When the meal ended, the cowboy walked her to the prepared room.
He stopped outside the doorway.
“There's a latch on the inside.”
She nodded.
“I see it.”
“If you need anything, call out.”
“Thank you.”
He turned to leave.
Then she spoke.
“Wait.”
The cowboy stopped.
She looked at him.
“I don't know why you helped me today.”
He said nothing.
“But I won't forget it.”
His expression changed.
For a moment, she thought he looked strangely sad.
Then he smiled.
“Get some rest.”
He walked away.
The woman closed the door.
She sat on the bed and looked around the quiet room.
For the first time since leaving Missouri, she allowed herself to cry.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
She simply covered her face and let the tears come.
She cried for the months of hope she had invested in a stranger's letters.
She cried for the humiliation outside the store.
She cried because she had almost believed she would finally become somebody's wife.
And she cried because a man she had met only hours earlier had shown her more consideration than the man who had promised to marry her.
When the tears finally stopped, she washed her face and prepared for bed.
Outside, the wind moved gently through the trees.
The ranch was quiet.
She slept more deeply than she had in weeks.
The following morning, she woke to the smell of coffee and fresh bread.
For a moment, she forgot where she was.
Then she remembered the wagon, the cowboy, and the kind housekeeper.
She dressed slowly.
Her traveling clothes were badly wrinkled, so she chose a simple brown day dress from her trunk.
It was made of soft cotton, with a wide skirt, comfortable sleeves, and delicate stitching around the neckline.
She arranged her chestnut hair and made her way toward the kitchen.
The cowboy was standing beside the table, examining a stack of papers.
He looked up when she entered.
“Morning.”
“Good morning.”
“Sleep all right?”
“Better than I expected.”
He smiled.
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
He pulled out a broad chair.
She noticed that it had been adjusted to provide more room.