The broker disappeared from their lives.
Good.
Not every villain required a final confrontation.
The cowboy had a ranch to live on.
That became more important than proving anything.
By the second year, the question of marriage emerged.
Not from them.
From everyone else.
Neighbors.
Family.
Church women.
Merchants.
People who found other lives easier to manage when relationships carried names.
The cowboy resisted asking partly because he did not want her to think marriage was the price of staying.
The Apache woman resisted discussing it because she did not want to become the ranch wife everyone seemed to have already invented.
The situation became absurd.
One evening the foreman asked:
“Are you two getting married or planning to irritate the county indefinitely?”
The cowboy answered:
“Mind your business.”
The Apache woman said:
“We have not decided.”
The foreman looked between them.
“You live here half the year.”
“You argue like you’ve been married twenty.”
“He keeps your tea.”
“You keep his books.”
“Everyone knows.”
The woman crossed her arms.
“Everyone knowing is not a legal argument.”
The foreman sighed.
“I miss when the biggest problem was forged deeds.”
He walked away.
The cowboy looked toward her.
She looked toward him.
Then both laughed.
But the question remained.
That night, on the porch, he asked:
“Do you want marriage?”
She considered.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She looked surprised.
He continued:
“I am afraid to ask because I don’t want you to hear ‘stay here permanently and become part of my ranch.’”
“That is very specific.”
“I’ve had time to think.”
She smiled slightly.
He continued:
“I want marriage because I want a life recognized as ours.”
“Not yours entering mine.”
“Not mine entering yours.”
“Ours.”
She remained quiet.
He added:
“But I do not know what that looks like.”
The woman smiled.
“Good.”
He laughed.
“You like when I don’t know things.”
“I like when you admit it.”
Fair.
She leaned back.
“I want marriage.”
His breath stopped.
“But.”
He closed his eyes.
“There is always a but.”
“Yes.”
She turned toward him.
“I will not abandon my work.”
“I know.”
“I will not stop traveling to my family.”
“I know.”
“I will not let anyone call me yours as if that means property.”
His expression hardened.
“They already do sometimes.”
“I know.”
“I hate it.”
“So do I.”
She continued:
“I will not let the story become that I came here because your mother chose me.”