“They would have been useless three hundred miles away.”
She looked at him.
“You paid two dollars.”
He smiled.
“So we are both bad with money.”
She laughed softly.
The cowboy became serious.
“What happens now?”
“Legal review.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“With you.”
Her expression changed.
That was not the question she expected.
“My work is finished.”
Something in his chest tightened.
“You’re leaving.”
“I have family.”
“Responsibilities.”
“A life.”
“Of course.”
He looked away too quickly.
She noticed.
“Cowboy.”
“I said of course.”
“You sound angry.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He exhaled.
“I thought…”
He stopped.
“What?”
He looked toward her.
“I don’t know what I thought.”
She held his gaze.
Then:
“Good.”
He frowned.
“Good?”
“You barely know me.”
“That has not stopped you from telling me what I’m thinking.”
“That is different.”
“How?”
“I’m usually right.”
He laughed.
Then became serious.
“I don’t want gratitude becoming something else.”
The woman’s expression softened.
“Neither do I.”
The cowboy nodded.
There it was.
The fear neither had named.
He had spent less than a day with her.
A day containing danger.
His mother’s memory.
A threat to everything he owned.
Emotions built in crisis could masquerade as things they were not.
The woman understood too.
She said:
“I should return home.”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
The word hurt.
She smiled sadly.
“Yes.”
They returned to the ranch because her horse needed rest and because the county inquiry would likely require her testimony again within days.
The next morning, she stayed.
For practical reasons.
The next day too.
Then rain washed out the southern road.
Three more days.
During those days, something unexpected happened.
Nothing.
No legal ambush.
No chase.
No crisis.
And that was when they began actually learning each other.
She disliked overly sweet coffee.
He thought tea was boiled disappointment.
She woke earlier than he did, which he considered personally insulting.
She liked horses but had no patience for cattle.
He learned she read whenever she could.
Newspapers.
Medical pamphlets.
Territorial statutes.
Anything.
She discovered he could repair almost any leather tack but could barely sew a shirt button.
He discovered she sang quietly when currying horses.
Not traditional songs for his benefit.
Sometimes church hymns.
Sometimes melodies from childhood.
Sometimes nonsense.
They argued about fences.
Food.
Town merchants.
Whether his mother had been wise or reckless.
Mostly both.
On the fourth evening, they sat on the porch.
The woman looked toward the sunset.