“I don't know whether that is enough to ask what I want to ask.”
She whispered, “Ask.”
He looked at her.
“Would you let me court you?”
The cook stared.
Then began laughing.
The rancher's face fell.
“That is not encouraging.”
She covered her mouth.
“I'm sorry.”
“What exactly is funny?”
“You look more frightened now than you did during the court hearing.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because judges have rules.”
“And I don't?”
“Your rules change.”
“They improve.”
The rancher waited.
The cook looked at him for a long time.
A man who had defended her without speaking for her.
A man who offered help as a question.
A man who had known about the ranch before she did and never once suggested marriage while the ownership question remained uncertain.
She understood what that restraint had cost him.
“Yes.”
The rancher blinked.
“Yes?”
“You may court me.”
He smiled.
The cook lifted one finger.
“Poorly built furniture remains grounds for rejection.”
He laughed.
“Agreed.”
Their courtship lasted a year.
Long enough for half the valley to become impatient.
Long enough for the granddaughter to ask twice why adults made simple matters complicated.
The rancher visited regularly.
Sometimes they went nowhere.
Travel was difficult for the cook and she disliked being treated as though romance required long rides or dances she could not comfortably attend.
So they invented their own.
Evenings on the porch.
Cards.
Reading newspapers aloud.
Short wagon trips to the creek.
Shared accounting work that became arguments.
Arguments that became laughter.
Once, during spring, he brought wildflowers.
The cook looked at them.
“You've never done this before.”
“I was told people do.”
“Who told you?”
“The widow.”
“She's interfering.”
“Yes.”
The cook smelled the flowers.
“Continue listening to her.”
He smiled.
The proposal came without spectacle.
They were sitting beside the dining-room table after everyone else left.
The rancher held the crooked spoon he had given her the previous year.
“I have another question.”
The cook sighed dramatically.
“You only get one question per year?”
“I prepare slowly.”
“Apparently.”
He became serious.
“If I ask you to marry me, I need you to understand something.”
She waited.
“I don't want this house.”
“I know.”
“I don't want my name replacing yours on anything.”
She watched him carefully.
“I don't want people saying I married a ranch.”
Her voice softened.
“What do you want them to say?”
The rancher looked at her.
“That I was fortunate enough to marry the woman who owned it.”
The cook's eyes filled.
He continued.
“And I want separate property agreements if you do.”