Her eyes softened.
“I know when you ride into town because that gray mare of yours kicks dust higher than any horse I’ve ever seen.”
The Ranch Woman almost smiled.
“I know you mend fences when you’re angry.”
She looked at the pliers.
Then him.
“I know you bake when you’re worried.”
His voice became quieter.
“And when Tuesday comes, I know you’ll knock twice.”
The Ranch Woman’s throat tightened.
The Widowed Rancher continued.
“I didn’t understand how much I waited for those knocks until they didn’t come.”
Silence stretched.
Then she asked, “And the Merchant?”
His eyes lifted.
“I hate his flowers.”
A laugh escaped her.
He looked offended.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“He brings them from Denver.”
“They are nice flowers.”
“I hate them.”
The Ranch Woman smiled now.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know flowers.”
“I know.”
“I could learn.”
Her smile disappeared.
He stepped closer to the fence.
“I heard he’s calling on you proper.”
“He is.”
“You considering him?”
“Yes.”
The truth struck visibly.
The Ranch Woman hated hurting him.
But kindness was not the same as dishonesty.
“He’s a good man.”
“I know.”
“He speaks plainly.”
The Widowed Rancher understood the criticism.
“I know.”
“He knows what he wants.”
Another hit.
“I know.”
The Ranch Woman looked toward the field between their houses.
“I waited three years without calling it waiting.”
The Widowed Rancher closed his eyes briefly.
She continued.
“I didn’t bring you food because I wanted payment.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t expect marriage.”
“I know.”
“But somewhere along the way, I began expecting honesty.”
His gaze returned.
“You deserved it.”
“Yes.”
The blunt agreement surprised him.
She stepped closer.
Only the fence separated them.
“So be honest now.”
The Widowed Rancher swallowed.
“About what?”
She gave him a look.
“Everything.”
He stared at her.
Then at the space between them.
When he spoke, his voice had lost the easy gravel he used with cattle and ranch hands.
It sounded vulnerable.
“I’m afraid.”
The Ranch Woman had expected many answers.
Not that.
“Of me?”
“No.”
“Of the Merchant?”
“Maybe.”
She almost smiled.
He continued before she could.
“Of wanting another life.”
That stopped her.
The Widowed Rancher looked toward his ranch.
“I loved my wife.”
“I know.”
“Most people say that like it’s past tense because she’s gone.”
The Ranch Woman listened.
“I still love her.”
“I know.”
His eyes returned sharply.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because people don’t stop mattering when they die.”
His shoulders lowered slightly.
The Ranch Woman continued.
“I never asked you to stop loving her.”
“No.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
He looked toward the field again.
“That loving something new means I didn’t love the first thing enough.”