Not carefully.
Not quietly.
Not apologetically.
She laughed until she could barely breathe.
Then she grabbed the front of his soaked shirt and kissed him.
When she pulled away, Dawson looked stunned.
“Was that a yes?”
“No.”
His face fell.
“That was a kiss.”
“Lena—”
“The answer is yes too.”
He kissed her again.
The cow mooed irritably beside them.
Neither noticed.
They married beneath the cottonwoods at Blackwater.
Nothing about the wedding resembled the elaborate ceremony Harold once imagined for Eliza.
There were no imported flowers.
No crystal chandeliers.
No orchestra.
Ranch hands built wooden benches beneath the trees.
Eliza decorated them with wildflowers collected by her students.
Beatrice baked three cakes because the first two collapsed.
Samuel Mercer served as witness.
Lena wore deep green.
Not white.
Not yellow.
Dawson had once remembered she hated yellow, and she saw no reason to prove him wrong.
When she appeared beneath the trees, the guests became silent.
Lena stopped.
An old fear returned.
For one terrible second, she wondered what they were thinking.
How large she looked.
Whether the dress flattered her.
Whether someone was laughing.
Then Dawson saw her.
His entire face changed.
And Lena remembered.
She did not need to become smaller to deserve a place in the world.
She walked toward him.
After the vows, Mercer approached with one final document.
Dawson groaned.
“Samuel, if this is another trust—”
“It isn’t.”
Mercer handed the paper to Lena.
“What is it?” Dawson asked.
Lena smiled.
“Our partnership agreement.”
Dawson blinked.
“Our what?”
“Fifty-fifty ownership of the cattle operation.”
“The land belongs to you.”
“The land remains mine.”
He nodded slowly.
“The cattle business?”
“Ours.”
He looked at her.
“You’re giving me half?”
“No.”
Lena’s smile widened.
“You’re buying half.”
Dawson laughed.
“Of course I am.”
“The payments are listed on page three.”
“Naturally.”
“The interest—”
“You’re charging me interest?”
“I’m a businesswoman.”
He pulled her against him.
“You are terrifying.”
“I know.”
Then Eliza came running from the house.
“Lena!”
Everyone turned.
She carried a package.
“A delivery arrived from the capital.”
Lena frowned.
“Today?”
“Apparently.”
Mercer inspected the seal.
His eyebrows rose.
“This is from the territorial archives.”
Dawson looked uneasy.
“I thought we found everything.”
“So did I.”
Lena opened it.
Inside was one final letter.
Very old.
Written by Margaret Hail.
Lena’s mother.
Her hands trembled as she unfolded it.
Unlike the previous letter, this one was addressed to Silas Reed.
She began reading silently.
Then stopped.
Her face changed.
Dawson noticed.
“What?”
She looked at Mercer.
The lawyer read over her shoulder.
And suddenly began laughing.
“What?” Dawson demanded.
Mercer handed him the letter.
Dawson read.
His mouth fell open.
Long before Margaret had married Harold—
long before Silas had become Blackwater’s trustee—
Margaret and Silas Reed had once made a foolish agreement between themselves.
Not a romance.
Not a secret affair.
Something stranger.
When they were nineteen, the two friends had purchased six hundred cattle together, each contributing exactly half.
They had intended to start a ranching business.
Then Margaret married Harold.
Silas continued the business alone.
Over the decades, those cattle had multiplied into the personal herd Silas eventually passed to Dawson.
