“Do you remember first time?”
“What?”
“I asked what you wanted.”
She smiled.
“I wanted stable.”
“Do you still?”
“Yes.”
“Only?”
She leaned against shoulder.
“No.”
“What else?”
“You.”
He smiled.
“Took long enough.”
She elbowed him.
“Don’t ruin.”
He laughed.
The stable woman looked toward horses.
“You know what I thought back then?”
“What?”
“That if one man wanted me, town would finally be wrong.”
The mountain man turned.
“And?”
“They were wrong before.”
He smiled.
“Yes.”
“I understand now.”
She took his hand.
“You didn’t make me worth wanting.”
“No.”
“You just wanted me.”
“That sounds correct.”
“Important difference.”
He kissed temple.
When the mountain man grew ill in his seventies, the stable woman almost returned to old habit.
Do everything.
Carry everything.
Sleep nowhere.
He caught her at dawn after she had been awake two nights.
“Stop.”
“I’m fine.”
“No.”
“You need medicine.”
“I need you alive too.”
She glared.
He continued.
“Hire help.”
“We have people.”
“Then use.”
She sat.
Angry.
Then exhausted.
The apprentice-now-manager arranged care.
The stable woman slept six hours.
When she woke, mountain man still there.
No catastrophe.
She sat beside him.
“I hate needing help.”
He smiled weakly.
“I remember.”
“Don’t.”
“You told me once strength didn’t mean alone.”
“I said?”
“Probably something like.”
She held hand.
His final winter was quiet.
One evening, he asked:
“What do you want?”
She laughed through tears.
“Still?”
“Last time.”
“No.”
His face changed.
“What?”
“Not last.”
He smiled faintly.
“Fair.”
She leaned closer.
“I want more time.”
“So do I.”
“I want you not to hurt.”
“Yes.”
“I want one more spring.”
“Me too.”
He breathed.
“And if none?”
She closed eyes.
“I want you to know you were chosen.”
His fingers tightened.
“I knew.”
“And you?”
He whispered:
“I chose.”
He died before dawn.