“Not because winter needs a cook.”
His thumb moved along the fabric at her waist.
“Stay because every room in this house feels wrong when you're not inside it.”
She breathed carefully.
“And?”
“You're cruel.”
“And?”
His eyes dropped to her lips.
“And because I've wanted to kiss you every morning for two months.”
“Only mornings?”
“No.”
“Better.”
He leaned closer.
Stopped.
She almost laughed.
“Still asking?”
“Yes.”
She kissed him instead.
His restraint lasted approximately one second.
Then his arms moved around her.
Not lifting.
Not claiming.
Holding.
She pressed herself against him without shame.
For once the size of her body did not become a question inside her own mind.
She was not wondering whether he wished she were smaller.
Whether his arms could fit.
Whether she was too heavy.
Whether desire had exceptions.
His hands answered before his mouth ever could.
He wanted her exactly where she was.
When they separated, he rested his forehead against hers.
“You're staying?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“That sounded too confident.”
“I was terrified.”
“Better.”
She laughed.
Two months later, they married.
Quietly.
At Black Ridge.
No huge celebration.
No town spectacle.
The judge came.
Ranch hands.
Hotel owners.
Several families connected to the restored land claims.
Her dress was deep burgundy.
Long past her knees.
Fitted properly for once by a seamstress who did not apologize about fabric quantity.
The mountain cowboy wore black.
During the vows, someone whispered:
“Never thought the Wolf would marry.”
He heard.
Ignored it.
When the judge told him he could kiss his wife, the woman whispered:
“Are you going to ask permission?”
His mouth moved.
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“You may.”
He kissed her while everyone laughed softly.
Their wedding night returned them to the same bed.
Same quilt.
Same tattoos.
Different truth.
She rested her cheek against his chest.
Her fingers traced the rider.
“My father.”
“Yes.”
Then the woman.
“My mother.”
“Yes.”
She looked up.
“Does it bother you?”
“What?”
“That I'll see them whenever you're shirtless.”
He smiled.
“You seem to tolerate the shirtless part.”
Her face warmed.
“Mountain arrogance.”
“Accurate observation.”
She touched the portrait again.
“You don't have to keep carrying them as punishment.”
His expression changed.
“It stopped being punishment.”
“When?”
He looked at her.
“When you recognized them.”
She frowned.
“Why?”
“Because until then they were the dead.”
“Now they're your parents.”
“And part of you.”
Her throat tightened.
He continued.
“I don't look at them and think about what I failed to save anymore.”
“What do you think?”