Two years after the sour-milk afternoon, he asked her to marry him.
Badly.
He was repairing the same cider press they had first used.
His head was beneath the frame.
He said:
“We’re already arguing like married people.”
She stared.
“That is your proposal?”
He crawled out.
“I had more.”
“Start over.”
He stood.
Dust on hair.
Grease on cheek.
“I love you.”
Better.
“I don’t want your land.”
“Very romantic.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want your business.”
“Good.”
“I want the chair across from you at supper.”
She stopped teasing.
He continued:
“And whichever side of the bed you don’t kick me out of.”
She smiled.
“And I want to keep driving when you tell me roads are stupid.”
“They usually are.”
“I know.”
He took a breath.
“Marry me.”
She looked at the man who had once delayed three barrels of milk for money.
A man who had admitted it.
Worked through the night.
Bought a bad saddle when she refused a loan.
Learned her processes.
Learned when to help.
Learned when not.
People were not one act.
Neither good nor bad in permanent proportions.
What mattered was what they did after truth became unavoidable.
“Yes.”
He blinked.
“That easy?”
“No.”
She pointed.
“Fix the press.”
He laughed.
They married in autumn.
Small ceremony.
The boarding-house owner brought food.
The creamery owner brought cheese and complained it was inferior to hers.
The supply merchant did not attend.
His son did.
Unexpected.
He stood near the edge.
Afterward, he approached.
The homesteader’s new husband stiffened.
She touched his arm.
Wait.
The merchant’s son removed his hat.
“I cut the fence.”
Her husband took one step.
She stopped him.
The younger man swallowed.
“My father told me to scare you.”
“Did he tell you to cut it?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I wanted him pleased.”
The homesteader watched him.
He continued.
“I delayed the wagon too.”
“Your father paid the driver.”
“I suggested the west deliveries.”
There it was.
More truth.
Late.
“What do you want?”
she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Forgiveness?”
He looked embarrassed.
“Maybe.”
She thought.
“I believe you.”
His eyes lifted.
“That isn’t forgiveness.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“It’s the first thing.”
He nodded.
Good enough.
He later left his father’s store.
Moved to Cheyenne.
Started a freight business.