Not dramatically.
A curtain washed.
A shelf rearranged.
A small jar of desert flowers appeared on the table.
The Rancher complained when she moved his coffee tin.
She moved it back.
Two days later he asked her to return it to the new place because it had actually been more convenient.
The Bride refused.
“You said you hated it there.”
“I was wrong.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
She placed one hand dramatically against her heart.
“I need to sit.”
“Don’t start.”
“This is historic.”
The Rancher tried not to smile.
Failed.
Weeks passed.
Then he came home carrying three used books.
He placed them on the table.
The Bride stared.
“What’s that?”
“Books.”
“I can see.”
“Then we’re making progress.”
She picked up the first.
Adventure.
Second.
Poetry.
Third.
A romance.
She looked at him.
The Rancher suddenly became intensely interested in checking a window latch.
“You bought these?”
“No.”
“Rancher.”
“Found them.”
“Where?”
He looked toward the ceiling.
“Horse had them.”
The Bride burst out laughing.
The Rancher turned.
He had heard her laugh before.
Not like that.
This was uncontrolled.
Bright.
The sound filled the house.
For years, he had heard men joke that the shopkeeper’s daughter had no personality.
They were fools.
The Bride noticed him staring.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You always say that when it’s something.”
The Rancher picked up his hat.
“I have work.”
“It’s dark.”
“Barn work.”
She smiled.
“Thank you for the books.”
He stopped.
Then nodded without turning.
“You’re welcome.”
He left.
The Bride watched the door.
Her smile became quieter.
That night she read the romance until almost midnight.
The Rancher lay awake listening to pages turn through the wall.
He liked the sound.
That frightened him.
The storm arrived in the sixth week.
Clouds built green-black over the western hills.
The air stopped moving.
Even birds disappeared.
The Lone Rancher had seen enough desert storms to recognize something bad.
He rode home early.
The Bride was pulling sheets from the line.
“Inside.”
She looked toward the sky.
“I know.”
“Now.”
She frowned.
“You have not learned everything.”
He grabbed the other end of the sheet.
“What?”
“How to ask.”
Lightning flashed.
“Would you please get inside before the sky kills us?”
The Bride smiled.
“Better.”
Thunder cracked.
Both ran.
The rain came sideways.
Within ten minutes, the roof began leaking.
Within twenty, part of the kitchen ceiling sagged.
The Bride dragged pots beneath drips.
The Rancher moved furniture.
A loud crack sounded above them.
The front beam shifted.
“Back room.”
He pointed.
“We move anything valuable.”
They worked.
No panic.
No arguments.
The Bride carried boxes.