The woman looked at him with surprise.
Most people mentioned stairs only as an insult.
He had spoken as though it were an ordinary practical problem that deserved a practical solution.
She nodded.
“I was worried about that.”
He glanced toward the hills beyond town.
“I own a ranch a few miles north. There's a ground-floor room in the main house, and the front entrance has a broad, shallow step.”
She studied him.
“You're offering me a room?”
“For tonight.”
“Why?”
The cowboy looked genuinely puzzled.
“Because you need one.”
She almost laughed.
“That's a dangerous reason to invite strangers into your home.”
“Probably.”
“Then why do it?”
He considered her.
“Because I know what it's like to arrive somewhere and discover that nobody intends to help you.”
The woman felt something shift inside her.
The cowboy looked toward her luggage.
“I have a sturdy wagon. We can arrange everything properly, and you can decide what comes next in the morning.”
She hesitated.
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Mostly. I have two ranch hands who use the bunkhouse, and an older housekeeper comes several mornings a week.”
“Would you expect anything in exchange?”
He met her eyes.
“Not for a safe night's sleep.”
She studied his face.
There was no mockery in it.
No hungry calculation.
No impatient demand that she trust him.
He simply waited.
The woman looked toward the boardinghouse.
Then toward the merchant's store.
She could still hear laughter echoing in her memory.
Finally, she turned back.
“I don't know your name.”
The cowboy touched the brim of his hat.
“Most folks around here just call me the rancher from North Creek.”
“That isn't much of an introduction.”
He smiled.
“No, ma'am. I suppose it isn't.”
She laughed softly.
It was the first genuine laugh she had managed since arriving in town.
Then she said, “All right. One night.”
The cowboy nodded.
“One night.”
He moved to prepare the wagon.
And as he walked away, his fingers briefly touched the small silver locket hidden beneath his shirt.
The woman did not notice.