That answer frightened her more than the first one.
Because she knew what coercion looked like.
She understood bargains.
Threats.
Contracts.
Debt.
Those were predictable.
Tenderness was not.
The cowboy continued.
“I want the woman who throws my boots outside when I track mud across her floor.”
Despite herself, her mouth moved slightly.
“I want the woman who tells me when I'm wrong before I finish proving it.”
“That happens frequently.”
“I've noticed.”
He almost smiled.
Then became serious again.
“I want the woman who climbed onto a roof in freezing rain because she learned long ago not to trust anyone who promised they would come.”
Her expression tightened.
He remembered that morning.
He had stood beneath the eaves while she repaired the leaking roof alone.
“You could've called me,” he had said.
She had answered without looking down.
“I've spent my whole life calling men who never came.”
He had carried those words ever since.
Now he placed the contract closer to the flame.
“If your answer is no, we burn this.”
The frontier woman stared.
“The whole contract?”
“Yes.”
“Your father will disinherit you.”
“Probably.”
“You lose your claim to the ranch.”
“Maybe.”
“He'll take your cattle.”
“He can try.”
“You say that now.”
“I know.”
She stepped closer.
The floor creaked beneath her weight.
“You've never lived without the Whitmore name.”
“No.”
“You've never wondered whether there would be enough flour next month.”
“No.”
“You've never watched a creditor inventory your mother's furniture while your father stood outside pretending not to cry.”
The cowboy swallowed.
“No.”
“You've never been sold.”
The words hung between them.
His answer came quietly.
“No.”
The frontier woman reached out.
He thought she was taking his hand.
Instead she took the contract.
He released it immediately.
She held the paper over the flame.
The corner began browning.
The cowboy watched.
Her eyes never left his.
“If you mean what you just said…”
The flame touched the edge.
“…then burn it first.”
He did not move.
She continued.
“Make me free.”
The paper curled.
“And then ask me again.”
The cowboy's throat tightened.
The frontier woman's voice grew softer.
“Not as your wife.”
A small orange flame climbed one corner.
“Not as the woman your father purchased.”
The cowboy watched the fire reach the first line of legal text.
“Ask me as someone who can walk out that door.”
The contract crackled.
“And if I stay…”
She dropped it into the iron stove.
“…you'll know I chose you.”
The cowboy stared through the little stove opening as the paper curled black.