George stared.
“For a man who handles horses every day, you are remarkably blind.”
Will’s jaw tightened.
“Leave it.”
“No.”
“George.”
“No.”
The gelding flicked its tail.
George lowered his voice.
“She has turned down nearly every eligible man in this county.”
“That does not concern me.”
“You think that is chance?”
Will looked up.
“Maybe she does not want to marry.”
George laughed once.
“That would be convincing if she did not look at you the way she does.”
Will’s hand tightened around the brush.
“She never said anything.”
George closed his eyes briefly.
“She should not have to stand in Main Street with a sign.”
Will said nothing.
George continued.
“She brought coffee every morning when your mother was dying.”
“She brings coffee to people.”
“She sat beside your mother for six hours the night before she passed.”
Will looked away.
“She stayed late at the store so you could make supply runs after closing.”
“She is kind.”
“She laughs at your jokes.”
“So?”
“Your jokes are terrible.”
Will glared.
George pointed the brush at him.
“That is evidence.”
Will turned back to the horse.
George’s expression softened.
“What are you afraid of?”
Will almost said nothing.
Instead:
“Look at her.”
“I have.”
“Then look at me.”
George frowned.
“You own a business.”
“A livery.”
“A good one.”
“I smell like horses.”
“So do half the men in Wyoming.”
“She could marry Marsh.”
“Yes.”
“He has land.”
“You have land.”
“A stable lot.”
“You have a house.”
“Two rooms above the livery.”
“You make a living.”
“Barely some winters.”
George shook his head.
“Rose did not ask whether your roof leaks.”
Will looked at him.
“She didn't ask anything.”
“Exactly.”
George walked away.
That night, Will lay awake listening to wind scrape along his shutters.
Memory became cruel when silence left it room.
Rose bringing coffee.
Rose kneeling beside his mother’s bed, holding the old woman’s hand.
Rose putting fresh flowers in the livery office after his mother died because Will had forgotten the room could contain anything except saddles and account books.
Rose waiting at the store after sunset so he could pick up medicine for a sick horse.
Rose’s laugh.
Rose’s hand touching his arm when she spoke.
Rose looking across the harvest dance floor.
Will sat up in bed.
George’s voice returned.
She should not have to.
Three days later, Rose told him herself.
“I saved my heart for you.”
And Will stood there like an idiot.
For perhaps ten seconds.
Then fifteen.
By the time his body remembered movement, Rose had crossed the street.
The general-store door closed behind her.
Will stared.
Then something inside him changed.