“Sunday afternoon?”
“All right.”
He kissed her hand.
Gentlemanly.
Proper.
She watched him leave.
Then stood outside longer than necessary.
Across the field, a light appeared in the Widowed Rancher’s kitchen.
He was awake.
She wondered if he had seen the carriage.
Then became annoyed again because the answer mattered.
The Widowed Rancher had seen everything.
Not details.
Enough.
Flowers.
Dinner.
The carriage leaving late.
That night he slept badly.
Saturday morning, he found himself standing before the small mirror near his bedroom door.
He rarely looked at himself beyond shaving.
That morning he studied the face carefully.
Gray at the temples.
Gray through the beard.
Lines around the eyes.
A scar along his jaw from a horse kick thirty years earlier.
He looked his age.
Perhaps older.
Fifty-five.
The Ranch Woman was forty-two.
Thirteen years.
Not twenty.
Still.
He thought about saying, If I were twenty years younger.
Cowardice dressed as humor.
He left the mirror.
Walked downstairs.
Made coffee.
Drank one cup.
Poured a second.
Then stared at it.
The second cup had been habit from the marriage years.
For months after his wife died, he still poured two cups every morning.
Eventually he stopped.
Now, without thinking, he had done it again.
He looked toward the south window.
Then set the cup down untouched.
Sunday arrived.
The Merchant came again.
This time the Widowed Rancher saw them walking along the Ranch Woman’s orchard.
The Merchant carried a basket.
She carried pruning shears.
They stopped beneath an apple tree.
The Merchant said something.
The Ranch Woman laughed.
The Widowed Rancher looked away.
Five minutes later he looked again.
They were still there.
He went into the barn and repaired tack that did not need repairing.
One ranch hand entered.
Saw him.
Looked at the perfectly intact bridle in his hands.
Then slowly backed out.
The Widowed Rancher said, “Say it.”
The Ranch Hand stopped.
“Say what?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
The Ranch Hand considered.
“That leather’s done nothing to you.”
The Widowed Rancher glared.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
The Ranch Hand reached the door.
Then added, “Though I suppose somebody should tell her before the Merchant asks first.”
The Widowed Rancher looked up.
“Tell who what?”
The Ranch Hand smiled despite knowing better.
“You know.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Leave.”
“I was already leaving.”
“Faster.”
The Ranch Hand escaped.
The Widowed Rancher stared at the bridle.
He hated everyone.
Especially anyone correct.
Tuesday arrived.
The Ranch Woman did not bring food.
That was the first Tuesday in almost three years.
The Widowed Rancher told himself it did not matter.
At seven he made breakfast.
At eight he checked fencing.
At nine he rode the western pasture.
At ten he returned.
At ten-fifteen he looked toward the field.
Nobody.
At eleven he entered the kitchen.
The patch of sunlight beside the window was empty.
No pie.
No bread.
No soup.