“Bought me clothes.”
“A shawl.”
“Carved me gifts.”
“Yes.”
“And every time I thought…”
She stopped.
He waited.
“Every time you thought what?”
Her eyes filled again.
“That maybe you wanted me.”
“I did.”
“Because of my mother?”
His face changed violently.
“No.”
“You tattooed her over your heart.”
“Because she saved my life.”
“And I look like her.”
His expression became almost angry.
“You do not look like her when I look at you.”
The sentence stopped her.
He stepped closer.
“You share features.”
“Her eyes sometimes.”
“Her mouth when you're angry.”
“But when I think about touching you, I am not thinking about your mother.”
Heat and hurt collided.
She looked away.
He continued.
“I hired you because I knew who you were.”
“That part is true.”
“I kept you because you're better at my books than anyone I've ever met.”
“You insult my cooking.”
“You move my tools.”
“You talk when I want silence.”
“You tell me when I'm wrong.”
“You eat the burnt ends of bread before I can.”
A tear escaped her.
His voice lowered.
“And somewhere between all of that, I started listening for your footsteps before opening the door.”
She stared.
“That has nothing to do with her.”
Silence.
Then:
“What did my mother want?”
The cowboy looked at the letters.
“For you to live without this.”
“Too late.”
“Yes.”
“Give me the last letter.”
He hesitated.
She held out her hand.
“No more deciding for me.”
His face tightened.
Then he gave it to her.
The final letter had been written four days before her mother died.
The woman read slowly.
Her mother apologized.
Not for hiding the truth.
For waiting so long that truth had become another kind of lie.
She described the cowboy as the frightened seventeen-year-old they had taken in.
Then as the man he became.
He believes he owes us his life.
He does not.
The woman stopped.
Read again.
Then continued.
If you ever meet him, do not let him turn gratitude into obligation. He will try. He has always been stubborn.
Despite tears, she laughed.
The cowboy looked offended.
“What?”
“She knew you.”
“Yes.”
The letter continued.
Her mother wrote about the evidence.
Not all had disappeared.
One original survey map still existed.
Hidden.
The woman sat straighter.
“Where?”
The final line said only:
The rider still follows the woman home.
She frowned.
“What does that mean?”
The cowboy took the letter.
Read it.
Then his eyes moved slowly toward his own chest.
The tattoos.
The rider.
The woman.
“No.”
“What?”
He stood before the small mirror.
The woman followed.
The cowboy tattoo on the left showed mountains behind him.
The portrait on the right contained a small pendant around the woman’s neck.
The woman leaned closer.
“That necklace.”
She touched the tattoo.
“My mother had one like that.”
“Yes.”
The pendant design resembled a compass rose.
The rider tattoo contained a mountain range.
One peak had a tiny marking.
Not decorative.
A cross.
The woman stared.
“This is a map.”
The cowboy looked stunned.
“I never noticed.”
“Who designed the tattoos?”