The loudest man had red in his beard and the confidence of someone rarely required to pay for cruelty.
The bride stopped several feet away.
He grinned.
“Something I can help you with?”
“Yes.”
She studied his face carefully.
His grin became uncertain.
“I wanted to remember you.”
“For what?”
“For the day you eventually pretend you never laughed.”
The other cowboys went quiet.
The red-bearded man’s face hardened.
“You think mighty highly of yourself.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“I think very accurately of men like you.”
Then she turned and walked away.
The broke cowboy stood beside the wagon holding her bag.
For the first time, he looked less disappointed than intrigued.
She climbed onto the wagon without accepting his hand.
He joined her.
They drove out of town under dozens of eyes.
For nearly three miles, neither spoke.
The bride did not mind silence.
People often filled silence with information.
The cowboy finally said:
“You could have ignored him.”
“I could have.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
She watched dry grass roll across the hills.
“Because some men become worse when they mistake silence for permission.”
He considered that.
“The ranch hands may give you trouble.”
“I expect they will.”
“I only told them I was bringing home a wife.”
“And they invented one.”
He glanced at her.
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
He looked uncomfortable.
She smiled.
“Thin?”
He said nothing.
“Young?”
Still nothing.
“Pretty in the way men in saloons mean pretty?”
He adjusted the reins.
“I didn’t ask them.”
“You didn’t need to.”
The bride looked toward distant cattle.
“Will their disappointment matter?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“What you do.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
The cowboy looked toward her.
“You’re not upset?”
“About what?”
“That people expected someone different.”
“I have spent thirty-one years being different from what people expected.”
“That stopped being interesting a long time ago.”
He almost smiled again.
The road climbed.
The ranch appeared beyond a ridge.
The house was larger than she expected.
That told her something immediately.
The ranch had once been prosperous.
The buildings had been constructed with confidence.
The neglect had come later.
Paint peeled from the porch.
A section of barn roof sagged.
One fence line had been repaired with mismatched rails.
A wagon sat on blocks beside the workshop.
The bunkhouse chimney smoked.
Beyond everything stretched land.
A great deal of it.
More than the cowboy’s letters had implied.
The bride looked across the valley.
“How much?”
He glanced toward her.
“What?”
“Land.”
“Almost seven thousand acres deeded.”
“And grazing access?”
“Another four thousand through agreement.”
She looked toward him.
“That is not a small ranch.”
“It is if you cannot pay for it.”
A gray dog came running.
The bride climbed down.
The dog jumped against her skirts.
The cowboy said:
“Gray, down.”
She laughed and scratched behind the dog’s ear.
“He has good judgment.”