“My mother wrote that I sit beautifully when allowed to relax.”
“She was right.”
“You've been watching?”
“Constantly.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Careful, husband.”
Gideon smiled.
“I remember what happened last time you said that.”
Abigail leaned closer.
“So do I.”
He kissed her.
Later that spring, Abigail rode into Cheyenne on Juniper wearing the emerald saddle.
Not to prove anything.
That distinction mattered.
Gideon rode beside her.
Samuel behind.
They were meeting a livestock buyer.
Business.
Ordinary.
Still, people looked.
Abigail felt old instincts rise.
Shoulders inward.
Stomach tight.
Take less space.
Then she felt the saddle beneath her.
Made for her.
Her mother's intention.
Her husband's continuation.
Her own choice.
She straightened.
Juniper moved into an easy trot.
Gideon glanced over.
“All right?”
Abigail smiled.
“Perfect.”
At the edge of town, they passed Whitmore Mercantile.
Horace stood outside speaking with a customer.
He saw her.
His conversation stopped.
Abigail considered riding past.
Then reined Juniper to a halt.
Gideon stopped several yards away.
Not intruding.
Horace looked at the saddle.
Recognition and regret crossed his face.
“Emerald.”
“Yes.”
“Your mother loved that color.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Horace stepped closer.
“May I?”
He gestured toward the saddle.
Abigail thought.
Then nodded.
Horace touched the tooling near the cantle.
His fingers shook slightly.
“She drew flowers like these.”
“What?”
He looked at her.
“The pattern.”
“Your mother.”
“She drew this pattern in the margins of letters.”
Abigail stared.
She had not known.
Horace withdrew his hand.
“I should have given it to you.”
“Yes.”
No comfort.
No lie.
Horace nodded.
“Yes.”
He looked at her.
“You ride well.”
Abigail almost laughed at the absurd simplicity.
Once that compliment would have meant everything.
Now it was merely nice.
“Thank you.”
Horace stepped back.
She rode on.
Gideon caught up.
He did not ask what was said.
Abigail volunteered.
“He said I ride well.”
Gideon nodded.
“He's correct.”
“You say that because you're sleeping with me.”
“I married you before we did that.”
“Technicality.”
He smiled.
They continued through town.
By summer, Abigail legally owned forty-nine percent of Crosswind Ranch.
Why forty-nine?
Because the territorial lawyer said fifty-fifty ownership complicated certain existing cattle contracts.
Abigail accepted practicality.
For now.
She invested none of the dowry.
Crosswind did not need it.
Instead she used part of the money to open a small credit line for women operating farms or small businesses after husbands died or went away.
Not charity.
Loans.
Fair terms.
Written clearly.
No one required to marry anyone.
Gideon found the first contracts on her desk.
“What is this?”