“Another wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the first one wasn’t mine.”
His face changed.
The young woman continued.
“My father arranged it.”
“My aunt dressed me.”
“The reverend decided what I was allowed to know.”
“You believed he had explained things he deliberately kept from me.”
“I rode six hours believing I had been bought.”
She looked toward the mountains.
“I want one memory where I know what I’m saying yes to before I say it.”
The mountain man remained silent for a long time.
Then:
“When?”
“Summer.”
“That soon?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You’re already married to me.”
“True.”
“Unless you’re reconsidering.”
“No.”
The answer came quickly enough to make her smile.
She leaned slightly closer.
“And this time…”
He waited.
“No one gives me away.”
His expression became serious.
“No.”
“No one asks who owns me.”
“No.”
“No one talks about obedience.”
“No.”
“And I choose the dress.”
“Yes.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Without commentary.”
He hesitated.
She pointed.
“That hesitation was dangerous.”
“I was going to say you should choose whatever you like.”
“Good recovery.”
He smiled.
Then:
“What about the corset?”
She stared at him.
He stared ahead.
“I’m burning it.”
His smile widened.
“I’ll bring kindling.”
“You are enjoying this too much.”
“I’ve hated that thing since the first night.”
She looked down at her waist.
Her current dress fitted naturally.
No whalebone.
No crushing laces.
No pain.
She remembered the first full breath after he cut the wedding corset open.
The sensation remained clearer than the ceremony itself.
Air entering lungs that had been forced shallow for years.
Perhaps freedom had begun there.
Not with law.
Not with property.
With breath.
When they reached the cabin that evening, rain had started.
The goat stood under the porch roof looking offended by weather.
The mountain man climbed down.
The animal immediately rammed his thigh.
He stumbled.
The young woman covered her mouth.
“Do not laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m expressing concern.”
The goat tried again.
He caught it by the horns.
“You are becoming stew.”
The young woman jumped down from the wagon.
“No.”
“It attacked me.”
“She understands character.”
He stared.
The goat bleated.
The young woman scratched beneath its chin.
“Come inside.”
The mountain man looked horrified.
“The goat?”
“You.”
“Oh.”
He followed.
That night they ate stew beside the fire.
She had not realized how hungry she was until she took the first bite.
Months earlier, hunger had embarrassed her.
Her aunt’s voice would have appeared:
Slow down.
That portion is enough.