.”
“Do not kiss me because our mothers signed something.”
“I am definitely not.”
“Do not kiss me because you are afraid I will ride away again.”
He looked at her.
“That one may be partly true.”
She almost smiled.
“Then wait.”
He froze.
The request hurt.
But he lowered his hand.
Immediately.
Her expression changed.
Trust.
She whispered:
“Thank you.”
He swallowed.
“For what?”
“For stopping.”
He nodded.
She stepped back slightly.
Not leaving.
Just space.
The cowboy looked at the deed.
Then at her.
“What now?”
“Now you feed me.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“I have been riding since before sunrise.”
He laughed.
“Romance is alive.”
“Food first.”
He moved toward the kitchen.
She called after him:
“And not beans.”
“That is what I have.”
“Then romance is dead.”
The cowboy smiled for the first time in twenty-three days without having to force it.
He cooked eggs.
Burned one side.
She complained.
Ate everything.
The foreman came in halfway through supper, saw her, and stopped.
His face broke into a grin.
The cowboy pointed toward the door.
“You’re fired.”
The foreman nodded.
“Expected.”
The Apache woman said:
“He means tomorrow.”
The foreman sat.
The cowboy glared at both.
“Wonderful.”
His house had become hostile territory.
He had never been happier.
The next morning did not turn into a romance.
That was important.
They woke with problems.
The forged deed still had to be challenged formally.
The broker still had allies.
The missing message needed investigation.
The Apache woman had family waiting.
The cowboy had cattle moving north.
His mortgage remained.
Love did not solve accounts.
It did not repair fences.
It did not erase history.
It did something smaller.
It changed what they wanted to face together.
The first serious question came after breakfast.
“How long are you staying?”
the cowboy asked.
The Apache woman looked at him.
“Three days.”
His face fell before he could control it.
She saw.
“I have obligations.”