Her eyes flashed.
"You don't know me."
"You're right."
He pulled on his coat.
"But I know stubborn."
"Go."
He put on his hat.
"I was already going."
She opened the door.
Snow had thickened.
The cowboy paused beside her.
"Clara."
She looked up.
"I'll be back."
"For the cattle."
A beat.
"For that."
His eyes held hers.
"And more."
Then he walked into the snow.
The widow stood in the doorway until his horse disappeared.
Only then did she close it.
The fire snapped behind her.
She looked toward the chair he had occupied.
Then toward the enormous pile of wood outside.
"Stupid man."
She said it aloud.
The cabin did not disagree.
He returned four days later.
Not because the cattle needed him.
He brought salt blocks.
The widow stood on the porch.
"I didn't order those."
"I know."
"I'm not paying for them."
"They're part of the cattle purchase."
"No, they're not."
"They are now."
She stared.
He unloaded them.
She helped despite herself.
The next week he returned with replacement hinges for the barn.
Then roofing nails.
Then a sack of coffee he claimed he had accidentally purchased twice.
She knew that was a lie.
Nobody accidentally bought twenty pounds of coffee.
Each time she objected.
Each time he found a way to make the help sound like business.
The widow eventually began doing the same.
When he came with feed, she gave him preserves.
When he repaired the gate, she stitched a torn coat sleeve.
When he helped reinforce the barn roof, she cooked supper.
Balance.
That was important.
She could accept something if she had something to give back.
He seemed to understand.
He never said she owed him.
Never kept count.
Never tried to turn kindness into leverage.
That unsettled her more than manipulation would have.
Manipulation was familiar.
Generosity without a hidden price was dangerous because it invited trust.
By January, she knew the sound of his horse.
She hated that.
She could identify it before seeing him.
Heavy rhythm.
Four beats.
Pause near the old cottonwood.
Then the gate.
She began catching herself looking toward the road on days he did not come.
That frightened her enough that she became colder when he did.
One afternoon he arrived carrying a new pump handle.
She stood in the yard.
"I don't need that."
"The old one's cracked."
"It still works."
"Until it doesn't."
"I can replace it."
"You haven't."
She glared.
He set the handle beside the well.
"Why are you angry?"
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I said I'm not."
"Clara."
Her eyes flashed.
"Stop saying my name like you know me."
He went still.
The words hurt him.
She saw it.
Good, some part of her thought.
Another part immediately hated herself.
The cowboy picked up his gloves.
"All right."
He turned toward his horse.
The widow stared.
"You're leaving?"
"You told me I don't know you."
"I didn't tell you to leave."
He looked back.
"Then tell me what you are saying."
She opened her mouth.
Nothing.
He waited.
Always waiting.
She looked toward the well.
"I don't like expecting you."
His face changed.
There.
Truth.
She hated how exposed it made her feel.
The cowboy stepped closer.
"Expecting me to what?"
"Come."
The word came out smaller than she intended.
His voice softened.
"I do come."
"That's the problem."
He looked at her.
"You think I'll stop?"
She laughed once.
Harsh.