Instead, he carried an old wooden box.
The Ranch Woman looked at it.
“What is that?”
“Apples.”
She stared.
“Apples?”
“I don’t know flowers.”
She bit back a smile.
“So you brought me my own profession.”
“These are from my west field.”
“You have six apple trees.”
“Seven.”
“One is dead.”
“It’s recovering.”
She opened the box.
The apples were not especially pretty.
Some uneven.
One bruised.
She looked up.
The Widowed Rancher appeared anxious.
“I thought you might make something.”
The Ranch Woman laughed.
“You invited yourself to supper and brought ingredients?”
“I didn’t say tonight.”
She smiled.
“Come inside.”
The first official courtship evening was less romantic than either expected.
The Widowed Rancher spilled coffee.
The Ranch Woman burned biscuits because she kept watching him stare at her.
A chair leg broke.
He fixed it.
They argued about whether the Merchant would still be calling.
Eventually the Ranch Woman said, “I owe him honesty.”
“Yes.”
“You dislike that.”
“Yes.”
She appreciated the answer.
The next morning she rode into town.
The Merchant received the news with more grace than she deserved.
They stood outside his store.
“I wondered.”
The Ranch Woman frowned.
“You did?”
He smiled sadly.
“Every time we spoke, some part of you was looking across a field.”
She looked down.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I wasted your time.”
“No.”
He placed his hat beneath one arm.
“You gave me a fair chance.”
She met his eyes.
“That doesn’t make this pleasant.”
“No.”
He smiled.
“But I’ve survived unpleasant things before.”
She thanked him.
He nodded.
Then added, “For what it’s worth, I think he’s an idiot.”
The Ranch Woman laughed.
“So do I.”
“Good.”
The Merchant returned inside.
The Ranch Woman rode home lighter.
Courtship changed almost nothing and everything at once.
Tuesdays continued.
Only now the Widowed Rancher sometimes crossed first.
He brought coffee.
Bad coffee.
She drank it.
He repaired small things around her ranch even when she insisted they did not need repair.
She made him stop twice.
He learned to ask.
Mostly.
One evening they walked along the fence.
Their shoulders brushed.
The Widowed Rancher immediately moved slightly away.
The Ranch Woman caught his sleeve.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
“You moved.”
“You bumped me.”
“And?”
He looked confused.
She deliberately moved closer again.
“See?”
The Widowed Rancher stared down at her.
“You’re dangerous.”
“I’ve been told.”
He smiled.
Their hands found each other.
For weeks, that was enough.
The Ranch Woman did not rush him.
The Widowed Rancher did not retreat.
They learned one another in ways three years of friendship had somehow avoided.
He learned that she hated thunderstorms but pretended otherwise.
She learned that he could not sleep after hearing a horse in distress.
He learned she kept every letter her younger sister had ever sent.
She learned he still spoke aloud to his late wife when alone near the family cemetery.
That discovery almost made him stop the courtship.