He smiled nervously.
She became serious.
“Yes.”
“Then can I?”
She looked at him.
“Yes.”
He did.
Slowly.
No fever this time.
When they separated, he rested his forehead against hers.
She whispered:
“Tomorrow?”
He smiled.
“Tomorrow.”
Their relationship grew from there.
Not smoothly.
The late wife remained present.
Sometimes beautifully.
Sometimes painfully.
The first time the Apache woman slept at the ranch, she refused to sleep in the old marital bedroom.
The father was hurt.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not ready.”
“It’s my room.”
“I know.”
“You think I’m comparing you?”
“No.”
She looked toward the hallway.
“I’m comparing myself.”
He understood.
She slept in the guest room.
For months.
Then one night, after the baby had a fever and both adults spent hours taking turns beside the crib, they collapsed on the father’s bed without discussing it.
Fully clothed.
Exhausted.
At dawn, the Apache woman woke with his arm around her.
She looked toward the framed photograph of the late wife on the dresser.
For a second guilt struck her too.
She had spent so much time helping him understand that loving again was allowed that she forgot she had her own loyalty to the woman who sent her there.
She slipped out carefully.
The father woke.
“Where are you going?”
“Coffee.”
He looked at her.
“No.”
She stopped.
He sat.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s my line.”
She smiled sadly.
Then looked toward the photograph.
He understood.
“Oh.”
The woman nodded.
“I loved her too.”
Not romantically.
But deeply.
“And sometimes being with you feels like I’m taking something she trusted me to protect.”
The father stood.
Walked to her.
He did not touch her immediately.
“She asked you to help us live.”
The woman looked at him.
“She did not ask me to fall in love with you.”
“No.”
He smiled faintly.
“She probably would have found that extremely inconvenient.”
The woman laughed through tears.
“Definitely.”
He continued:
“But she also said you owe her nothing.”
“I know.”
“I think we keep using her to avoid choosing.”
The woman stared.
He was right.
The father took her hand.
“I’m choosing.”
“Not because she wrote a letter.”
“Not because the baby likes your song.”
“Not because I need help.”
He swallowed.
“I love you.”
The woman closed her eyes.
There it was.
No way to make it smaller.
He continued:
“I’m terrified of that.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know what it means ten years from now.”
“I know.”
“But I love you now.”