He brushed a loose curl away from her cheek.
“And how am I looking at you?”
“Like you want me.”
His answer came without hesitation.
“I do.”
She closed her eyes.
The words frightened her more than any insult ever had.
For six weeks, this rugged Montana cowboy had treated her with a patience she had never encountered. He had shared his home, trusted her with his ranch accounts, listened when she spoke, and never once asked her to become smaller or quieter to make other people comfortable.
But she had spent thirty-two years learning how quickly tenderness could turn into humiliation.
She could not bear the thought of discovering that his affection was only another cruel misunderstanding.
“I'm not some pretty little bride from a picture book,” she whispered. “I'm almost eight hundred pounds. I need help climbing steps. I get tired walking across a room some days. People stare before I even open my mouth.”
The cowboy's jaw tightened.
“I know how much you weigh.”
She opened her eyes.
He continued quietly.
“I also know you laugh when the kettle whistles because it reminds you of a nervous bird. I know you read the last page of a book before deciding whether you can stand the ending. I know you pretend not to cry when the old mare follows you around the corral.”
She stared at him.
“I know you keep a piece of blue thread in your sewing basket because it belonged to your mother. I know you've been saving the best apples for a horse that can't chew them properly. And I know you've been afraid every morning that I'll wake up and regret letting you stay.”
Her lips parted.
The cowboy moved his hand away from her face and reached toward a small leather pouch lying on the bedside table.
“But there's something else you need to know.”
He opened the pouch.
Inside was a tarnished silver locket attached to a worn chain.
The woman watched him place it in his palm.