“You saved me at least two thousand dollars.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I stopped you from giving away the creek.”
“That too.”
He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
She smiled.
“You may continue.”
He kissed her properly.
The younger ranch hand walked into the kitchen.
Immediately turned around.
“I saw nothing.”
The bride shouted:
“Good.”
The giant laughed.
Two years after the pale-pink bride stepped off the train, the ranch no longer felt like a place waiting for disaster.
That did not mean disaster stopped visiting.
A winter storm killed twenty-three cattle.
A spring flood tore out part of the western fence.
The cook broke an ankle.
The giant badly cut his hand repairing a mower blade.
The bride developed a fever one autumn that frightened her husband more than armed riders had.
He sat beside the bed for two nights.
She woke once to find him staring.
“What?”
“You were breathing strange.”
“I have a fever.”
“I know.”
“Then stop looking at me like I’m dying.”
He looked offended.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“Maybe.”
She reached toward him.
He took her hand.
“You’re frightened.”
“Yes.”
She smiled weakly.
“Good.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because it means we still have something worth losing.”
He looked toward her.
Then kissed her hand.
The fever broke the following morning.
The giant slept for twelve hours afterward.
She did not tease him.
Much.
Their first child came a year later.
A daughter.
The giant was terrified through the entire labor.
The bride noticed between contractions.
“You look worse than I do.”
“I am fine.”
“You're white.”
“I'm always white.”
“Whiter.”
The midwife laughed.
The giant glared.
Hours later, the cry of their daughter filled the bedroom.
The giant stood completely still.
The midwife wrapped the baby and placed her into his enormous arms.
The contrast was absurd.
A man who looked capable of lifting a wagon held a seven-pound infant as though gravity itself had become dangerous.
The bride watched from the bed.
“Breathe.”
He did.
The baby opened her eyes.
The giant began crying.
Not subtly.
His wife smiled.
“Steady.”
He laughed through tears.
“Not now.”
“Yes, now.”
He carried the baby to her.
They held their daughter together.
Outside, snow fell quietly over the ranch.
No gunfire.
No riders.
No ledger.
Only a family beginning.
Their son came three years later.
Less dramatic birth.
More dramatic child.
He climbed before he walked properly.
Fell constantly.
Asked questions without pause.
At four, he looked at his mother’s pale-pink dress hanging inside the cedar wardrobe.
“What’s that stain?”
His father froze.
The bride looked toward him.
He looked toward her.
They had not discussed what to tell children.
The boy touched the faded sleeve.
“Paint?”
His mother smiled.
“Blood.”
His eyes widened.
The giant groaned.
The boy became delighted.