The Ranch Woman felt her chest tighten.
There it was.
The wall.
Not age.
Not grief itself.
Guilt.
She reached across the fence.
Her fingers rested over his.
“You were married twenty-five years.”
“Yes.”
“You cared for her when she was sick.”
His jaw tightened.
“You buried her.”
“Yes.”
“You spent five years alone.”
“Yes.”
The Ranch Woman squeezed his hand.
“How much more punishment do you think love requires?”
His eyes closed.
That question reached somewhere words usually did not.
She waited.
When he looked at her again, his eyes were wet.
He seemed almost angry about it.
The Ranch Woman pretended not to notice.
He whispered, “I don’t know.”
“That is an honest answer.”
His hand turned beneath hers.
Their fingers intertwined across the fence.
The Widowed Rancher looked down.
“You said I’d still be too young.”
She nodded.
“I still don’t understand.”
The Ranch Woman took a breath.
“Twenty years wouldn’t change what I want.”
He waited.
“Wouldn’t make you closer to it.”
Understanding flickered.
She continued.
“Because you’re already there.”
The Widowed Rancher stopped breathing.
The Ranch Woman held his gaze.
“I wasn’t waiting for a younger man.”
A tear escaped despite her best effort.
She smiled through it.
“I was waiting for you to decide you were still alive.”
He stared at her as though the ground beneath the fence had shifted.
The Ranch Woman let go first.
Not because she wanted distance.
Because he needed room to choose.
She picked up the pliers.
“I’ve got work.”
He stood there.
She turned.
“Ranch Woman.”
She looked back.
He removed his hat.
A nervous habit she had rarely seen.
“I’d like to come calling.”
Her heart jumped.
He continued.
“Properly.”
The Ranch Woman crossed her arms.
“You don’t move fast.”
“I’ve been told.”
“Three years.”
“I know.”
“Painfully slow.”
“I know.”
“And what exactly does calling properly mean?”
The Widowed Rancher looked almost offended by the question.
“Dinner.”
She nodded.
“Conversation.”
“Dangerous.”
“Perhaps a dance.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“You dance?”
“No.”
She laughed.
He smiled.
“I can learn.”
The Ranch Woman studied him.
“Tomorrow evening.”
He blinked.
“That soon?”
“See? Already trying to slow down.”
“No.”
“Six.”
He nodded.
“Six.”
She turned back to the fence.
The Widowed Rancher placed his hat on his head.
Then walked away.
Halfway across the field, he smiled.
The Ranch Woman watched from behind him.
She smiled too.
Then looked at the broken wire in her hand.
“You absolute fool.”
She was not entirely certain which of them she meant.
The Widowed Rancher arrived the next evening at exactly six.
He carried no flowers.