“If some doctor had immediately promised us a baby, maybe neither of us would have learned that.”
Emily’s eyes filled.
Daniel pointed.
“No.”
“What?”
“We are too old for this much crying.”
She laughed.
He kissed her.
Then looked toward the yard.
Thomas was sixteen now.
Arguing with Clara over a saddle.
Ruth had returned from teaching school in Cheyenne for the summer.
Noise filled the ranch.
Daniel smiled.
“I wanted a house full of children.”
“You got one.”
“Eventually.”
Emily looked at him.
“You wanted me first.”
“Yes.”
“Still?”
He pretended to think.
She hit his shoulder.
“Cruel woman.”
“Answer.”
Daniel took her hand.
“Every version.”
She smiled.
The phrase had survived decades.
Every version of the future that mattered had her in it.
Their hair gray.
Children grown.
Grandchildren arriving later with muddy boots.
Cattle prices rising and falling.
Droughts.
Snow.
Illness.
Funerals.
Weddings.
Arguments.
Ordinary mornings.
Years.
One evening, nearly forty years after their wedding, Daniel woke before dawn.
Emily was beside him.
He looked across the room.
The original brown blanket still rested folded over a chair.
Patched now.
Faded.
Emily had refused to throw it away.
Daniel touched her shoulder gently.
She woke.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you waking me?”
“I was thinking.”
“That is rarely good.”
He smiled.
“Do you remember the first night?”
Emily opened one eye.
“The night you nearly volunteered to live in the barn?”
“I was trying to be respectful.”
“You were terrified.”
“You were crying.”
“You looked more frightened.”
Daniel laughed softly.
Emily shifted closer.
“What were you thinking?”
He looked toward the dark ceiling.
“That I almost left the room because I thought giving you space meant leaving you alone.”
Emily waited.
Daniel continued.
“I’m glad you stopped me.”
“So am I.”
“What would have happened?”
“You would have slept in the chair.”
“My back would have broken.”
“I would have felt guilty.”
“Terrible marriage.”
She smiled.
Daniel took her hand.
“You know what I remember most?”
“What?”
“When you said you thought I might hate you in five years.”
Emily’s expression softened.
“You didn't.”
“No.”
“Ten?”
“No.”
“Twenty?”
“Occasionally.”
She hit him.
He laughed.
“Not for that.”
“Good recovery.”
Then he became serious.
“I never hated you for something your body could or couldn't do.”
“I know.”
“You know now.”
“Yes.”
Emily looked toward him in the darkness.