His wife’s chestnut hair had become streaked with white.
She remained very large.
Softer.
Older.
Still beautiful to him with an intensity she found ridiculous.
She rested her cheek against his chest.
The tattoos were faded.
Her fingers traced the woman’s portrait.
“You know what I thought that night?”
“When?”
“The first time I realized this was Mother.”
He smiled.
“That you were going to murder me?”
“Briefly.”
“Reasonable.”
“I thought you had loved her.”
He turned toward her.
“I did.”
She lifted her head.
He continued quickly:
“Not like that.”
She laughed.
“I know.”
“Good.”
“Now.”
He frowned.
She smiled.
“I was extremely concerned for several hours.”
“You accused me of being secretly in love with your mother.”
“You tattooed her on your chest.”
“Evidence looked unfortunate.”
“Very.”
He laughed.
She touched the rider.
“And Father.”
“Yes.”
“What would they think of us?”
The cowboy considered.
“Your father would probably complain that I married his daughter.”
“My mother?”
“Would say she predicted it.”
The woman smiled.
“She would too.”
They became quiet.
Outside, wind moved through pines.
Same sound as decades earlier.
The woman whispered:
“Do you still fear morning?”
He looked down.
“What?”
“The first night we lay here.”
“You said you were afraid morning would come and I'd leave.”
He remembered.
“Yes.”
“Do you still?”
His hand entered her gray hair.
“Every morning.”
She looked at him.
“That is not romantic.”
“No?”
“It sounds anxious.”
“It is.”
She smiled.
“Forty years and still frightened of one woman.”
“Terrified.”
“Good.”
He kissed her forehead.
She slept.
The mountain cowboy remained awake longer.
Listening to the breathing of the woman who had transformed his house into something he once thought existed only for other people.
Home.
He died first.
Not in violence.
Not on horseback.
Not with a gun in his hand.
In winter.
In bed.
His wife beside him.
He woke before sunrise one February morning and told her his chest felt wrong.
She called their son.
The doctor came.
Nothing could be done.
The old cowboy understood before anyone said it.
His wife sat beside him.
One hand over the tattoo of her mother.
Another holding his.
He looked at her.
“Don't look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Angry.”
“I am angry.”
“At me?”
“Yes.”
“Unfair.”
“You're leaving.”
His eyes filled.
“I don't want to.”
That destroyed her.
She bent over him.