The cowboy nodded.
“We'll prepare.”
“Good.”
“What complications?”
She told him.
Blood pressure.
Mobility.
Possible difficulty during birth.
Possibility the nearest doctor might not be enough if something went wrong.
The cowboy listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he asked:
“What do you need from me?”
The answer surprised her.
Not what should we do?
What do you need?
She thought.
“Don't become my jailer because you're scared.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
Fair.
“I might be bad at that.”
“I know.”
“I'll try.”
“Good.”
“What else?”
“Come when I call.”
The cowboy went still.
Months earlier, on the leaking roof, she had told him the sentence that had changed him.
I've spent my whole life calling men who never came.
He reached across the table.
This time she met his hand halfway.
“Every time.”
She squeezed his fingers.
“Don't promise what you can't control.”
He nodded.
Then corrected himself.
“When I can come, I will.”
“Better.”
“When I can't, I'll make sure somebody does.”
“Better.”
He looked toward the rain.
Then back to her.
“I'm still happy.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
He picked up the tiny socks again.
The frontier woman laughed.
“Those aren't going to grow while you stare at them.”
“I know.”
He kept staring anyway.
The pregnancy remained private for nine days.
That was longer than the frontier woman expected.
The cowboy was terrible at secrecy.
Not because he talked.
Because his face became ridiculous whenever anyone mentioned babies.
At the ranch storehouse, a ranch hand complained that his wife had been awake all night with their infant son.
The cowboy nearly dropped a sack of feed.
At supper, a cook asked whether he wanted more milk.
He stared at the pitcher as though it contained prophecy.
His wife kicked him beneath the table.
Hard.
He recovered badly.
“What?”
The cook frowned.
“Milk?”
“Oh.”
The frontier woman covered a laugh with her hand.
Later, outside, the cowboy whispered:
“You kicked me.”
“You were behaving suspiciously.”
“I was drinking coffee.”
“You were staring at milk like it insulted your ancestors.”
He tried to defend himself.
Failed.
On the tenth day, she gave permission to tell two people.
Not his father.
Not hers.
The ranch foreman and the midwife.
The foreman reacted by removing his hat and standing silently for almost half a minute.
The cowboy waited.
Finally:
“Well?”
The foreman cleared his throat.
“Congratulations.”
“You look ill.”
“I knew you when you were twelve.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”