“Debatable.”
She threw the newspaper at him.
They grew old.
Slowly.
Harlan’s dark beard turned silver.
His shoulders remained broad but lost some of their impossible strength.
Josephine’s chestnut hair became gray.
Her body remained very large.
Her knees eventually protested the mountain paths.
Harlan built railings.
Then ramps.
He never announced why.
Josephine noticed anyway.
“You think I’m getting old.”
“So am I.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“Yes.”
She kissed his cheek.
“Good answer.”
One winter night, more than forty years after Josephine first arrived, another storm buried the cabin.
The original cabin had become part of a larger ranch house, but Josephine insisted the old room remain almost unchanged.
Same stove.
Same table.
Same bed frame, though the mattress had been replaced several times.
The iron box remained in a cabinet.
And Harlan’s old knife hung above the mantel.
Josephine sat in her reinforced rocking chair beneath a buffalo robe.
The same buffalo robe.
Patched now.
Faded.
Still warm.
Harlan sat across from her.
“You remember the first night?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Liar.”
“Which part?”
“The knife.”
“I remember you looking ready to murder me.”
“I thought you were going to murder me.”
“Reasonable.”
“And then you destroyed an expensive corset.”
“Best decision of the evening.”
Josephine laughed.
“You know what I remember most?”
“What?”
“The breath.”
Harlan looked at her.
“When those cords broke.”
She touched her chest.
“I remember breathing.”
Silence settled warmly.
Josephine looked toward the knife.
“I think that was the first thing you ever gave me.”
“A ruined undergarment?”
“Room.”
Harlan’s expression softened.
Josephine continued.
“Physical room first.”
She inhaled slowly.
“Then everything else.”
Harlan reached for her hand.
She gave it.
His fingers were older.
Still strong.
Josephine looked at him.
“You never actually told me why you chose twenty dollars.”
He laughed.
“Your father chose it.”
“No. He proposed fifty.”
Harlan froze.
Josephine smiled triumphantly.
“I found the original note years ago.”
“You snoop.”
“I own the archive.”
“Fine.”
“So?”
Harlan sighed.
“I negotiated.”
Josephine stared.
“You negotiated my bride price downward?”
“Technically.”
She looked scandalized.
“Harlan Creek.”
“It needed to look real.”
“Twenty dollars?”
“I told him two horses were generous.”
Josephine began laughing.
Soon Harlan joined.
They laughed until neither could remember why the joke mattered.
Maybe because enough years had passed.
Maybe because some scars became stories once they stopped hurting.
Or maybe because they had spent a lifetime refusing to let the ugliest beginning define everything that came after.
Harlan became ill the following spring.
Pneumonia.
At seventy-nine, the mountain man who had once carried Josephine effortlessly from a wagon could barely cross the room without help.
Josephine hated it.
He hated it more.
One morning, she found him attempting to put on his boots.
“What are you doing?”
“Barn.”