“I know.”
“You've placed enough firewood here to survive an invasion.”
“Good.”
“The midwife lives fifteen minutes away.”
“Twelve if the road is dry.”
She stared.
“You timed it.”
“Yes.”
“Go.”
He kissed her forehead.
Paused.
“Call if—”
She pointed at the door.
He left.
At the hearing, his father looked directly at him for the first time in months.
The old man's attorney attacked the ledger.
Then attacked the frontier woman's father.
Then the deputy.
Then the judge.
Finally, the son.
“You stand to benefit from your father's downfall, do you not?”
The cowboy answered:
“Possibly.”
“You may inherit controlling interests.”
“Possibly.”
“So your testimony is financially motivated.”
The cowboy looked toward his father.
Then back at the attorney.
“If I wanted the easiest path to his money, I would've stayed quiet.”
The room murmured.
The attorney tried again.
“Your wife benefits from restored water rights.”
“Yes.”
“And she persuaded you that your father engineered the debt.”
“No.”
“No?”
“The ledger persuaded me.”
The attorney changed direction.
“Your marriage began as a financial arrangement.”
“Yes.”
“Your wife hated your family.”
“She had reasons.”
“Please answer yes or no.”
The cowboy smiled slightly.
“No.”
The attorney frowned.
“You just said—”
“She hated what my father did.”
“Not everyone with my name.”
The cattle baron looked away.
The hearing lasted hours.
Several claims survived.
Others weakened.
The legal machine moved slowly.
That evening the cowboy left for home later than planned.
Storm clouds had gathered.
He rode hard.
Too hard.
Halfway home, his horse slipped on wet ground.
The cowboy nearly fell.
He slowed.
Then remembered something.
He had promised he would come when called.
He had not promised to die trying to arrive ten minutes sooner.
He slowed further.
That too was growth.
When he reached the cabin, lamps were burning.
He opened the door.
The frontier woman sat at the table.
She looked furious.
“Where were you?”
“Hearing ran long.”
“You couldn't send word?”
“I tried.”
“Who?”
“A ranch hand.”
“No one came.”
His expression changed.
“I sent someone.”
“They didn't arrive.”
The cowboy's old panic appeared instantly.
The frontier woman raised one hand.
“I'm fine.”
He stopped.
She continued:
“But this is what I mean.”
He understood.
Good intentions did not equal reliability.
“I'm sorry.”
She waited.
“No excuse?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He removed his coat.
Then:
“I rode too fast for the first half.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“And?”
“Then remembered being alive was more useful.”
She sighed.
“Progress.”
He sat.
She asked:
“How was it?”
He looked exhausted.