“We’re fixing it.”
“No.”
The man with the hammer straightened.
“You trying to get yourself killed, woman?”
The widow fired.
The shot struck the dirt less than two feet from his boot.
Both men jumped.
“The next one goes lower.”
Silence.
Then horses approached from the road.
More than one.
The rancher appeared through the darkness with three of his men.
He dismounted before the horse fully stopped.
“What happened?”
The widow kept the rifle trained on the trespassers.
“These gentlemen were relocating history.”
The rancher looked at the hammer.
Then the boundary stone.
Then the men.
His expression became cold.
“Pick up your tools.”
Neither moved.
The rancher stepped closer.
“You heard her.”
One finally grabbed the hammer.
The rancher pointed toward town.
“Walk.”
“We have horses.”
“Not anymore.”
The men stared.
“You trespass on her property in the middle of the night, you lose the privilege of leaving comfortably.”
One protested.
The rancher took another step.
“Walk.”
They walked.
One of the ranch hands followed.
The widow lowered her rifle.
The rancher looked at her.
“I told you to lock your doors.”
“I did.”
She pointed toward the creek.
“They weren’t inside.”
Despite the tension, he laughed.
She looked offended.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re laughing.”
“I’m impressed.”
She lifted the rifle.
“You want a demonstration?”
His smile widened.
“No, ma’am.”
He looked at the disturbed earth around the marker.
“Your grandfather would’ve been proud of that shot.”
“He would’ve complained I missed.”
The rancher laughed again.
The sound changed him.
For a second he looked younger.
Less powerful.
Simply a man standing beside a woman he admired.
The widow noticed.
Then realized he was staring.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s twice tonight.”
The rancher looked at her mouth.
This time he did not look away immediately.
“You should go inside.”
Her voice became quieter.
“Why?”
“Because it’s cold.”
“That isn’t why.”
He exhaled.
The widow took one step closer.
“What aren’t you saying?”
His eyes held hers.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
His voice lowered.
“I’ve been trying not to kiss you since the mercantile.”
Her breath caught.
No man had spoken to her like that since her husband died.
Not respectfully.
Not directly.
Not without trying to make desire sound like ownership.
She should have stepped away.
Instead she said:
“You’ve known me three days.”
“Long enough to know I want to.”
“That isn’t the same as knowing me.”
“No.”
He moved no closer.
“That’s why I’m still standing here.”
She looked at him.
Waiting.
He did not touch her.
Did not lean in.
Did not assume.
The widow felt something inside her loosen.
“If I told you to kiss me?”
His expression changed.
“I would.”
“And if I told you not to?”
“I’d leave.”
She studied him.
Then whispered:
“Not tonight.”
He nodded.