“And?”
“I was an idiot.”
She laughed.
“That’s romantic.”
“I’m learning.”
He looked at her.
“What I want now wasn’t written into the contract.”
The woman stepped around the table.
The ranch owner remained still.
She placed one hand against his leather vest.
His breath changed.
“Then ask like a husband.”
His hand lifted.
Stopped beside her waist.
“May I kiss you?”
She guided his hand onto her body herself.
“You may start there.”
His eyes darkened.
“Start?”
The woman smiled.
“I spent all day proving I can handle your ranch.”
Her fingers curled into his vest.
“Tonight you can find out whether you can handle your wife.”
He kissed her.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The woman expected hunger.
There was hunger.
But restraint came first.
His hand remained at her waist.
No grabbing.
No entitlement.
She relaxed.
Then kissed him harder.
That surprised him.
She felt his smile against her mouth.
When they separated, both were breathing differently.
The ranch owner rested his forehead near hers.
“Still all right?”
The woman laughed softly.
“You ask too many questions.”
“I’ll keep asking.”
“Good.”
She kissed him again.
Their intimacy developed slowly from there.
Separate rooms did not last forever.
But nothing happened because the contract demanded it.
That mattered deeply to her.
She had spent years being treated as though her body made her grateful for any attention.
Her husband never behaved as though desire were charity.
He wanted her.
Clearly.
Sometimes embarrassingly clearly.
One evening, she found him staring while she kneaded bread.
“What?”
He looked away.
“Nothing.”
“That word is a lie.”
He smiled.
She continued kneading.
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Coward.”
The ranch owner leaned toward her.
“I was thinking about pulling you away from that table.”
Heat rose into her face.
“And?”
“And carrying you upstairs.”
She tried to look unimpressed.
“Can you?”
His eyebrows lifted.
The woman laughed.
“That is not a challenge.”
“It sounded like one.”
She pointed flour-covered fingers toward him.
“Finish repairing the north gate.”
“Then?”
“We’ll discuss logistics.”
He laughed all the way outside.
Their private warmth contrasted sharply with the danger building around the ranch.
The foreman continued stealing.
But now supplies were marked.
Sacks received tiny ink symbols.
Crates carried hidden scratches.
One night, two sacks disappeared.
The next morning, the ranch owner and two trusted hands followed wagon tracks.
They ended at a rival property six miles east.
The ranch owner wanted immediate confrontation.
His wife stopped him again.
“Not enough.”
“They have my flour.”
“They’ll say they bought it.”
“It has our mark.”
“They’ll say your foreman sold it legitimately.”
The ranch owner hated legal caution.
His wife understood why it mattered.
“We need proof he acts without your authority.”
“How?”
“Let him think you’re leaving.”
The ranch owner frowned.
“Where?”
“Cheyenne.”
“For what?”
“Cattle contract.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Then invent a meeting.”
He stared.
“You’re frightening.”
“Thank you.”
The plan worked.
The ranch owner announced he would be gone three days.
He rode out publicly.
Then circled back after dark and stayed in an abandoned line shack south of the main house.
His wife remained at Red Canyon.