The Ranch Woman woke before sunrise.
The Widowed Rancher was still asleep.
She slipped from bed.
Went downstairs.
Baked an apple pie.
By nine, the kitchen smelled familiar.
The Widowed Rancher appeared in the doorway.
Hair uncombed.
Shirt half buttoned.
He stared at the pie.
Then at her.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s Tuesday.”
“We live together.”
“I know.”
“You don’t need to bring me pie.”
“I didn’t bring it anywhere.”
He considered.
“That’s true.”
The Ranch Woman poured coffee.
He sat.
She placed the pie beside him.
The Widowed Rancher smiled slowly.
“If I were twenty years younger…”
She pointed the knife at him.
“Finish that sentence carefully.”
He laughed.
“I’d still marry you.”
“Better.”
“For the pie.”
She glared.
He pulled her onto his lap before she could respond.
The Ranch Woman laughed.
“Terrible man.”
“Cruel woman.”
He kissed her.
The pie cooled.
Neither cared.
Years passed.
Not dramatically.
That was the beauty of them.
Cattle were born.
Horses aged.
Apple trees grew.
Fences broke.
Roofs needed repair.
Winters came.
Spring returned.
Some seasons were profitable.
Others were frightening.
There were illnesses.
Arguments.
Deaths among friends.
New babies among relatives.
The Merchant eventually married a schoolteacher from Santa Fe.
The Storekeeper insisted she had predicted everything.
Nobody believed her.
The Widowed Rancher learned better coffee.
Not good.
Better.
The Ranch Woman stopped mocking him every morning.
Only most mornings.
One autumn, nearly ten years after the first pie joke, they sat on the porch together.
The Widowed Rancher was sixty-five.
The Ranch Woman fifty-two.
Silver had begun threading her auburn hair.
His beard was almost completely gray.
A pie sat between them.
He looked toward the field.
“You know what bothers me?”
The Ranch Woman continued knitting.
“Many things.”
“Three years.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“I wasted three years.”
The Ranch Woman smiled.
“No.”
“I did.”
“No.”
“I should have walked across sooner.”
“Probably.”
He looked offended.
“You just contradicted yourself.”
“I can hold two ideas.”
“That seems unfair.”
She set down the knitting.
“Those three years mattered.”
“How?”
“You learned I wasn’t leaving.”
He became quiet.
She continued.
“I learned you weren’t using me to replace anyone.”
He nodded.
“We became friends before we became anything else.”
The Ranch Woman looked toward their gate in the fence.
“Maybe we needed that.”
The Widowed Rancher considered.
“Still seems slow.”
She laughed.
“Now you notice?”