Discussed cattle prices.
Asked about irrigation.
Never once mentioned the kiss.
By noon the widow was furious.
Finally she said:
“Are you going to pretend last night didn’t happen?”
He almost choked on coffee.
“No.”
“You’re acting like it.”
“I’m trying not to pressure you.”
“Pressure me?”
He set down the cup.
“I don’t know what you want.”
She stared.
“Have you considered asking?”
He blinked.
Then laughed.
She pointed at him.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve heard that somewhere.”
She walked toward him.
He stood.
She stopped inches away.
“What do you want?”
He answered immediately.
“You.”
The widow’s breath caught.
He continued.
“Not your land.”
“Not the water.”
“Not gratitude.”
“You.”
She looked down.
“I don’t know if I can do marriage again.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You will.”
“Probably.”
She almost smiled.
“My husband was a good man.”
“I know.”
“I loved him.”
“I know.”
She looked at the rancher.
“I don’t want to feel guilty because I want something again.”
His expression changed.
He stepped closer but did not touch her.
“You think wanting me betrays him?”
“Sometimes.”
The rancher nodded.
“I loved my wife too.”
The widow looked up.
He rarely spoke of her.
“She died eight years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
Silence.
“For years I thought being lonely was loyalty.”
He looked toward the window.
“It wasn’t.”
The widow listened.
“It was just loneliness.”
His eyes returned to hers.
“You don’t dishonor someone you loved by continuing to live.”
Her eyes filled.
He lifted one hand.
Stopped before touching her cheek.
She leaned into it.
Permission.
Always permission.
His thumb brushed away a tear.
“I don’t want to replace him.”
“You couldn’t.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want to.”
She closed her eyes.
He kissed her forehead.
Nothing more.
That tenderness frightened her far more than desire.
Desire could be dismissed.
Tenderness built homes.
Weeks passed.
The railroad construction began.
Workers came.
Engineers measured flow.
Contracts were signed.
The widow insisted every access road avoid her best pasture.
The rancher argued once.
She won.
He told everyone it was strategic.
Nobody believed him.
The two wealthy women from the mercantile eventually returned to the story.
One spring afternoon, the widow entered town wearing a new dark blue dress.
Not expensive.
Not imported.
She had made it herself.
The lines were simple.
The fit was excellent.
The rancher walked beside her.
The green-dressed woman saw them.
Her expression tightened.
The widow expected some remark.
Instead the woman smiled falsely.
“How fortunate things have become for you.”
The widow stopped.
The rancher did too.
The woman looked toward him.