Love did not erase responsibility.
He had given his word.
The Fiancée had accepted.
Breaking an engagement publicly would humiliate her.
Worse, choosing her younger sister would invite every cruel whisper in Red Hollow.
People would say the Younger Sister stole the groom.
They would say she trapped him.
They would say he pitied her.
The Cowboy hated all three possibilities.
So he did what emotionally competent men often fail to do.
Nothing.
For three more weeks.
The Younger Sister noticed.
Of course she did.
He became careful around her.
Too careful.
He stopped teasing.
Stopped looking too long.
Stopped offering rides unless others were present.
That hurt more than if he had been openly rude.
She understood what the distance meant.
He had almost crossed a line.
Now he regretted it.
She began avoiding the ranch.
When the Fiancée asked her to accompany dress fittings, she agreed.
When asked to deliver supplies to the Cowboy, she found someone else.
By late May, the Cowboy had not spoken privately with her in almost three weeks.
Then one evening he found her beside the stable.
Lantern light warmed the weathered boards.
The final mountain snow had disappeared from the lower valleys, leaving the air cool and smelling of wet earth.
She stood near the stable door wearing the pale sea-blue dress and white apron he remembered from winter.
Her head was bowed.
Her fingers twisted the apron edge.
The Cowboy stopped.
“You’ve been running from me.”
She looked up sharply.
“So have you.”
Fair.
He came closer.
“Why?”
Her eyes lowered.
“You’re marrying my sister.”
“I know.”
“Then you shouldn’t be here.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
The Cowboy almost smiled.
She did not.
Her eyes were already wet.
The smile disappeared.
“I know what I am to people like you.”
His chest tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“I cook.”
She swallowed.
“Carry things.”
Her hands twisted harder.
“Help when everyone else leaves.”
“That winter—”
“That winter proved I’m useful.”
“You think that’s all it proved?”
“What else would it prove?”
He stepped closer.
She moved back.
Not frightened.
Protecting herself.
The Cowboy stopped.
“The person who got me through that winter wasn’t the woman I’m supposed to marry.”
Her breathing changed.
“It was you.”
“Don’t.”
“I need to say it.”
“No.”
“You came when I needed someone.”
“Anyone would have—”
“No.”
His voice became stronger.
“Anyone did not.”
She looked at him.
The Cowboy continued.
“You remember how I take coffee.”
“That is nothing.”
“You saved the roan mare.”
“She was injured.”
“You sat with a dying calf for half a night.”
“It needed someone.”
“You walked through a blizzard because you heard I was alone.”
Her tears spilled.
“That doesn’t mean you love me.”