That realization had frightened her for weeks.
The cowboy brushed his thumb along her cheekbone.
Her eyes opened.
"You still think I need saving?"
"No."
"Then what do you think?"
He looked at her.
"I think you deserve someone who stays."
Her throat tightened.
He continued.
"And I want to be that man."
The widow pressed her hand against his chest.
His heartbeat was faster than expected.
She almost smiled.
"You're nervous."
"Terrified."
"Good."
He laughed softly.
She whispered:
"Stay."
"I'm here."
"No."
Her fingers curled lightly into his shirt.
"Stay."
He understood the difference.
His expression changed.
He leaned closer.
Stopped.
Their mouths were inches apart.
"You tell me if you want me to stop."
The widow looked into his eyes.
Then pulled him down.
Their first kiss was not graceful.
Months of restraint rarely were.
Her hand slid behind his neck.
His arm settled around her waist.
He kissed her carefully at first.
Too carefully.
She pulled back.
He froze.
"Wrong?"
She shook her head.
"You're treating me like glass again."
His mouth curved.
"That a complaint?"
"Yes."
He kissed her again.
Deeper.
Still gentle.
But no longer afraid of her.
The widow felt heat rise through her despite the winter outside.
She had forgotten what it was like to be wanted as a woman instead of evaluated as a widow.
His hand remained at her waist.
Never roaming without invitation.
That mattered.
She kissed him until breathing became necessary.
When they separated, her forehead rested against his chest.
The cowboy's hand moved through her hair.
Neither spoke.
Outside, wind battered the cabin.
Inside, the fire burned.
The widow whispered:
"I don't know what I'm doing."
He answered:
"Neither do I."
She laughed softly.
"I don't mean kissing."
"I know."
She looked up.
"I mean this."
His expression softened.
"Neither do I."
She searched his face.
"Your wife."
He became still.
The widow immediately regretted mentioning her.
But he nodded.
"I think about her."
"So do I."
"My husband."
"I know."
She looked toward the bed.
"I still talk to him sometimes."
"Good."
"You don't think that's strange?"
"No."
"Why?"
The cowboy looked toward the fire.
"Because I talk to mine."
The widow's eyes filled.
He continued.
"Usually when I'm angry."
She laughed through the tears.
"What do you say?"
"Depends."
"Give me an example."
He thought.
"Last week I told her she would've liked you."
The widow's breath caught.
"What did she say?"
He smiled.
"Nothing."
"Convenient."
"Very."
The widow rested her head against him.
The cowboy held her.
No urgency.
No demand.
Eventually he said:
"You need sleep."
"So do you."
"I'll take the chair."
She pulled back.
"No."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Bed."
His expression changed.
The widow's heart began pounding again.
She added:
"For sleeping."
His mouth curved.
"Of course."
"Mostly."