Ignored it.
When the judge told him he could kiss his wife, the woman whispered:
“Are you going to ask permission?”
His mouth moved.
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“You may.”
He kissed her while everyone laughed softly.
Their wedding night returned them to the same bed.
Same quilt.
Same tattoos.
Different truth.
She rested her cheek against his chest.
Her fingers traced the rider.
“My father.”
“Yes.”
Then the woman.
“My mother.”
“Yes.”
She looked up.
“Does it bother you?”
“What?”
“That I'll see them whenever you're shirtless.”
He smiled.
“You seem to tolerate the shirtless part.”
Her face warmed.
“Mountain arrogance.”
“Accurate observation.”
She touched the portrait again.
“You don't have to keep carrying them as punishment.”
His expression changed.
“It stopped being punishment.”
“When?”
He looked at her.
“When you recognized them.”
She frowned.
“Why?”
“Because until then they were the dead.”
“Now they're your parents.”
“And part of you.”
Her throat tightened.
He continued.
“I don't look at them and think about what I failed to save anymore.”
“What do you think?”
“That they brought me home.”
She kissed him.
What followed belonged privately to them.
Morning found her curled against his side.
His arm around her.
The terrifying cowboy already awake.
Staring.
Again.
“What?”
she murmured.
“Nothing.”
“You stare too much.”
“Yes.”
“Regrets?”
“No.”
“Fear?”
He considered.
“Yes.”
She opened her eyes fully.
“Still?”
“Yes.”
“Of what?”
“That I wake up and discover I imagined all of it.”
She smiled.
Then pinched his side.
Hard.
He flinched.
“Ow.”
“Real enough?”
“Cruel woman.”
“You married me.”
“Yes.”
“Your mistake.”
“Probably.”
He kissed her forehead.
Years passed.
The mountain cowboy never lost his reputation entirely.
Some reputations become useful.
Cattle thieves avoided Black Ridge.
Drunken men lowered their voices when he entered.
Children, strangely, loved him.
Especially after they discovered he carved wooden animals.
His wife found this hilarious.
“The terrifying Wolf makes rabbits.”
“They're horses.”
“That one has ears longer than its body.”
“Artistic interpretation.”
She placed it on the mantle anyway.
The ranch expanded.
Not through stolen claims.
Through purchases carefully reviewed by his wife.
Nobody signed anything near Black Ridge before she read it.
The county joked that she could smell fraudulent paper.
Sometimes that was almost true.
She eventually opened a small records office in town two days each month.
Widows came.
Farmers.
Immigrants.
People intimidated by official stamps.
She charged those who could pay.
Helped the others anyway.
Her husband complained she worked for free.
She reminded him his own bookkeeping had once been maintained in coffee tins.
Argument over.
Their first child came three years after marriage.
A daughter.