She leaned back.
“Life is disappointing.”
The cowboy smiled.
Their arrangement expanded.
He brought more accounts.
She reviewed them.
The carpenters finished walls and roof.
The woman paid part of their labor from savings and covered the rest through bookkeeping work.
By October, the cabin was weather-tight.
A stove installed.
Shutters fitted.
Floor finished.
The woman stood inside one evening and looked around.
Four walls.
Roof.
Door.
Windows.
Built mostly by her hands.
Finished with help she had traded for rather than begged.
She pressed one palm against her belly.
“We made it.”
The baby moved.
The cowboy stood outside.
He heard her.
He did not enter.
Some moments belonged to people alone.
That restraint touched her more than if he had joined.
The deed investigation continued.
The county clerk found an old survey book.
The parcel described in the deed did overlap her homestead.
But not exactly.
It extended northward across a narrow ravine onto what everyone currently believed belonged to the wealthy ranch.
More importantly, the deed granted half ownership of a spring.
Not the shallow creek crossing her land.
A deeper artesian source beneath the ridge.
The cowboy knew it immediately.
The Blue Spring.
One of the strongest year-round water sources in the valley.
His ranch depended on it during drought.
The woman stared at the survey.
“You use this?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Before I was born.”
“Then why is half of it in my mother’s deed?”
The cowboy’s expression darkened.
“I don’t know.”
The clerk shifted uncomfortably.
“There’s another issue.”
They looked toward him.
The clerk opened an older ledger.
A later document attempted to transfer the entire spring back to the Cross estate.
Signed by the cowboy’s father.
But not by the woman’s mother.
The clerk tapped the page.
“This was never complete.”
The woman stared.
“So half remained hers?”
“Possibly.”
The cowboy asked:
“Possibly?”
The clerk explained.
A lawyer would need to interpret.
Boundaries.
Recording standards.
Territorial law.
Potential abandonment.
Water use.
Possession.
Nothing simple.
But one fact was undeniable.
The woman possessed a legitimate old deed her mother had never surrendered.
The cowboy left the clerk’s office with her.
Town eyes followed them.
Rumor had already begun.
The abandoned pregnant woman.
The wealthy cowboy.
The mysterious land paper.
Harland Creek had never needed accuracy to enjoy a story.
Outside, the woman stopped.
“You should speak to a lawyer.”
“So should you.”
“I can’t afford yours.”
The cowboy looked toward her.
“You think I’d use mine against you?”
“I don’t know you well enough to know what you’d do.”
That answer hurt him.
He accepted it.
“Fair.”
She continued.
“If half that spring is mine, you have a problem.”
“Yes.”
“You won’t pretend otherwise?”
“No.”
The cowboy looked toward the mountains.
“My cattle need that water.”
“And my child needs land.”
“Yes.”
They stood in silence.
Then the woman said:
“I won’t take what isn’t mine.”
He looked toward her.
“And I won’t surrender what is.”
The cowboy nodded.
“Good.”
She frowned.
“Good?”
“I’d think less of you otherwise.”
Something shifted between them.
Conflict.
Respect.
Attraction neither wanted to name.
They hired separate attorneys.
That decision surprised the town.
Most expected the cowboy to overwhelm her financially.