"Everybody stops eventually."
He understood.
Her husband.
His wife.
Death.
Departure.
Promises did not survive graves.
He moved no closer.
"Is that why you're trying to make me leave first?"
She looked away.
"I didn't ask you here."
"No."
"You keep coming."
"Yes."
"Why?"
The cowboy exhaled.
She turned back.
"Why?"
He looked toward the house.
Then at her.
"Because I think about you when I'm not here."
Her breath caught.
No poetry.
No elaborate declaration.
Just truth.
He continued.
"I wonder whether you've eaten."
Her eyes softened despite herself.
"Whether the pump froze."
He looked toward the barn.
"Whether you climbed onto that roof again by yourself."
"I had to."
"You nearly fell."
"You weren't there."
"Exactly."
The widow stared.
He smiled faintly.
"I think about you."
His eyes moved over her face.
"More than is sensible."
She did not know what to say.
The cowboy picked up the new pump handle.
"I'll install this."
She let him.
That was the beginning.
Not a kiss.
Not a confession.
Permission.
A small thing.
A large thing.
Winter deepened.
Then the blizzard came.
It began Tuesday night.
By Wednesday morning, the valley had disappeared.
Snow rose against the cabin wall.
The barn vanished behind white.
The wind screamed over the roof.
The widow fed the animals before dawn.
By noon, the well pump had begun freezing.
By sunset, it stopped completely.
She heated water.
Wrapped the pipe.
Struck the handle.
Nothing.
Thursday morning she walked to the creek.
The snow reached her knees.
She broke ice with a stone.
Filled two buckets.
Carried them back.
Halfway home, she slipped.
Water spilled.
She stood in the storm staring at the empty bucket.
Something inside her cracked.
Not loudly.
Not completely.
Just enough.
For six months she had refused to cry over work.
She had cried over her husband.
At his grave.
In bed.
In the barn where his coat still hung.
But never because a fence broke.
Never because the pump froze.
Never because there was too much snow.
Those things were enemies she could fight.
Now she stood alone in white nothingness and wanted to scream.
Instead she picked up the bucket.
Returned to the creek.
Filled it again.
Went home.
By the time she closed the cabin door, her fingers would not bend.
She sat on the floor.
Back against the wood.
Breathing.
She told herself to get up.
The fire needed feeding.
Animals needed checking.
Water needed heating.
Get up.
She did not.
Then she heard something.
Hooves.
Faint.
Impossible.
She lifted her head.
Again.
Hooves through the storm.
Her heart pounded.
Nobody sane would ride in this.
The sound approached.
A fist struck the door.
"Clara!"
She knew the voice.
She nearly cried from relief.
That frightened her more than the storm.
She opened the door.
The cowboy stood outside covered in snow.
His beard was rimmed with ice.
His horse's sides heaved.
Steam rolled from the animal.
She stared.
"You shouldn't be here."
He stepped inside.