“You don't know.”
“I know enough.”
Wyatt stepped closer.
Avalene stopped rolling.
“You think I married you because I needed cooking?”
“You needed a household.”
“I had a household.”
“A badly run one.”
Wyatt nearly smiled.
“Fair.”
Avalene looked down.
“You could hire a cook.”
“Yes.”
“A bookkeeper.”
“Yes.”
“A housekeeper.”
“I have one.”
She nodded.
“Then why…”
The question disappeared.
Wyatt waited.
“Why what?”
“Why keep me?”
Silence.
Wyatt stared at her.
She genuinely did not know.
The realization disturbed him.
“You think I would send you away because Cecilia Ward talks?”
“No.”
“Then why ask?”
Avalene touched the edge of the dough.
“Because arrangements change when they stop being useful.”
Wyatt understood more than she meant to reveal.
A failed family business.
A fiancé leaving.
Sisters marrying away.
Years caring for a father.
A woman who measured her value in tasks completed because she did not trust anyone to value the person underneath.
Wyatt moved closer.
“Avalene.”
She looked up.
“You're my wife.”
Her expression tightened.
“That was the arrangement.”
“No.”
He surprised himself.
She noticed.
Wyatt continued more carefully.
“It began as one.”
“And now?”
He had no polished answer.
So he gave the truth.
“Now Halfpint steals pie from my kitchen.”
Avalene frowned.
“What?”
“Higgins hasn't complained about food in twelve days.”
“Dobs washed his shirt voluntarily because you told him he smelled like horse.”
Avalene’s lips twitched.
Wyatt continued:
“My household expenses are lower.”
“Cattle hands arrive on time.”
“The cook stove works.”
“My house…”
He stopped.
Avalene waited.
Wyatt looked around.
“It sounds different.”
Her eyes softened.
“Different how?”
“Alive.”
The room became quiet.
Wyatt lowered his voice.
“And I don't spend afternoons wondering how fast I can finish work so I don't have to come inside anymore.”
Avalene stared.
He had never admitted that aloud.
Not even to himself.
“My mother died in this house.”
Avalene said nothing.
“For months, every room reminded me.”
He looked toward the dining room.
“Now I smell bread.”
Something in Avalene’s face broke gently.
Wyatt continued:
“That isn't usefulness.”
She swallowed.
“Then what is it?”
Wyatt almost answered.
He was not ready.
Perhaps she was not either.
So he said:
“I don't know yet.”
Avalene nodded.
Oddly, that answer mattered more than a false declaration would have.
Three evenings later, Wyatt returned from the south pasture late.
Supper was over.
The dining room was empty.
He found a plate warming near the stove.
Avalene sat at the kitchen table mending one of Halfpint’s shirts.
“You waited?”
“No.”
Wyatt looked at the plate.
She smiled faintly.
“I kept food warm.”
“Difference?”
“Yes.”
He removed his hat.
Sat.
Roast chicken.
Potatoes.
Green beans.
Bread.
Wyatt ate.
Avalene stitched.