“Fair.”
She renegotiated.
Saved enough that winter supplies were paid two months early.
Then she added chickens.
The Rancher hated them.
“They’re loud.”
“So are you.”
“I’m not loud.”
“You complain every morning.”
“About chickens.”
“They give eggs.”
“They destroy everything.”
“They’re chickens.”
“One tried entering my bedroom.”
“That sounds like a personal dispute.”
The Rancher glared.
The Bride kissed his cheek.
His anger vanished.
He hated that too.
The house became alive.
Books.
Flowers.
Egg baskets.
Ledger books.
Laundry drying near the stove.
The Bride’s blue shawl permanently thrown over the wrong chair.
The Rancher complained for years.
She never moved it.
The one-year anniversary approached quietly.
Neither spoke about it.
Eleven months and three weeks after the wedding, the Bride placed the original marriage agreement on the kitchen table.
The Rancher stopped in the doorway.
“What’s that?”
“You know.”
He did.
One year.
That had been the rule.
The card game had created a marriage for twelve months.
Then freedom.
The Rancher sat slowly.
“You counting?”
“Yes.”
His face closed.
The Bride saw it.
“You look afraid.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
He did not smile.
The Bride sat opposite.
“One week.”
“I know.”
“And then?”
The Rancher looked at the document.
“You’re free.”
The Bride’s expression tightened.
“That is not what I asked.”
“You can leave with money.”
“Still not what I asked.”
The Rancher’s jaw flexed.
“I promised.”
“And I know.”
“Then what do you want me to say?”
“What do you want?”
He looked away.
The Bride waited.
She had become very good at waiting through his silences.
Finally he whispered:
“You.”
The Bride’s eyes burned.
The Rancher continued.
“I want you to stay.”
She swallowed.
“Ask.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“Ask me.”
The Rancher’s expression almost became annoyed.
“You know.”
“No.”
The Bride folded her arms.
“I am finished living through things other people refuse to say.”
That reached him.
He stood.
Walked around the table.
Stopped before her.
The Bride looked up.
The Rancher removed his hat.
Another nervous habit she now understood.
“Stay.”
She waited.
He exhaled.
“Stay with me.”
Better.
“As my wife.”
Her heart pounded.
The Rancher’s voice dropped.
“Because I love you.”
The room became absolutely quiet.
The Bride had imagined the sentence.
Not often.
Enough.
She had expected something dramatic inside herself.
Instead, she felt calm.
As though something long out of place had finally clicked where it belonged.