Chapter 20
His own changed.
"So I'm right."
"Whether I care what Adrien thinks is not relevant."
"The hell it isn't."
"Oscar is in the barn."
Curtis lowered his voice.
"You think that man is going to marry a divorced woman with a boy and a struggling claim?"
The words landed harder than they should have.
Curtis saw.
Immediately he regretted them.
"Rosalie, I didn't mean..."
"Go."
"I'm sorry."
"Go."
He stood.
"You're twisting what I said."
"No. I heard it clearly."
"I meant men like Brandt don't..."
He stopped himself.
That was worse.
"Men like Brandt don't what?"
Curtis looked away.
"Go," I said again.
This time he did.
I hated myself for crying after.
Not because I believed Curtis.
Because part of me did.
There were differences between Adrien and me that kindness could hide but not remove.
He owned thousands of acres.
I owed money for nails.
He had men riding fence lines before dawn.
I saved bacon grease in a jar.
He had never married.
I had been left.
He had no children.
I had a seven-year-old who trusted a cow more easily than most people.
What did I imagine?
That the man who came to buy Clover had accidentally purchased himself a family?
I laughed bitterly at the thought.
The next Brandt day, I was distant.
Adrien noticed by breakfast.
By noon, he had stopped trying to make conversation.
By four, it irritated me that he respected my distance.
I was impossible.
While I was packing two cheeses into a basket, he appeared at the kitchen door.
"Did I do something?"
"No."
He waited.
"No," I repeated.
"All right."
"That's all?"
"You said no."
"I did."
He nodded.
I tied the cloth too tightly around the cheese.
Adrien turned to leave.
"Why did you never marry?"
He stopped.
I nearly dropped the basket.
The question had escaped me.
He turned slowly.
"That's a considerable jump from no."
My face burned.
"You don't have to answer."
He leaned against the doorframe.
"I nearly did."
I waited.
"Her name was Margaret Hale."
A small ugly feeling moved through me.
"She died?"
"No."
That surprised me.
"She married someone else."
"Oh."
"I was twenty-eight. She wanted to go east. I wanted the ranch."
"Did she ask you to leave?"
"Yes."
"And you said no."
"Yes."
I looked at him.
"Do you regret it?"
"Sometimes."
That answer felt more honest than no would have.