“What is it?”
“We don't know.”
She shrugged.
“Okay.”
A package arrived.
Inside was a book.
Illustrated animals.
No family crest.
No money.
No deed.
No condition.
The child loved it.
That was the first acceptable gift.
The next year, another book.
Then a wooden puzzle.
No attempts to visit.
No demands.
The cattle baron was learning a language he had never valued.
Distance.
Consent.
He learned slowly because age did not automatically produce wisdom.
Sometimes it only gave a person less time to avoid learning.
When their daughter was seven, the old cattle baron became ill.
The cowboy received word from a ranch hand.
He sat outside the cabin for almost an hour.
His wife found him.
“You want to go.”
He stared toward the mountains.
“I don't know.”
“Yes, you do.”
He looked at her.
“Wanting to go doesn't mean I forgive everything.”
“I didn't say it did.”
“If I go, he'll think—”
“Stop.”
She sat beside him.
“You're doing it again.”
“What?”
“Deciding what your action means before you take it.”
He frowned.
She continued:
“You can visit a dying father because you want to see your father.”
“That doesn't restore his land.”
“Doesn't erase testimony.”
“Doesn't undo anything.”
“You decide the meaning.”
The cowboy looked toward her.
“Come?”
“No.”
He seemed hurt.
She took his hand.
“This one is yours.”
He nodded.
The next morning, he rode to the main ranch.
The house felt smaller.
His father lay in a downstairs room.
Thin.
Gray.
No attorneys.
No ledgers.
No staff except one nurse and an old ranch hand.
The cowboy entered.
His father opened his eyes.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then:
“You came.”
“Yes.”
The old man smiled faintly.
“I wasn't certain.”
“Neither was I.”
Fair.
The cowboy sat.
His father asked about the child first.
Not ranch.
Not court.
Not money.
“The books?”
“She likes them.”
“Good.”
“Especially the horse one.”
“Your mother liked horses.”
The cowboy looked toward him.
His mother had died when he was seventeen.
His father almost never spoke about her.
“She hated me buying land.”
The cowboy almost laughed.
“That seems important information to hide.”
His father smiled weakly.
“She said every time I was afraid, I bought another fence.”
The cowboy stared.
“She understood you.”
“Yes.”
“Did you listen?”
“No.”
They sat.
The old man eventually said:
“I am sorry.”
The cowboy looked toward him.
His father continued:
“Not because I'm dying.”
“I know people say that.”
“I've been sorry longer than I've been brave enough to say it.”