Snow.
Of course.
It had snowed on their wedding day.
Snowed on the day Eleanor was born.
Snowed now.
“Abigail.”
“Yes?”
“The saddle.”
She stared.
“What about it?”
“Don't turn it into a shrine.”
Abigail laughed through tears.
“You and everyone else in my life.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She took his hand.
“What should I do?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Sell?”
“If you want.”
“Burn it?”
“That seems excessive.”
“Give it to Eleanor?”
“If you want.”
“Keep?”
He smiled.
“If you want.”
Abigail leaned forward.
Kissed him.
“Annoying answer.”
“Best one I know.”
His eyes closed.
After a while:
“Did you ever regret marrying me?”
Abigail stared.
“Gideon.”
“Serious question.”
She thought.
“Individual days?”
He laughed weakly.
“Yes.”
“Whole marriage?”
“No.”
His eyes opened.
“Good.”
“Did you?”
He pretended to think.
Abigail pinched his hand.
“Careful.”
His smile returned.
“There she is.”
He looked at her.
“No.”
“Never.”
Gideon died the following morning.
Abigail kept the saddle.
Not because he told her to.
Because she wanted to.
That distinction still mattered.
At eighty-three, Abigail lived in a smaller house near her son's ranch.
Crosswind belonged to both children now.
Eleanor managed accounts.
Thomas cattle.
They argued almost as effectively as Abigail and Gideon had.
The emerald saddle hung in Abigail's front room.
Not over the fireplace.
Too grand.
On a simple wooden stand near the window.
One winter afternoon, her granddaughter Clara asked:
“Grandma, is that really the saddle Grandpa had made because you were too big for ordinary ones?”
The room went silent.
Clara was thirteen.
Thin.
Thoughtless rather than cruel.
Abigail looked at her.
“Who told you that?”
Clara went pale.
“Cousin Matthew.”
“Matthew is an idiot.”
The girl almost laughed.
Abigail patted the chair.
“Sit.”
Clara sat.
Abigail looked toward the saddle.
“He had it made because ordinary saddles hurt me.”
“Because you were big?”
“Partly because I was built differently from the women those particular saddles were designed for.”
Clara frowned.
“Isn't that the same?”
“No.”
Abigail pointed toward the girl's boots.
“What size?”
“Six.”
“If I hand you size-four boots and your feet hurt, are your feet wrong?”
“No.”
“Should you cut your toes?”
Clara looked horrified.
“No.”
“Exactly.”
She pointed toward the saddle.
“My father taught me to think of my body like feet that should be cut to fit the boots.”
“Your grandfather Gideon disagreed.”
“Your great-grandmother Eleanor disagreed before him.”
Clara looked toward the saddle.
“Is that why it's special?”
“Partly.”