The mountain cowboy came inside.
Saw it.
Stopped.
“When?”
“Stagecoach tomorrow.”
He went completely still.
“I’ll take you.”
“That isn't necessary.”
“I said I would.”
She looked at him.
“Do you want me to leave?”
His expression became hard.
“No.”
“Then why are you behaving like a man delivering freight?”
“Because you can leave.”
“I know.”
“I need you to know.”
“I know.”
He looked away.
She stepped closer.
“You keep giving me doors.”
“Yes.”
“Have you considered asking me not to use one?”
His eyes returned.
He looked almost frightened.
The legend who feared no woman.
She suddenly understood.
He was terrified.
Not of her body.
Not of women.
Of asking someone to stay and discovering they preferred freedom from him.
The woman touched his chest.
Over the tattoo of her father.
Then over her mother.
“Ask.”
His voice barely worked.
“Stay.”
She waited.
He swallowed.
“Please.”
Her eyes filled.
“For how long?”
He looked at her.
“As long as you want.”
“That answer is cheating.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Try again.”
His hand moved toward her waist.
Stopped.
She nodded.
He touched her.
“Stay with me.”
“Not because of your parents.”
“Not because I owe anyone.”
“Not because winter needs a cook.”
His thumb moved along the fabric at her waist.
“Stay because every room in this house feels wrong when you're not inside it.”
She breathed carefully.
“And?”
“You're cruel.”
“And?”
His eyes dropped to her lips.
“And because I've wanted to kiss you every morning for two months.”
“Only mornings?”
“No.”
“Better.”
He leaned closer.
Stopped.
She almost laughed.
“Still asking?”
“Yes.”
She kissed him instead.
His restraint lasted approximately one second.
Then his arms moved around her.
Not lifting.
Not claiming.
Holding.
She pressed herself against him without shame.
For once the size of her body did not become a question inside her own mind.
She was not wondering whether he wished she were smaller.
Whether his arms could fit.
Whether she was too heavy.
Whether desire had exceptions.
His hands answered before his mouth ever could.
He wanted her exactly where she was.
When they separated, he rested his forehead against hers.
“You're staying?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“That sounded too confident.”
“I was terrified.”
“Better.”
She laughed.
Two months later, they married.
Quietly.
At Black Ridge.
No huge celebration.
No town spectacle.
The judge came.
Ranch hands.
Hotel owners.
Several families connected to the restored land claims.
Her dress was deep burgundy.
Long past her knees.
Fitted properly for once by a seamstress who did not apologize about fabric quantity.
The mountain cowboy wore black.
During the vows, someone whispered:
“Never thought the Wolf would marry.”
He heard.