“You gossip.”
“That too.”
The Ranch Woman put the flour on the counter.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
The Storekeeper leaned forward.
“The Merchant was asking after you.”
The Ranch Woman’s expression remained neutral.
“He does that.”
“Three times this month.”
“He has excellent persistence.”
“He also has a successful business.”
“I know.”
“And a house in town.”
“I have a house.”
“With servants.”
“I don’t require servants.”
“Everyone requires servants if they can afford them.”
The Ranch Woman stared.
The Storekeeper laughed.
“Fine. Everyone except you.”
The Merchant entered before the subject could die naturally.
He was in his late forties, clean-shaven, neatly dressed, and successful enough that his boots looked polished even on a dusty street.
He saw the Ranch Woman immediately.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
The Storekeeper looked delighted by the coincidence.
The Ranch Woman looked betrayed.
The Merchant removed his hat.
“I hoped I might see you.”
“Did you?”
“I asked around.”
The Ranch Woman glanced at the Storekeeper.
The woman behind the counter suddenly became very interested in inventory.
The Merchant continued.
“I wondered if you might join me for supper Friday.”
The Ranch Woman hesitated.
He was a good man.
That was the problem.
Nothing about him justified refusal.
He had never been rude.
Never pressured her.
Never treated her independence like a flaw.
He was financially stable.
Widowed once, but without children.
He enjoyed books.
He respected her ranch.
He was exactly the sort of man people meant when they said a woman should be sensible.
She thought of a neighboring kitchen.
One chair pulled out.
One cup.
One impossible joke.
Then she thought of three years.
Three years during which the Widowed Rancher had never once asked her to stay longer than coffee.
She looked at the Merchant.
“Supper.”
His face brightened.
“Yes.”
“Friday.”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“All right.”
The Storekeeper made a tiny sound behind the counter.
The Ranch Woman ignored her.
The Merchant smiled.
“I’ll call at six.”
“Six is fine.”
He left.
The Storekeeper waited until the door closed.
Then whispered, “Well.”
The Ranch Woman picked up the flour.
“Say that word again and I’m buying supplies somewhere else.”
The Storekeeper grinned.
Across town, two ranch hands were loading feed into the Widowed Rancher’s wagon when they heard the news.
Small towns were efficient that way.
By the time the Widowed Rancher arrived at the feed store that afternoon, the Merchant’s Friday supper had already become a proper courtship.
He stepped through the door.
Two men near the grain bins went silent.
The Widowed Rancher noticed.
He ignored it.
The feed clerk handed over an invoice.
“Four sacks?”
“Six.”
The clerk corrected it.
The men near the grain bins started whispering again.
The Widowed Rancher signed the paper.
One word reached him.
“Merchant.”
Then another.
“Ranch Woman.”
His pen stopped.
The feed clerk pretended not to notice.
The Widowed Rancher looked toward the two men.
“What?”
Both became uncomfortable.
One cleared his throat.
“Nothing.”
“You’re terrible liars.”
The second man shrugged.
“Heard the Merchant’s calling on your neighbor.”
The Widowed Rancher’s face gave away nothing.
“That so?”