“I know.”
“He can offer security.”
Rose finally looked at him.
“Security is not the question.”
“Then what is?”
She did not answer.
Daniel already suspected.
He had suspected for two years.
Maybe longer.
The answer worked at the south end of town surrounded by horses and the strong conviction that mountains were intended to be admired from a safe distance.
The harvest social made everything worse.
The town decorated the Granger barn with lanterns and wheat sheaves.
A fiddler came from Green River.
Families arrived with pies, preserves, roast chickens, and enough gossip to sustain Crestfall until winter.
Rose wore pale blue.
Will remembered that dress for the rest of his life.
Edward Marsh asked her to dance.
She agreed.
Will stood across the barn with a tin cup in one hand, pretending George Alcott’s story about a horse trade required his complete attention.
It did not.
Rose moved gracefully with Marsh.
Marsh held her correctly.
Not too close.
Not carelessly distant.
He spoke.
Rose answered.
Anyone watching would have called them well matched.
That thought made something unpleasant tighten behind Will’s ribs.
Rose looked across the room.
Their eyes met.
She smiled.
Small.
Private.
Will lifted his cup.
Then George asked a question.
Will turned away.
Rose watched him do it.
Again.
Always again.
Her mouth tightened.
Edward noticed.
“You’re distracted.”
Rose looked back.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
He glanced briefly toward Will.
Then returned his attention to her.
“Should I ask?”
Rose surprised herself.
“Yes.”
Edward waited.
Rose said:
“If a man wants something but refuses to reach for it, how long should everyone else be expected to wait?”
Marsh’s eyes sharpened.
“That sounds less theoretical than you intended.”
Rose sighed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don't be.”
He guided her through the next turn.
“Does he know?”
“That is becoming the problem.”
Marsh looked again toward Will.
“He looks like a man who knows horses better than women.”
Rose almost laughed.
“He knows almost everything better than women.”
“That explains some things.”
She looked at Marsh.
“You are taking this very calmly.”
“I haven’t asked my question yet.”
“No.”
“And until I do, I prefer not to answer myself on your behalf.”
The sentence struck Rose because it sounded unlike Will.
Marsh might not be the man she loved.
But he understood something Will still did not.
Choice belonged to her.
The dance ended.
Marsh bowed slightly.
Rose thanked him.
Will watched from across the barn.
Then looked away.
Three days later, George found Will brushing a bay gelding.
“Marsh is going to propose.”
Will did not stop brushing.
“What does that have to do with me?”