Then her brother died.
A riding accident, they said.
His horse had returned without him after a storm.
Three days later, men found the body near a ravine.
The county deputy called it a fall.
The woman buried him beside their parents.
After that, the cabin became quieter than any place should be.
Two years passed.
Suitors disappeared.
Not that there had been many.
The woman had become known in town as capable but difficult to reach.
Too independent.
Too much land.
Too remote.
Too old to be girlish and too young to be comfortably resigned.
Some women said she ought to sell.
Move to Helena.
Take work in a boardinghouse.
Find a church.
Find a husband.
The woman always smiled politely.
Then returned to the mountain.
She told herself she preferred it.
Usually she believed herself.
But that night, beside a wounded stranger who could not hear her, something inside cracked.
She lowered her head.
Her thumb rested across his knuckles.
“Lord,” she whispered.
She almost stopped.
Praying beside a stranger felt foolish.
But he was asleep.
No one would know.
“I don’t ask for much.”
That was a lie.
Everyone asks for much.
They simply learn which requests sound respectable enough to speak.
The woman breathed.
“I can keep this place.”
“I know I can.”
“I can survive winter.”
“I can fix the roof.”
“I can split wood.”
“I can butcher a deer if I have to.”
“I can do every blessed thing people keep telling me I’m strong enough to do.”
Her voice broke.
The cowboy did not move.
The woman stared down at their joined hands.
“But I’m tired.”
The confession frightened her.
“I’m tired of being the person everyone needs.”
Her eyes burned.
“I’m tired of people loving what I can do for them.”
“Sometimes…”
She swallowed.
“Sometimes I think if I stopped cooking, fixing, carrying, helping, there’d be nothing left anybody wanted.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
She wiped it angrily.
“I don’t want to be ungrateful.”
“I have land.”
“I have shelter.”
“I have food.”
“I know people have less.”
“But please…”
She looked toward the sleeping cowboy.
Her voice became barely more than breath.
“Please don’t let me spend my whole life being needed by everyone and chosen by no one.”
The room went silent except for fire.
The woman closed her eyes.
She sat that way several seconds.
Then she whispered:
“Amen.”
She started to pull her hand free.
The cowboy’s fingers closed around hers.
The woman froze.
His eyes remained shut.
Then his thumb moved slowly against the side of her hand.
The woman’s breath disappeared.
The cowboy spoke.
“Then stop praying like nobody can hear you.”
She nearly fell backward off the stool.
His eyes opened.
Clear this time.
Fully awake.
The woman ripped her hand from his.
“You—”
Her face went crimson.
“How long?”
He looked guilty.
The expression seemed strange on a man that large.
“How long were you awake?”
The cowboy considered.
“That answer is going to make you angry.”
She stood.
“How long?”
His voice stayed weak.
“Since you said you could fix the roof.”
The woman stared in horror.
“You heard all of that?”
“Yes.”