"Three should calve by late spring."
He looked at her.
"You sure?"
She bristled.
"Yes."
"I wasn't questioning you."
"It sounded like it."
"I was asking."
She stared.
He turned back toward the cattle.
"You're right."
She blinked.
That was not an answer she heard often from men.
He walked the fence line.
Checked hooves from a distance.
Watched how the herd moved.
He never touched an animal unnecessarily.
After several minutes, he turned.
"They're good."
"You can tell that from standing there?"
"I can tell from how they stand."
The widow studied him.
"What does that mean?"
"Healthy cattle look bored."
She almost laughed.
He continued.
"Sick cattle look tired."
He pointed toward the herd.
"Yours look annoyed we're interrupting supper."
One of the cows stared at them as if proving him correct.
The widow's mouth twitched.
The cowboy saw it.
She immediately looked away.
He asked:
"You've been handling this alone?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Six months."
His gaze moved toward the house.
Then the fence.
Then the barn.
No pity.
Just calculation.
"That's a long time."
"I didn't have a choice."
The cowboy looked back at her.
"Most people who say that had choices."
She frowned.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"They just didn't like them."
She stared.
He continued.
"You could have sold everything."
"I could have."
"Could've gone back east."
"Could have."
"Could've taken the first cheap offer."
Her jaw tightened.
"I didn't."
"No."
He held her gaze.
"You stayed."
She did not like the way those two words reached something beneath her anger.
She looked toward the herd.
"Are you buying cattle or studying my character?"
"Cattle."
"Then make an offer."
He did.
She looked at him.
"Say it again."
He repeated the number.
It was higher than every other offer by enough that suspicion replaced irritation.
"Why?"
"That's what they're worth."
"No."
He raised an eyebrow.
"No?"
"That's what they might be worth to someone sentimental."
"I'm not sentimental."
"You're paying above market."
"I'm paying above what the men in town offered."
"Same thing."
"No."
He nodded toward the herd.
"Those men were pricing your desperation."
Her eyes narrowed.
"I'm not desperate."
"I know."
The answer stopped her.
He continued.
"They didn't."
The widow looked at the cattle.
Then toward the cabin.
Winter stretched ahead.
She needed feed.
Salt.
Medicine.
A repaired pump.
Roof shingles before spring.
Money.
She hated needing anything from a stranger.
"If I agree, they stay here until spring."
"Fine."
"You pay half now."
"Fine."
"If one dies through no fault of mine, that's your loss."
"Fair."
"If one calves before collection, the calf is mine."
The cowboy almost smiled.
"You're difficult."
"So I've been told."
He held out his hand.
She looked at it.
His hand was enormous.
Scarred across the knuckles.
Callused.
Warm-looking despite the cold.
She placed hers inside.
His fingers closed gently.
Far more gently than she expected.
No squeeze meant to prove strength.
No attempt to hold her longer than necessary.
Something traveled through her before she could stop it.