Her eyes filled.
"And when I talk about my son, you never tell me to stop remembering."
For several seconds, I said nothing.
Then I looked down.
"I don't have much to offer."
She frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"I sold my ranch years ago. I own a horse, a saddle, some tools, and enough money to get us through a few months."
She looked toward Chester.
Then back at me.
"That horse appears to think he owns you."
I laughed.
"He probably does."
She smiled.
Then became serious.
"I did not ask how much land you own."
I looked at her.
She continued.
"I asked whether I could remain near you."
My chest tightened.
I took a slow breath.
"Yes."
She held my gaze.
"Because you feel sorry for me?"
I shook my head.
"No."
"Because I have nowhere else to go?"
"No."
"Then why?"
I looked toward the creek.
For eight years, I had carried the memory of my wife like a locked room inside my chest. I had believed that loving another woman would somehow diminish what we had shared.
But sitting beside the older Apache woman, I finally understood something.
My wife had not loved me so that I would spend the rest of my life alone.
She had loved me because we had been alive together.
Because we had laughed.
Worked.
Argued.
Dreamed.
And tried to build something good.
I looked back at the woman beside me.
"Because I love you."
She became completely still.
For a moment, I thought I had spoken too soon.
Then her eyes filled.
She reached for my hand.
"I hoped you would say that."
I laughed softly.
"Did you?"
She nodded.
"For weeks."
I shook my head.
"Well, I have been called slow before."
She smiled.
"Very slow."
Then she leaned closer.
I met her halfway.
Our first kiss was gentle.
There was nothing hurried about it.
Nothing uncertain except the trembling of two people who had suffered enough to understand how precious a peaceful moment could be.
When we drew apart, she rested her forehead against mine.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Then her son stirred in the wagon.
She turned immediately.
I smiled.
"Go on."
She laughed.
"Mother first."
I nodded.
"Always."
I found work that winter at a ranch west of Cuervo Creek.
The owner was an elderly cattleman who needed help managing horses and repairing fences. He offered me steady wages, a small house on the property, and use of a neighboring pasture.
It wasn't much.
But it had a roof that didn't leak.
A kitchen large enough for three people.