The article claimed she had fallen in love immediately because he “showed unmatched frontier chivalry.”
The old woman threw a cushion.
“He annoyed me.”
The cowboy nodded.
“She hated me.”
“I did not hate you.”
“You threatened to leave.”
“Because you were controlling.”
“Romantic.”
“Insufferable.”
The grandson laughed so hard he could not continue reading.
The old cowboy took the paper.
At the bottom was a claim that he had gifted his wife half the ranch after marriage.
He frowned.
“That is wrong.”
His wife looked over.
“You did.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I placed half into joint title.”
“Exactly.”
“That is not a gift.”
“What is it?”
“Our property.”
The old woman smiled.
“Better.”
He looked toward her.
Still learning.
Even after forty years.
When the cowboy turned seventy-four, he could no longer ride long days without pain.
He denied this for two years.
His wife finally removed his saddle from the tack room.
He was furious.
“That is mine.”
“Yes.”
“Put it back.”
“No.”
“You cannot decide when I stop riding.”
She looked at him.
“You fell twice last month.”
“I slipped.”
“Twice?”
“Coincidence.”
She crossed her arms.
He stared.
Then:
“You sound like me forty years ago.”
“I know.”
“Hypocrite.”
“Yes.”
They compromised.
Short rides on gentle horses.
Never alone.
He hated it.
Accepted it.
The woman’s own health declined later.
Arthritis in her hands.
Then heart problems.
She hated doctors even though she had worked beside them.
The cowboy enjoyed reminding her of every piece of advice she once gave him.
She threatened violence.
Romance survived.
One evening, near their fiftieth year of knowing each other, they sat beside the northern spring.
The cowboy held the original deed.
The paper was now kept wrapped and protected.
Their daughter had complained about bringing it outside.
He ignored her.
His wife looked at the two signatures.
Their mothers.
She smiled.
“Do you think they would be surprised?”
“By what?”
“Us.”
The cowboy thought.
“My mother would say she knew.”
“Even though her own letter said the opposite.”
“Yes.”
“She would rewrite history immediately.”
“Absolutely.”
The woman smiled.
“My mother would ask whether you finally learned to listen.”
“What would you say?”
“That progress was made.”
He laughed.
Then became quiet.
“Do you regret coming back?”
She looked toward him.
“Which time?”
“The door.”
“After the deed.”
She thought.
“No.”
“Never?”
“I regretted marrying you twice.”
He stared.
“Twice?”
“Maybe three.”
“You never told me.”