The cowboy looked toward snow.
“If trail closes—”
“Then we use lower creek route.”
“You know it?”
“I live here.”
He nodded.
“Fair.”
The woman tucked the packet beneath floorboard under stove.
Then returned to bed.
She looked at him.
“We are not finished.”
“I assumed.”
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
“You withheld my brother’s letter.”
“Yes.”
“You listened to something you had no right to hear.”
“Yes.”
“Stop agreeing.”
He almost laughed.
She crossed arms.
“And then you said something about staying.”
His face became serious.
“Yes.”
“What exactly?”
The cowboy looked at her hand.
Then into her eyes.
“When I can stand again…”
He spoke carefully.
“Will you let me court you?”
The woman stared.
“You are half delirious.”
“No.”
“You nearly died.”
“Still no.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Not enough.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because courtship is for learning.”
She had no answer.
He continued.
“I’m not asking you to marry me.”
“I’m not asking you to owe me because your brother trusted me.”
“I’m not asking because you saved my life.”
“I’m asking whether, when I’m strong enough to leave this bed and you’re free to tell me to go, you’ll let me come back voluntarily.”
The woman’s throat tightened.
He continued.
“I want to know you because I choose to.”
“Not because I need your cooking.”
“Not because I need nursing.”
“Not because your brother told me.”
“I want to know the woman who argues with goats.”
She almost smiled.
Didn’t.
“And if I say no?”
“I leave.”
“That simple?”
“No.”
“But I leave.”
She looked at him a long time.
Then at the letter.
Then the snow.
“You may ask again when you can stand without turning white.”
The cowboy’s eyebrows rose.
“That’s not a no.”
“It isn’t a yes.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You’ll take broth.”
He smiled.
“Also that.”
By dawn, the storm had weakened.
The woman did not take the cowboy to the old fishing place.
Because when he tried to stand, his knees nearly folded.
She caught him.
He was heavy enough that they both almost fell.
The woman shoved him back onto bed.
“Excellent riding condition.”
He grimaced.
“I’ve been better.”
“You’re staying.”
“You shouldn’t go alone.”
“I’ve spent two years alone.”
“That doesn’t make danger polite.”
She looked at him.
“Then tell me exactly where.”
He described the trail.
She knew.
Her father had taken them fishing there as children.
A narrow bend in the creek beneath a larch split by lightning.
The third stone above exposed roots.
The woman packed rifle, rope, food, shovel.
The cowboy watched helplessly.
“I hate this.”
“Good.”
“If you see tracks—”
“I turn back.”
“If you see men—”
“I hide.”
“If—”