“You do not have to eat it.”
“Waste is worse than indigestion.”
He ate three.
That afternoon he spent an hour repairing his saddle leather.
He never complained.
Two days later, I broke the blue serving bowl that had belonged to his mother.
I was carrying it toward the table when it slipped.
The ceramic shattered across the floor.
My entire body froze.
In Philadelphia, damaged objects had consequences. Servants were dismissed over smaller mistakes.
“I’m sorry.”
Bo crouched beside the broken pieces.
“It’s a bowl.”
“It belonged to your mother.”
“So did the ranch.”
He gathered another fragment.
“I'd rather protect that.”
I stared at him.
Bo noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That look isn't nothing.”
I knelt to help.
“My father owned hundreds of objects he valued more than most people.”
Bo considered that.
“Sounds expensive.”
I laughed.
He looked pleased with himself.
The work was worse than I expected.
My hands blistered.
Rope burned my palms.
The pump froze twice.
I discovered chickens were malicious creatures wearing feathers as camouflage.
My back hurt every evening.
The first time Bo asked me to help repair fence, I arrived wearing one of my Philadelphia dresses.
He stared for several seconds.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're staring.”
“That dress cost more than the fence.”
“How would you know?”
“It looks angry about being near mud.”
I ruined it before noon.
Bo bought me work trousers from the mercantile the following week.
Mrs. Fairchild nearly fainted when she saw me wearing them beneath a long coat.
By December, I could saddle my mare without assistance.
By January, I could make bread.
By February, my biscuits had improved enough that Bo stopped examining them for structural usefulness.
And somewhere during that first winter, our marriage stopped feeling like an arrangement.
It did not immediately become romance.
Bo was too careful for that.
We slept in separate rooms.
He knocked before entering mine even when the door stood open.
When we rode together, he never grabbed my reins unless danger required it.
He explained ranch decisions but did not expect agreement.
The first time I contradicted him in front of three ranch hands, every man became very interested in his boots.
Bo listened.
Then he said, “She's right.”
The men looked up.
I almost did too.
Later I asked, “Did that bother you?”
“What?”
“That I disagreed with you.”
“No.”
“You were raised in Montana Territory and you're telling me public disagreement with your wife doesn't offend your pride?”
Bo thought about it.
“My pride gets offended by stupid things every day.”
“That sounds healthier.”
He smiled.
One evening in February, we stood in the barn while snow rattled against the roof.
Bo had removed his coat and rolled his sleeves.
I found myself staring at his forearms.
He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is becoming your favorite lie.”
I looked away.
He continued repairing the harness.
I watched his hands.
Large, scarred, careful.
Those hands had intimidated me when we first met.
Now I knew exactly how gently they could hold an injured foal.
I stepped closer.
“Bo.”
“Mm?”
“Why did you reject all those other women?”
His hands stopped.
“Who told you?”
“The entire town.”
“Of course.”
“One woman supposedly arrived with Paris furniture.”
“She did.”
“You sent her home before supper.”
“She insulted Jacob.”
Jacob was one of our ranch hands, a quiet Mexican-American widower in his forties who had worked with Bo since the ranch consisted of one cabin and eleven cattle.
“What did she say?”
“That servants shouldn't eat at the main table.”
I understood.
“And the others?”
“One wanted me to sell half the herd and move to Denver.”
“Reasonable.”
Bo gave me a look.
“One said she'd marry me if I stopped employing Indians during seasonal drives.”
My humor disappeared.
“I sent her carriage back before her luggage came inside.”
I smiled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Annabeth.”
“I think I understand why three counties failed to provide you a wife.”
“I'm difficult.”
“No.”
I stepped nearer.
“You had standards.”
Bo looked at me for a long moment.
“Still do.”
Something in his voice changed.
Heat climbed my throat.
“And?”
“And you're doing all right.”
I hit him with a glove.
He laughed.
That sound became addictive.
Spring arrived violently.
Snowmelt swelled the river.
Cattle broke fence.
Workdays lengthened.
Then branding season brought nearly thirty men to the southern corral.
Their wives and children gathered near long tables beside the bunkhouse. Coffee boiled in black pots. Beef roasted over coals. Dust hung above the corrals.
A massive breeding bull named Augustus occupied a reinforced pen beside the east fence.
Bo distrusted him.
“He's mean,” I said.
“He's a bull.”
“You say that as though the two are identical.”
“With Augustus, close enough.”
Two ranch hands attempted to move him shortly after noon.
The gate chain snapped.
I heard metal strike wood.
Then someone shouted.
Augustus exploded into the yard.
Men scattered.
A horse reared.
Mrs. Fairchild screamed even though she was safely behind a wagon.
Seventeen-year-old Tommy Hayes stumbled beside the fence.
A falling rail trapped his leg.
Augustus turned.
Bo was across the corral.
“Tommy!”
I was closer.
Near me, a long branding iron rested beside the fire.
I grabbed it.
I did not think.
That detail later bothered Bo more than anything else.
Augustus lowered his head.
Tommy clawed at the rail.
I ran directly between them.
Someone screamed my name.
I swung the iron through the air.
Smoke curled from the heated end.
“Come on!”
Augustus charged.
The ground shook.
My entire body screamed at me to run.
Instead, I waited until the last moment and slammed the glowing end into the dirt in front of him.
Sparks burst upward.
The bull twisted away from the sudden heat.
His shoulder passed so close that one horn caught my sleeve and tore the fabric.
Then Bo and two ranch hands forced the animal through the open pen gate.
The chain dropped.
Silence.
My knees stopped functioning.
Bo reached me before the ground did.
His arms closed around me.
“What in God's name were you thinking?”
I could barely breathe.
“That Tommy would die.”
“You could have died!”
“So could he!”
“I was coming!”
“You were too far away!”
Bo looked furious.
Then I realized he was terrified.
His hands shook against my back.
The giant cowboy who had faced blizzards, stampedes, broken horses, and armed cattle thieves pressed his face briefly into my hair.
“I asked for a fighter,” he whispered.
His voice broke.
“I didn't mean for you to fight alone.”