“I’m rusty.”
“Clearly.”
His expression softened.
“I have not wanted anyone in a long time.”
The woman’s smile disappeared.
She understood the weight beneath that sentence.
The facedown photograph.
The dead wife.
The years of grief.
She said quietly:
“Wanting me does not betray her.”
His eyes closed.
That sentence found somewhere deep.
He looked away.
“How do you know?”
“Because love is not a room with one chair.”
He stared toward her again.
The woman stepped close enough that their coats almost touched.
“But I will not become medicine for grief.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“If you kiss me, it is because you want me.”
“Not because you are lonely.”
His voice was almost a whisper.
“I want you.”
She touched his coat lightly.
“Then ask.”
He smiled faintly.
“May I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her carefully.
Too carefully.
She pulled back after a second.
“That was terrible.”
His eyes widened.
“What?”
“You kissed me like I might break.”
He almost laughed.
“I was trying to be respectful.”
“Respectfully try again.”
He did.
The second kiss carried months of loneliness and weeks of restraint.
She felt his hands settle at her waist.
Not grabbing.
Waiting.
She leaned into him.
He stopped before the moment became something they had not chosen.
The woman rested her forehead against his.
“Better.”
He breathed out.
“Thank God.”
They walked back separately enough that the ranch hands would not have anything entertaining to discuss.
They failed.
The youngest ranch hand saw their faces.
He said nothing.
His grin said enough.
The next morning, the woman discovered lamp oil on the smokehouse threshold.
Barely noticeable.
A dark sheen near one hinge.
Her stomach went cold.
She smelled the wood.
Oil.
Not enough to prove intention alone.
Enough to make every earlier incident change shape.
She examined the area around the wall.
A rag lay beneath snow near the rear corner.
Dark.
Oily.
She did not touch it.
The ranch owner found her crouched nearby.
“What?”
She pointed.
His expression changed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means somebody wanted something near this building to burn.”
He looked toward the smokehouse.
Inside hung almost the ranch’s entire winter supply of pork.
Several sacks of dried goods had been moved there temporarily because the pantry roof needed repair.
If the building burned, the ranch would not simply lose meat.
It would lose food.
Wages would have to increase to keep men through winter.
Supplies would need to be purchased on credit.
The creditor would be waiting.
The ranch owner swore.
“I’m putting guards here.”
The woman shook her head.
“We move everything.”
“What?”
“Tonight.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“The old stone springhouse near the north creek.”
He stared.
“That roof leaks.”
“Not anymore.”
“What?”
“I asked two men to patch it last week.”
“Why?”
“Because I like backup.”
He stared at her.
Then laughed once.
“You planned this?”
“I planned for moisture.”
“Not sabotage.”
“Same building.”
He became serious.
“If whoever did this sees us moving supplies…”
“We do it after midnight.”
“You are talking about emptying the entire smokehouse in one night.”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand how much is in there?”
“I put most of it there.”
He paced.