That surprised him.
She surprised herself.
The widow turned toward the small bedroom.
Then stopped.
"You coming?"
He followed.
The room was warmer than the rest of the cabin.
The bed was narrow.
The widow climbed beneath the quilt.
The cowboy removed his boots.
His vest.
Nothing more.
He sat on the edge.
"You sure?"
She sighed dramatically.
"If you ask me again, I may throw you back into the storm."
He smiled.
"Understood."
He lay beside her.
Carefully.
His body took up far too much space.
The widow laughed.
"What?"
"You are enormous."
"I've been told."
"There's no room."
"I can take the floor."
She immediately caught his arm.
"No."
He looked at her hand.
Then her face.
"Stay."
He settled.
The widow turned toward him.
Lantern light moved across his features.
For a while they simply watched each other.
Then he brushed hair away from her forehead.
She closed her eyes.
"You know what's strange?"
"What?"
"I feel guilty."
"For what?"
"Being happy."
His expression softened.
The widow continued.
"I spent months thinking grief was the last loyal thing I had left to give him."
The cowboy listened.
"If I stopped hurting, maybe it meant I'd stopped loving him."
He was quiet for a long time.
Then:
"Did you?"
She opened her eyes.
"Did I what?"
"Stop loving him?"
"No."
"Then there you go."
She almost smiled.
"You make everything sound simple."
"It isn't."
He touched her cheek.
"But simple and easy aren't the same."
The widow looked at him.
Then kissed him.
Slowly.
No desperation this time.
The kiss grew warmer.
Her hand moved along his forearm.
His fingers threaded gently through her hair.
When the widow pulled back, she whispered:
"I want this."
He studied her.
"Tonight?"
"Yes."
The cowboy breathed out.
"Clara..."
She touched his lips.
"No speeches."
He smiled against her fingers.
"Wasn't planning one."
"Good."
The lamp flame moved.
Outside, the storm continued.
Inside, the widow chose something she had not allowed herself in six months.
Not forgetting.
Not replacing.
Living.
The lantern burned lower.
Later, long after words had become unnecessary, she lay against his chest beneath the quilt.
Nothing outside the cabin had changed.
The ranch still needed repairs.
The cattle still needed feed.
Snow still covered the valley.
Her husband was still dead.
His wife was still gone.
Yet something had changed anyway.
The widow listened to the cowboy's heartbeat.
Steady.
Strong.
Real.
Her eyes closed.
For the first time since spring, she fell asleep beside another person without feeling that grief was waiting to punish her for it.
Morning came white and silent.
The storm had stopped.
The cowboy woke first.
The widow found him in the kitchen.
Fully dressed.
Making coffee badly.
She leaned against the doorway.
"That's too much grounds."
He looked toward her.
"You're awake."
"Unfortunately."
"Morning."
She looked at the pot.
"You're murdering coffee."
"Ungrateful."
She smiled.
Then became suddenly shy.
The cowboy saw it.
He set down the spoon.
"Regret?"
Her eyes lifted.
"No."