Marriage changed the ranch almost immediately.
Not because Margaret made it feminine.
That amused her whenever townspeople said it.
She made it efficient.
Accounts improved.
Feed purchases decreased.
Margaret negotiated better cattle prices.
Thomas taught her which pastures could tolerate winter grazing.
She showed him how much money he had been losing by refusing to compare suppliers.
Thomas objected.
“I value loyalty.”
Margaret looked at the invoice.
“You are paying twenty percent extra for loyalty.”
“Harper has supplied me fifteen years.”
“Harper is robbing you politely.”
Thomas sighed.
Margaret kissed his cheek.
“I’m changing vendors.”
He grumbled.
She did.
Profit improved.
Their life settled into rhythm.
Thomas handled cattle.
Margaret books.
Both repaired fences.
Both cooked badly enough that they eventually stopped criticizing one another.
They kept Eleanor’s photograph.
Margaret insisted.
One afternoon Thomas found her dusting the frame.
He stood quietly.
Margaret noticed.
“What?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Dust?”
“Keep her picture there.”
Margaret looked at him.
“She lived here.”
“Yes.”
“She loved you.”
“Yes.”
“She helped make you who you are.”
Thomas swallowed.
Margaret returned the photograph to the shelf.
“I’m not competing with a dead woman.”
Thomas crossed the room.
He kissed her forehead.
“I don’t deserve you.”
Margaret frowned.
“We discussed this.”
“What?”
“You describing yourself like damaged merchandise.”
Thomas smiled.
“Right.”
Their son arrived the following January.
Thomas was fifty-seven.
He had spent Margaret’s pregnancy pretending calmness.
Nobody believed him.
Ruth especially.
When Margaret went into labor, Thomas paced outside the bedroom until the midwife threatened to throw a basin at him.
Hours later, a cry sounded.
Thomas stopped.
The bedroom door opened.
The midwife smiled.
“Come meet your son.”
Thomas entered.
Margaret lay exhausted against pillows.
Her hair stuck to her face.
She had never looked more beautiful to him.
A red-haired infant rested against her.
Thomas approached slowly.
Margaret looked at him.
“You’re staring again.”
Thomas sat beside her.
“That appears permanent.”
She smiled.
“Take him.”
Thomas hesitated.
Margaret’s expression softened.
“Thomas.”
“I’m fifty-seven.”
She stared.
He looked embarrassed.
“I know.”
“No arithmetic.”
“Different arithmetic.”
She waited.
Thomas touched the baby’s tiny hand.
“When he is twenty, I’ll be seventy-seven.”
“Yes.”
“What if—”
Margaret interrupted gently.