Her shoulder.
Her waist during the dance.
Never her face.
The Ranch Woman stopped breathing.
His thumb moved gently along her cheek.
He waited.
Giving her every opportunity to step back.
She moved closer instead.
His other hand rested at her waist.
The space disappeared.
The Ranch Woman whispered, “You move very slowly.”
“I know.”
“How much longer?”
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
“Not much.”
He leaned down.
Then stopped.
Close enough that she felt his breath.
“Tell me.”
The Ranch Woman smiled.
“Kiss me.”
He did.
Softly.
Almost cautiously.
The first kiss lasted only seconds.
Then he pulled away.
The Ranch Woman stared.
“That’s all?”
He blinked.
“I thought—”
She grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him again.
The second kiss contained three years.
Three years of warm pies.
Bad coffee.
Fence repairs.
Empty kitchens.
Unasked questions.
Grief.
Patience.
Wanting.
When they separated, the Widowed Rancher looked genuinely stunned.
The Ranch Woman smoothed his shirt.
“Better.”
He stared.
“You’ve been waiting to do that.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
She smiled.
“That information will cost you.”
“What?”
“Better coffee.”
He laughed.
Then kissed her again.
The first snow arrived two weeks later.
Life became practical again.
Cattle needed moving.
Wood needed stacking.
Roofs needed checking.
Courtship had to fit around work.
The Ranch Woman liked that.
Grand romance might be wonderful for stories.
She trusted the man who repaired her gate before breakfast.
The Widowed Rancher learned that affection did not always require speeches.
Sometimes it was leaving firewood beside her porch.
Sometimes she returned the favor with stew.
Sometimes he rode over only to sit beside her for twenty minutes.
Then went home.
December brought harder weather.
One storm lasted three days.
The Ranch Woman became trapped at the Widowed Rancher’s ranch after arriving before snow worsened.
He insisted she take the guest room.
She accepted.
By midnight, wind shook the windows.
She came downstairs wearing a heavy robe.
The Widowed Rancher sat beside the stove.
“Can’t sleep?”
“No.”
“Storm?”
She nodded.
He moved slightly on the bench.
She sat beside him.
For a long time, they listened.
Then she said, “You know I’m not frightened of storms.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“You know?”
“You’re terrified.”
“I am not.”
“You grip furniture during thunder.”
“That proves nothing.”
“You once nearly tore the arm off my chair.”
“It was loose.”
He laughed.
She leaned against his shoulder.
The Widowed Rancher stopped laughing.
Not because he disliked it.
Because simple intimacy still surprised him.
He wrapped one arm around her.
She relaxed.
The storm continued.
The Ranch Woman whispered, “Do you ever think we wasted three years?”