Something changed between us.
That night, after everyone had gone, I found Bo sitting on the porch.
I sat beside him.
For several minutes neither of us spoke.
Then his hand found mine.
Not accidentally.
His fingers closed around mine beneath the blanket.
“You frightened me today.”
“I frightened myself.”
“Good.”
I looked at him.
“Good?”
“Means you're not completely insane.”
“Comforting.”
His thumb moved across my knuckles.
“You saved Tommy.”
“Yes.”
“Don't do it again.”
“Save Tommy?”
“Charge a bull.”
“I shall put it on my schedule.”
Bo turned toward me.
The teasing disappeared.
“You matter to me.”
I stopped breathing.
His eyes lowered briefly to my mouth.
“You matter more than this ranch.”
“Bo.”
“More than cattle. Land. Money.”
I squeezed his hand.
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
His voice lowered.
“I think about you when I'm working. I hear you moving around the kitchen before daylight and know exactly which floorboard you're standing on. I know when you are pretending your hands don't hurt. I know how you look at me when you think I don't notice.”
My cheeks burned.
“And how do I look at you?”
“Like you're trying to decide something.”
“Perhaps I am.”
“What?”
I leaned closer.
“When you're going to kiss your wife.”
Bo became completely still.
For once, the great Bo Rollins had no answer.
I almost laughed.
“Cowboy?”
“You certain?”
“Yes.”
“If I do something you dislike, tell me.”
“I will.”
“If you want me to stop—”
“Bo.”
“What?”
“If you give me another instruction, I may kiss you simply to stop you speaking.”
His eyes changed.
Then his hand touched my waist.
Carefully.
He paused.
I leaned into him.
That was permission enough.
He kissed me.
The first kiss was almost absurdly gentle.
I had expected strength.
Instead, I discovered restraint.
I slid my fingers into the front of his shirt.
Bo pulled away slightly.
“Still all right?”
“Yes.”
I kissed him again.
The second kiss was not nearly so cautious.
When we separated, both of us were breathing harder.
His forehead rested against mine.
“I have wanted to do that since the church.”
I smiled.
“You hid it remarkably well.”
“No, I didn't.”
“No.”
I laughed softly.
“You really didn't.”
From then on, the ranch became more dangerous in ways unrelated to livestock.
Bo had a habit of appearing behind me while I cooked and placing one hand carefully against my waist.
Sometimes he kissed the back of my neck.
The first time he did it, I nearly dropped a plate.
He looked smug for the remainder of supper.
I retaliated by kissing him in front of the ranch hands.
Jacob laughed so hard he had to leave the room.
Our marriage became affectionate slowly and physically only as quickly as both of us wanted.
Bo remained careful.
I appreciated that.
But I eventually told him that careful did not mean frightened.
One evening I caught him hesitating outside my bedroom.
“Come inside.”
His eyes lifted.
“Annabeth.”
“You are my husband.”
“That doesn't mean—”
“I know what it means.”
I approached.
“I also know what I want.”
Bo swallowed.
I placed his hand at my waist.
“If I tell you to stop, you stop.”
“Always.”
“If I don't?”
His eyes darkened.
“Then I listen to that too.”
I smiled.
“Good.”
What followed belonged to us.
Not to Copper Creek.
Not to church gossip.
Not to Mrs. Fairchild.
What mattered was that the next morning I woke with my head against Bo's chest and realized that for the first time in my adult life, intimacy had not required surrendering authority over myself.
Bo opened one eye.
“You staring at me?”
“No.”
“My favorite lie.”
I kissed him.
That became our life.
Then the telegram arrived.
It came near sunset in early May.
A rider named Nathan Briggs reached the porch on a lathered horse.
“Urgent message for Mrs. Rollins.”
My stomach tightened before I touched the paper.
Telegrams from Philadelphia did not travel two thousand miles carrying peace.
I broke the seal.
Four lines.
The first made the room tilt.
EDWARD CALDWELL DEAD.
My father.
Dead.
The second was worse.
MERCER CLAIMS CONTROL OF ESTATE.
The third froze my blood.
PETITION PREPARED DECLARING YOU MENTALLY UNSOUND AND ABDUCTED.
The fourth:
HE IS COMING WEST. LYDIA LIVES. TRUST NO PAPER HE BRINGS.
I sat down.
Bo took the telegram from my shaking fingers.
He read it once.
Then again.
His face became unreadable.
“What does ‘Lydia lives’ mean?”
“Julian's first wife.”
“The woman he had committed?”
“Yes.”
Bo looked toward my trunk, the one I had never entirely unpacked because some part of me had once believed I might be forced to leave quickly.
He stood.
I knew that posture.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
My heart sank.
“For me?”
“For both of us.”
I stared.
Bo crossed to the cabinet and removed cash.
“If Mercer wants a fight in Philadelphia, we'll meet him there.”
I almost laughed from relief.
Then another feeling replaced it.
“No.”
Bo stopped.
“No?”
“I am not going back.”
“He's trying to take your inheritance.”
“He can have it.”
“Annabeth.”
“I mean it.”
Bo turned.
“That money is yours.”
“And I walked away from it.”
“You walked away while your father was alive.”
“And?”
“Now someone is using the law to declare you incapable of making your own decisions.”
His voice hardened.
“That is different.”
I folded the telegram.
“I will not return to Philadelphia so men can decide whether I'm sufficiently sane to own property.”
Bo approached.
“Then they come here.”
“What?”
“You said he's coming west.”
I looked at him.
“We make him argue in front of people who know you.”
Something inside me steadied.
Bo crouched before my chair.
“But you decide.”
Those three words mattered.
“Not me,” he continued. “Not Mercer. Not your dead father. You.”