“Mother.”
Abigail smiled.
Eleanor sat.
She was twenty-six.
Tall.
Curvier than her friends.
She had grown up without once hearing that fact spoken as warning.
Abigail considered that perhaps her greatest success.
Eleanor touched the saddle.
“Grandmother ordered this?”
“Started it.”
“Father finished it.”
“Yes.”
“And Grandfather Horace canceled it.”
“Yes.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“People are complicated.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Do you forgive him?”
Abigail thought.
Horace had died three years earlier.
Their final relationship had been peaceful.
Not innocent.
Peaceful.
“I forgave parts.”
Eleanor frowned.
“Can you do that?”
“I did.”
“Some days I forgave him.”
“Some days I remembered something and became angry again.”
“Forgiveness is apparently terrible at organization.”
Eleanor smiled.
“Do you miss him?”
“Yes.”
Abigail surprised herself every time.
“I miss who he became near the end.”
“I miss what we almost had.”
“I miss Mother differently.”
Eleanor leaned against her shoulder.
“Do you ever wish Father hadn't finished the saddle?”
Abigail stared.
“Why?”
“Because it became this enormous symbol.”
“Every family dinner somebody tells the story.”
Abigail laughed.
“You hate the story?”
“I like it.”
“I just wonder whether it makes marriage look too easy.”
Abigail looked at her daughter.
Smart girl.
“No.”
She nodded toward the house.
“Your father forgot my horse belonged to me.”
“He once invested in a bull without telling me.”
“I didn't speak to him except for practical necessities for two days.”
Eleanor's eyes widened.
“Father?”
“Yes.”
“He apologizes for breathing too loudly.”
“He learned.”
Abigail smiled.
“The saddle was not proof your father was perfect.”
“It was proof he saw something correctly once.”
“Then he kept trying.”
Eleanor considered.
“That’s less romantic.”
“Much.”
“Better?”
“Far.”
That evening Gideon walked into the tack room.
He was sixty-three now.
Gray through beard and hair.
Still broad.
Still capable of making younger cowboys nervous by simply looking at them.
He found Abigail beside the saddle.
“What?”
She asked.
“You're staring.”
“I like looking at my wife.”
“You're old enough to know better.”
“Apparently not.”
He approached.
Touched the emerald leather.
“Remember the crate?”
Abigail smiled.
“Yes.”
“You were furious.”
“I was terrified.”
“I know now.”
“You didn't then?”
“I knew something was wrong.”
“I thought you hated it.”
“You looked at the saddle as though it had murdered someone.”
Abigail laughed.
Gideon touched her cheek.
Same gesture.
All those years.
His thumb rough.
Slower now.
“I would do it differently.”
“What?”
“The gift.”
She frowned.
“Why?”
“I would've asked.”
That answer moved her unexpectedly.