Sentence:
Seven years.
With time already served during pretrial custody.
The giant closed his eyes.
His brother looked toward him before deputies led him away.
“I’m sorry.”
The giant nodded once.
“I know.”
His brother’s eyes moved toward the bride.
She said:
“Write.”
He almost smiled.
“I will.”
And he did.
Every week.
At first, the giant read the letters alone.
Then occasionally aloud to his wife.
Some letters were apologies.
She disliked those most.
“He can’t spend seven years apologizing.”
her husband said.
“Why not?”
“Because eventually apology becomes another way of staring backward.”
“What should he write?”
“What he is doing now.”
“What he thinks now.”
“What he plans now.”
The next time the giant wrote back, he said exactly that.
His brother’s letters changed.
Prison work.
Books.
Men he met.
A literacy class he volunteered in after discovering several prisoners could not read their own sentencing documents.
The bride smiled at that.
“Paper again.”
The giant nodded.
“Apparently our family is cursed.”
“Your family?”
She raised an eyebrow.
He corrected quickly.
“Our family.”
She smiled.
Better.
The railroad negotiations came the following year.
The company expected the rancher to become wealthy and foolish.
Instead, they met his wife.
The first representative arrived in an expensive coat and placed a contract on the kitchen table.
“We’re prepared to offer four thousand dollars for permanent access rights.”
The giant almost choked.
His wife did not.
She turned pages.
“Water?”
“What?”
“You’re requesting crossing access.”
“Yes.”
“Does that include water withdrawal?”
The representative hesitated.
“Incidental.”
She looked up.
“That word is doing heavy lifting.”
Her husband hid a smile.
The representative cleared his throat.
“The company may need temporary construction water.”
“How much?”
“Not significant.”
“How much?”
“We’d have to estimate.”
“Estimate.”
He did.
The bride wrote.
Then asked about fencing.
Livestock crossing.
Noise.
Fire risk.
Drainage.
Repair responsibility.
Winter maintenance.
Crop damage.
Future expansion.
Telegraph poles.
Access roads.
Employee camps.
Waste disposal.
By the end, the representative looked exhausted.
The giant looked deeply entertained.
The man said:
“Most ranchers simply discuss price.”
The bride smiled.
“That’s why you came prepared with thirty-two pages.”
The representative said nothing.
She closed the contract.
“We’ll answer next week.”
After he left, the giant whistled.
“Four thousand.”
“No.”
He looked offended.
“No?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s more money than—”
“I can count.”
“Then?”
She pointed toward the contract.
“They want permanent rights.”
“And?”
“You cannot sell permanent inconvenience at temporary prices.”
The giant stared.
Then smiled.
“You enjoy this.”
“A little.”
They negotiated for six weeks.
Final agreement:
Six thousand dollars.
Limited right-of-way.
No independent water rights.
Company-funded fencing.
Two livestock crossings.
Fire liability.
Drainage protection.
Annual inspection.
Additional payment if a depot or freight yard was established within the property boundary.
The giant signed.
Then looked at his wife.