Chapter 27
“I need to know who I am when I am not running.”
I understood.
Maybe better than she expected.
After my parents died, after my brother left, after I moved into the mountains, I had built an entire identity around not needing anyone.
Then I had mistaken that wound for independence.
“Take the time,” I said.
Cora studied me.
“You mean that.”
“Yes.”
“Even if I leave.”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
She looked annoyed by it.
I smiled.
“Need a handkerchief?”
“No.”
“Good. Mine’s filthy.”
She laughed through the tears.
Then she kissed me.
I was so startled I forgot to breathe.
Her lips touched mine lightly.
Warm against winter.
Then she pulled back.
I stared at her.
“That,” I said, “was unfair.”
Her cheeks reddened.
“How?”
“I wasn’t prepared.”
“Would preparation have improved matters?”
“Considerably.”
She stepped closer.
“Then prepare.”
The second kiss lasted longer.
By spring, Cora still had not told me whether she was staying.
Strangely, I stopped asking the question in my own head.
We had work.
Snow melted from the roof.
The creek rose.
The new shed needed shelves.
Cora planted onions near the southern wall.
I repaired fencing.
She began keeping accounts for the general store in town twice each month.
The first time she rode there alone, I hated every minute.
Not because I thought she would run.
Because I loved her enough to imagine every possible disaster between our cabin and town.
She returned after sunset.
I was standing on the porch.
“You were worried,” she said.
“No.”
“You are holding a rifle.”
“Coyotes.”
“In daylight?”
“Ambitious coyotes.”
She dismounted.
Then handed me a folded piece of paper.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
Inside was a receipt from the matrimonial agency in St. Louis.
My name.
Her name.
Fifty dollars.
I frowned.
“Why do you have this?”
“I wrote them.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
“They sent a copy of the account.”
She reached into her coat and placed fifty dollars in my palm.
I stared at the money.
“What are you doing?”
“Paying you back.”
Anger rose instantly.
“I didn’t buy you.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because I need there to be no debt between us.”
I looked at the money.
Then at her.
Suddenly I understood.
This was not rejection.
It was the opposite.
She wanted our marriage stripped down to choice.
No agency.
No ticket.