He exhaled.
She had not realized he was holding his breath.
The widow walked toward him.
"No regret."
He touched her waist.
She leaned against him.
"Fear."
He nodded.
"Same."
"Good."
She looked up.
"I don't trust fearless people."
"Smart."
They kissed.
Then the widow pulled away.
"Pump."
The cowboy groaned.
"You romantic creature."
"Water doesn't care about romance."
He put on his coat.
By noon the pump worked.
By afternoon they had cleared a path to the barn.
The cowboy should have left.
He did not.
The widow did not ask him to.
That evening they cooked together.
He chopped potatoes too large.
She complained.
He told her to chop them herself.
She did.
Their second night together was less uncertain.
Still gentle.
Still deliberate.
But laughter replaced some of the fear.
The widow discovered he snored.
The cowboy discovered she stole blankets.
Neither was impressed.
By the third morning, the road was passable.
He saddled the horse.
The widow stood beside the porch.
Neither liked the moment.
"I have to check my ranch."
"I know."
"I'll come back."
She looked toward the road.
He stepped closer.
"Clara."
She met his eyes.
"I said I'll come back."
"People say things."
"I know."
"They don't always get to keep them."
He understood.
He touched her cheek.
"I can't promise what the world will do."
Her eyes filled.
"But I can promise what I'll do if it lets me."
She looked at him.
"I'll come back."
The widow nodded.
He kissed her.
Then rode north.
The first day was easy.
The second was not.
By the third afternoon she was angry.
At herself.
At him.
At the road.
She looked toward it more times than she would admit.
Near sunset, hooves approached.
Heavy.
Four beats.
Pause near the cottonwood.
The widow smiled before she could stop herself.
Then she immediately arranged her face into annoyance.
The cowboy rode into the yard.
He dismounted.
"Miss me?"
"No."
"Liar."
She walked toward him.
"You took too long."
"Three days."
"Exactly."
He smiled.
Then she kissed him before he could say anything else.
Winter slowly loosened.
Snow melted from the south-facing slopes.
The creek broke open.
Mud replaced ice.
The cattle began spreading across the pasture again.
The widow and cowboy settled into something neither named immediately.
He spent three nights a week at her cabin.
Sometimes four.
Sometimes she visited his ranch.
The first time she saw it, she stopped on the ridge.
"Small ranch?"
The cowboy looked toward the valley below.
Several thousand acres.
Two barns.
A bunkhouse.
Hundreds of cattle.
"You lied."
"I said large enough."
"You're impossible."
"Still here."
She looked at him.
"Unfortunately."
He smiled.
She kissed him.
His ranch hands learned quickly that the widow was not to be treated as a guest.
She worked.
Argued.
Corrected their feed calculations.
One older hand complained.
The cowboy told him:
"She's usually right."
The widow heard.
Later she said:
"Usually?"
He looked innocent.
She threatened to sleep in the spare room.