"That's suspiciously wise."
"I save foolish thoughts for you."
"Generous."
Their first kiss happened nearly four years after Elias found her in the wash.
It was not dramatic.
No gunfire.
No sunset speech.
Elias had been repairing a gate.
Mara told him the hinge was crooked.
He told her the hinge was fine.
She proved it was crooked.
Elias stared at it.
"I dislike how often you're right."
"I know."
"I've been considering something."
"New hinge?"
"No."
She waited.
He removed his hat.
"Can I kiss you?"
Mara studied him for several uncomfortable seconds.
Then said,
"You waited four years to ask?"
"I was being respectful."
"You were being slow."
"That's also possible."
She stepped closer.
"Yes."
He kissed her.
Then she looked at the gate.
"Hinge still crooked."
Elias groaned.
They married the following year.
Not because Elias had given her water.
Not because hundreds of riders once surrounded his ranch.
And certainly not because anyone had chosen for her.
They married because after years of arguing about wells, fences, horses, family, grief, land, and nearly everything else, both had discovered they preferred continuing the arguments together.
Dosela attended.
So did Sheriff Reed.
Rebecca Sloan came from Tucson.
Half the valley seemed to arrive.
Someone from a newspaper asked Elias whether he considered himself responsible for "bringing peace between settlers and the Apache."
Elias stared at the reporter.
"No."
The man looked disappointed.
"But your actions began everything."
"I gave water to one injured woman."
"Exactly."
"That's something any decent person should do."
The reporter tried again.
"You prevented conflict."
"No."
Elias pointed toward Mara.
"She found evidence."
Toward Dosela.
"They refused to answer violence with panic."
Toward Rebecca.
"She proved what happened to the springs."
Toward Sheriff Reed.
"He investigated instead of guessing."
Then toward the courthouse documents.
"And a lot of people sat in rooms arguing until nobody got everything they wanted."
The reporter lowered his pencil.
"That's not much of a headline."
Mara, standing nearby, said,
"Then write better."
Elias laughed.
Ten years after the morning the ridge filled with riders, another severe drought struck Arizona.
The agreement was tested almost immediately.
Water levels dropped.
Cattlemen demanded priority.
Traveling families insisted emergency access mattered more during drought, not less.
Arguments became heated.
Old suspicion returned.
But this time there were maps.
Records.
Signatures.