Sleeping.
Shoes.
Heat.
Nathaniel never commented on size.
That itself felt strange.
Other people had spent her entire life making her body a public topic.
Too broad.
Too heavy.
Too old to carry safely.
Too large to dress prettily.
Nathaniel treated her body as fact.
Not flaw.
When she tired, he brought a chair.
When her feet hurt, he found a stool.
When the baby kicked, he smiled only if she mentioned it first.
One afternoon, Evelyn caught him looking at her.
Not her belly.
Her.
She was hanging laundry.
Hair loose.
Sleeves rolled.
She turned.
Nathaniel immediately looked away.
Evelyn’s heart accelerated.
“Were you staring?”
He nearly dropped the saddle strap he was holding.
“No.”
She smiled.
“That sounded convincing.”
Nathaniel cleared his throat.
“I was observing.”
“Of course.”
“The laundry.”
“Beautiful laundry?”
His ears reddened.
Evelyn had never seen a forty-four-year-old rancher blush.
It delighted her.
Then insecurity returned.
She looked down at herself.
Large.
Pregnant.
Sweating.
Hardly romantic.
Nathaniel noticed the change.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
Evelyn hesitated.
Then, because he had given her room to be honest:
“I’m not accustomed to being looked at.”
Nathaniel’s face softened.
“Do you want me to stop?”
That question nearly broke her.
Not Are you offended?
Not Why?
Permission.
Choice.
Evelyn looked at him.
“No.”
Nathaniel swallowed.
“Then I probably won’t.”
Her cheeks heated.
He tipped his hat.
Then walked toward the barn.
Evelyn stood beside the clothesline smiling like a girl half her age.
That frightened her.
She was not a girl.
She knew what men could do with promises.
The next day, she became cooler.
Nathaniel noticed.
Did not push.
Three days passed.
Then Evelyn found the curtains.
They were folded inside a cedar chest in the upstairs storage room.
Faded cream fabric.
Tiny hand-sewn blue edging.
One panel torn.
Another stained.
Evelyn brought them downstairs.
Nathaniel entered and stopped.
His expression changed completely.
“Where did you get those?”
“Chest.”
He walked closer.
Did not touch them.
“My wife made those.”
“I thought so.”
His voice dropped.
“She sewed them the year James was born.”
James.
His son.
Fifteen now.
Living mostly with Nathaniel’s sister in Denver because schooling was better there.
Evelyn had seen photographs.
Thin boy.
Serious eyes.
Nathaniel rarely spoke about him except practical updates.
Evelyn looked at the curtains.
“They can be repaired.”
Nathaniel stared.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
He looked at her.
Evelyn smiled gently.
“I’m not trying to replace anything.”
Nathaniel’s eyes became wet.
“I know.”