“Four?”
“Maybe five.”
“And you never thought to mention that when you first arrived?”
“You barely let me through the gate.”
“That is not—”
She gave him a look.
“Fine.”
He folded his arms.
“What was she like with your family?”
The woman considered.
“Direct.”
“That is diplomatic.”
“Bossy.”
“Accurate.”
“She brought medicine once when my younger cousin was sick.”
The cowboy looked surprised.
“She never told me.”
“She did not do it for you.”
That stopped him.
Of course.
How many good things had his mother done that he assumed he would have known because he was her son?
The woman continued:
“She and my mother disagreed constantly.”
“About?”
“Everything.”
“Water.”
“Children.”
“Whether white flour was worth buying.”
The cowboy laughed.
“My mother hated white flour.”
“So did mine.”
“What were they arguing about?”
“Which one hated it correctly.”
He laughed harder.
The woman smiled.
Then:
“They respected each other.”
“Not because they were alike.”
“They were not.”
“Because neither expected the other to become smaller to make friendship easier.”
The cowboy stored that sentence.
He would need it later.
The three days ended too quickly.
On the third morning, the Apache woman saddled her horse.
The cowboy stood near the rail.
He did not ask her to stay.
That was difficult enough to feel physical.
She tightened the saddle strap.
Then looked toward him.
“You are being strange.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m trying not to pressure you.”
She smiled.
“This is what you look like when you try?”
“Yes.”
“Terrible.”
He sighed.
“What do you want me to do?”
She thought.
“Tell me the truth.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
There.
Immediate.
Her expression softened.
“Thank you.”
“That is all?”
“What else?”
“I don’t know.”
She stepped closer.
“I don’t want to go either.”
Hope rose too fast.
She lifted a finger.
“But I need to.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
She touched his vest near the center of his chest.
“I will return.”
He looked at her.
“When?”
Her eyes narrowed.
He smiled.
“Right.”
She mounted.
Then looked down at him.
The cowboy said:
“One thing.”
“What?”
“Do not disappear for twenty-three days.”
“No promises.”
He looked horrified.
She laughed.
Then softened.
“I’ll send word.”
“Through somebody other than the freight office.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She started away.
He watched.
Then called:
“You forgot something.”
She turned.
“What?”
He walked toward her horse.
She leaned down slightly.