“Come here.”
He moved his horse closer.
Abigail leaned across the distance and kissed him.
Awkwardly.
Gideon nearly lost his hat.
When they separated:
“What was that?”
“A thank-you.”
“For the saddle?”
“Yes.”
“Do I get one every time we ride?”
“If you stop asking.”
“Understood.”
He asked again the next day.
She refused.
By April first, they were still short.
Two thousand three hundred dollars.
Horace sent a formal reminder.
Abigail burned it.
Gideon watched.
“That may have been legally useful.”
“I know what it said.”
“Fair.”
Then a buyer from Nebraska arrived unexpectedly.
He wanted breeding bulls.
Not many.
Three.
Crosswind had two they could spare.
A third would hurt.
The offer was excellent.
Gideon refused.
Abigail did not contradict him in front of the buyer.
Afterward:
“Why?”
“That bull is our best two-year-old.”
“Correct.”
“He improves the herd.”
“Yes.”
“So no.”
Abigail opened the breeding records.
“What?”
She pointed.
“His half brother produced almost identical weights.”
“Not identical.”
“Close.”
“He's in the south lot.”
“Yes.”
Gideon looked.
She continued.
“If we keep both, we gain less genetic diversity than you think.”
“If we sell one, we pay fourteen hundred dollars of the note.”
Gideon stared at the record.
Then at her.
“Marrying you has become financially aggressive.”
“You're welcome.”
They sold the bull.
Nine hundred remained.
Three days before the note matured, a letter arrived from Cheyenne Saddlery.
Abigail almost ignored it.
Gideon saw the seal.
“Open.”
“Why?”
“That's the woman who made your saddle.”
Abigail's heart shifted.
She opened.
Mrs. Cross,
While settling my late father's estate, I discovered an older order packet connected to the saddle Mr. Cross completed last year. There is material I believe belongs to you. I would prefer to deliver it personally if convenient.
Signed:
Margaret Boone.
Abigail looked at Gideon.
“What older order?”
He looked equally confused.
“I don't know.”
“You said you commissioned it.”
“I did.”
“From Boone Saddlery?”
“Yes.”
“Her father?”
“Dead before I ordered.”
Abigail stared at the letter.
Margaret Boone arrived on April fourteenth.
One day before Horace's note came due.
She was forty-two.
Practical.
Red-haired.
Travel coat dusty from the road.
She entered carrying a leather envelope and took one look at the emerald saddle hanging in the tack room.
Her face softened.
“There it is.”
Abigail stared.
“You knew it?”
Margaret nodded.
“My father started the design.”
Gideon frowned.
“When?”
Margaret looked at Abigail.
“Eight years ago.”
The room disappeared.
Eight years.
Abigail was seventeen.
The humiliating picnic.
The narrow saddle.
Her mother still alive.
“No.”
Margaret opened the envelope.
Inside:
Old order sheet.