Nora looked toward the staircase.
“That boy thought he invented the whole thing.”
“He still doesn’t know.”
Nora laughed through tears.
“Of course he doesn’t.”
Harlon squeezed her fingers.
Then something occurred to her.
“Why are you showing me this tonight?”
He inhaled.
“Because there was one more letter.”
Nora stared.
Harlon removed it.
This one was addressed to him.
Harlon,
If Nora ever comes, do not marry her because she is my sister.
Do not marry her because my sons need a woman.
Do not marry her because you feel guilty.
And for heaven’s sake, do not marry her because Beatrice clearly intends to arrange our lives from beyond the grave.
Nora laughed despite herself.
Harlon smiled.
Then he continued reading.
Marry her only if she makes you laugh again.
Marry her if you begin looking for her when you enter a room.
Marry her if the thought of her leaving frightens you more than the thought of loving someone after me.
If none of those things happen, let her go.
She deserves to be chosen.
Not inherited.
Nora’s laughter vanished.
Harlon folded the letter.
The kitchen became very quiet.
“Harlon.”
“I laugh again.”
Her eyes filled.
“I look for you in every room.”
He reached into his pocket.
This time, he removed a ring.
Plain gold.
Miriam’s?
Nora stepped back.
Harlon shook his head immediately.
“No.
Never.”
He smiled.
“I sold my best saddle.”
“You what?”
“I liked that saddle.”
“Harlon Greer—”
“I bought this.”
He opened his hand.
A small gold ring rested on his palm.
Nothing elaborate.
Nothing extravagant.
Perfect.
His voice grew unsteady.
“And the idea of you leaving this ranch scares me more than any fire, debt, bullet, drought, or fool banker ever has.”
Nora began crying.
Harlon lowered himself onto one knee.
The floor creaked beneath him.
From upstairs came a muffled crash.
Someone hissed, “Move your foot!”
Nora looked toward the ceiling.
Harlon sighed.
“All six of them are listening.”
“Obviously.”
“Should I stop?”
“No.”
Silence upstairs.
Six children apparently stopped breathing.
Harlon looked at Nora.
“Nora Callaway.”
His eyes shone.
“You arrived here believing I had chosen you.”
She swallowed.
“You hadn’t.”
“No.”
His fingers tightened around the ring.
“Then you believed Thomas chose you.”
“He did.”
“Apparently your mother chose you.”
She laughed.
“And Miriam.”
“Yes.”
He reached for her hand.
“But this part belongs to me.”
Nora stopped breathing.
“I choose you.”
Her face crumpled.
“Not because you feed my children.”
He slipped the ring onto her finger.
“Not because you own this ranch.”
Her laugh came through tears.
“Good.”
“Not because you are Miriam’s sister.”
He stood.
He touched her cheek.
“I choose you because you are the only woman who has ever walked into my ruined house, insulted my stove, argued with my children, challenged my failures, discovered a murder, saved my ranch, and still somehow made me want tomorrow.”
Upstairs, someone sniffled.
Probably Thomas.
Harlon smiled.
“Nora Callaway, will you marry me?”
Nora looked at him.
Then at the ring.
Then around the kitchen where everything had begun.
The same stove.
The same table.
The same wooden spoon hanging near the hearth.
She remembered the frightened woman who had climbed from Thomas’s wagon months earlier.
A woman who believed she had crossed half a country because no man closer to home would want her.
How little that woman had known.
Nora touched Harlon’s face.
