Hattie’s pulse changed.
She put the skillet down.
“Careful.”
“About what?”
“A woman my size might be more than you know how to handle.”
Jeb’s eyes moved slowly over her face.
Not crudely.
Openly.
His hand settled at her waist after she gave the smallest approving nod.
“That’s the first thing about you I’m hoping to find out for myself.”
Hattie laughed softly.
She grabbed the front of his coat.
Pulled him half an inch closer.
“Finish your supper first.”
Jeb smiled.
“That an order?”
“Yes.”
“What happens after?”
Her eyes warmed.
“We find out whether your confidence survives the evening.”
Three ranch hands suddenly developed coughing fits behind them.
Hattie looked over Jeb’s shoulder.
“Anyone who comments washes every stew pot.”
Silence.
Jeb laughed harder than she had ever heard him.
That evening, nothing scandalous happened.
That surprised both of them.
They sat on the cookhouse porch after the men left.
Shared coffee.
Talked.
Jeb told her about Iron Ridge.
His father started with forty acres and twelve cattle.
By the time Jeb inherited, the ranch had grown to nearly four thousand acres through leases and purchases.
Sweetwater River crossed the southern section.
Northern ridge held timber and rough grazing.
Winter range stretched east.
Three hundred cattle remained after a bad season.
It should have been enough.
Yet money disappeared.
Equipment bills rose.
Freight costs rose.
Cattle prices softened.
Two bank notes approached maturity.
Barrows kept appearing with offers.
Hattie listened.
Then asked:
“Why do you trust Clem?”
Jeb looked toward the dark yard.
“He saved my life.”
“When?”
“Seven years ago.”
A winter storm.
Jeb had been caught north of the ridge.
Horse went down.
Clem found him before freezing temperatures killed him.
Carried him half a mile.
Hattie understood.
Debt distorted judgment.
“You can owe someone your life and still check his arithmetic.”
Jeb smiled without humor.
“You really don’t let people hide.”
“No.”
“Why?”
She thought of her husband.
St. Louis.
Cholera.
A business closed because she could not run it alone while grieving.
People telling her a widow her size should accept whatever work she could get.
She looked at Jeb.
“Because people spent half my life deciding what I was before asking.”
“Too big.”
“Too loud.”
“Too practical.”
“Too old to start again.”
She shrugged.
“I became interested in facts.”
Jeb’s expression softened.
“Who told you you’re too big?”
Hattie laughed.
“How much time do you have?”
“All night.”
She looked at him.
The attraction returned.
Warmer now.
Jeb’s voice lowered.
“They were fools.”
Hattie looked down.
“You don’t have to say things because you want to kiss me.”
“I do want to kiss you.”
“That wasn’t the point.”
“I know.”
He leaned closer.
“Can I?”
Hattie stared.
No man had asked her like that in years.
Her late husband had been affectionate, but marriage turned many permissions into assumptions.
Jeb asked.
She nodded.
“Yes.”
He kissed her slowly.
Rough beard.
Warm mouth.
One hand at her waist.
Hattie’s fingers curled into his coat.
When they separated, she whispered: