She watched.
He noticed.
Her cheeks warmed.
"Something wrong?"
"No."
He almost smiled.
She narrowed her eyes.
"Don't."
"Didn't say anything."
"Your face did."
"My face is innocent."
"Nothing about your face is innocent."
Silence.
She realized what she had said.
The cowboy looked at her.
The air changed.
The widow took a drink.
Too quickly.
He looked toward the fire.
She should have been relieved.
She was not.
"You're very careful."
He looked at her.
"With what?"
"Me."
His expression became serious.
"Shouldn't I be?"
"I don't know."
"Yes."
He leaned forward.
"I should."
The widow stared into her glass.
"I'm not made of glass."
"I know."
"Then why do you keep acting like I'll break?"
"I don't."
"Yes, you do."
He considered.
"No."
He set down his whiskey.
"I act like your answer matters."
She looked at him.
The cowboy continued.
"If I move too quickly, you close up."
Her pulse increased.
"So I don't."
"You're studying me now?"
"I pay attention."
"Same thing."
"No."
His voice lowered.
"Studying is for cattle."
The widow looked at him.
"What is this?"
His eyes held hers.
"Wanting you."
Her breath stopped.
There it was.
No place to hide.
She whispered:
"You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why?"
"Because we're alone."
He looked around.
"I noticed."
"Because there's a storm."
"I noticed that too."
"Because..."
She stopped.
He waited.
She hated waiting.
"Because I might believe you."
The cowboy did not smile.
"Good."
She looked up.
His expression was almost painfully open.
"I've wanted you since the first week."
Her heart pounded.
"That long?"
"Longer."
"You met me angry, dirty, holding a rifle."
He shrugged.
"I have strange tastes."
She laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
The cowboy smiled.
Then the widow's laughter faded.
She looked at his mouth.
He noticed.
The space between them became too small.
He did not move.
She did.
One step.
Then another.
Until she stood directly in front of him.
He looked up from the chair.
Even seated, he seemed large.
She placed her glass on the table.
Her hand trembled.
He noticed.
"Clara."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Ask if I'm certain."
His eyes searched hers.
"Are you?"
She closed her eyes.
"You're impossible."
He stood.
Now she had to tilt her head back.
The cowboy raised one hand.
Stopped.
Waited.
She leaned into it.
His palm settled against her cheek.
Warm.
Rough.
Gentle.
The widow closed her eyes.
No one had touched her like that in months.
Not since illness had turned her husband's touch weak.
Grief had made her body feel almost disloyal.
She could miss a dead man and still want a living one.