Emma stared.
“My husband died eight years ago,” the storekeeper said.
“People helped me when I had nothing.”
She looked toward Jack.
“Kindness deserves company.”
Emma’s throat tightened.
“Thank you.”
The ride home was quiet.
At sunset they sat on Jack’s porch.
The hills burned gold.
Jack finally spoke.
“When I saw you standing in town that day…”
He stopped.
Emma waited.
“I wanted to offer you a room.”
“Yes.”
Jack looked toward the pasture.
“Now I cannot imagine this ranch without you.”
Emma’s fingers tightened slightly in her lap.
“I don't want to leave.”
Jack turned.
“You don't?”
“No.”
“This place feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived since my parents died.”
Jack stood.
Emma looked up.
His hands shook.
Only slightly.
She noticed anyway.
“What?”
Jack walked closer.
“My mother used to say a man should never ask a woman to stay unless he is willing to give her something more than convenience.”
Emma rose.
“I’m listening.”
Jack looked at her.
Really looked.
“If I ask you to stay…”
His voice lowered.
“I don't mean as hired help.”
Emma’s pulse quickened.
Jack stepped closer.
Not touching.
“I don't mean because the ranch works better.”
“It does.”
Emma almost smiled.
“I mean because I walk into the kitchen and look for you before I look at anything else.”
Emma’s breath caught.
Jack continued.
“I hear you talking to the horses from across the yard.”
“I know which floorboard wakes you when you cross the hall.”
“I know you drink coffee too strong and put too much salt on potatoes.”
“That is not possible.”
“It is.”
She smiled.
Jack’s expression softened.
“I know when you've had a hard day because you braid your hair tighter.”
Emma went still.
He had noticed.
Jack continued.
“And I know pretending this is only gratitude has become dishonest.”
Emma’s heart pounded.
“Jack.”
“Yes?”
“If you ask me to stay, you ask.”
His brows drew together.
“What?”
“You do not tell me what I become.”
“You don't claim me.”
“You don't decide for me.”
Understanding came immediately.
Jack nodded.
“You're right.”
Emma stepped closer.
Their bodies were now only inches apart.
“What do you want?”
Jack’s voice roughened.
“You.”
No performance.
No poetry.
Just one word.
Emma’s stomach tightened.
Jack swallowed.
“I want you beside me when morning comes.”
“I want you here next winter.”
“And the next.”
“I want arguments about horses.”
“I want to know why you move every tool I leave somewhere useful.”
“Because your definition of useful is terrible.”
Jack smiled.
Emma’s own smile faded into something more vulnerable.
“And if I choose that?”
Jack raised one hand.
Stopped before touching her.
Emma noticed.
“May I?”
She nodded.
His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek.
The contact was almost nothing.
Emma felt it everywhere.