The banker swallowed.
“Anything else?”
The widow looked at him.
“Yes.”
“You resign.”
The rancher glanced at her.
The banker laughed.
“You don’t have that authority.”
The rancher spoke.
“She doesn’t.”
He removed a document from his coat.
“But I do have enough deposits to make the board nervous.”
The banker stared.
The rancher continued.
“By sundown.”
The banker’s face went pale.
The widow looked toward the rancher.
He smiled slightly.
Then turned toward her.
“One more matter.”
“What?”
“The railroad still needs water.”
She stiffened.
He held up both hands.
“Not your land.”
“Your water rights.”
She stared.
“Lease.”
“How much?”
“Six hundred dollars a year.”
Her eyes widened.
“For how long?”
“Ten years.”
“Six thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
She laughed in disbelief.
“That’s more than the farm earns.”
“I know.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Are you inflating the price because of me?”
“No.”
“You’d better not.”
He looked offended.
“Mrs. Thornton.”
“I mean it.”
“Comparable industrial water rights support the number.”
“You researched that?”
“This morning.”
“You had time?”
“I wake early.”
She stared.
Then held out her hand.
“Show me the contract.”
His smile became unmistakably proud.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The water lease changed everything.
Not immediately.
The widow still worked.
She still repaired fences.
Still hauled feed.
Still made forty winter shirts from the red flannel.
When she delivered them, the rancher inspected the first one.
“Good seams.”
She stared.
“That’s all?”
He examined the cuffs.
“Strong stitching.”
She folded her arms.
“I spent three weeks sewing forty shirts.”
“And they’re excellent.”
“You could sound more enthusiastic.”
He looked at her.
“I’m trying to behave.”
Her cheeks warmed.
“About the shirts?”
“No.”
She immediately looked away.
The rancher smiled.
She hated that smile.
She liked it more than she should.
Their arrangement became increasingly difficult to define.
He came to discuss water flow.
Stayed for coffee.
She visited the ranch to inspect a broken wagon he had offered to sell her cheaply.
Stayed for supper.
He brought bookkeeping records.
She corrected his foreman’s numbers.
He laughed.
She did not.
Then he admitted she was right.
Winter softened into early spring.
The widow began wearing the rancher’s red flannel.
Not as a dress.
She had turned some of the leftover fabric into a fitted riding jacket.
The first time he saw her wearing it, he stopped mid-sentence.
She noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Again?”
“You know what.”
She looked down at herself.
“It’s cloth.”
“It was cloth.”
“What is it now?”
“A problem.”
Her eyebrow rose.
“For whom?”
“Me.”