“Yes.”
“And you agreed?”
“I did.”
Ethan wasn't sure what to say.
Finally, he reached for her bag.
She pulled it away.
“I can carry it.”
“I didn't mean—”
“I know.”
She lifted the bag herself.
Ethan watched her walk toward the wagon.
Something about the first thirty seconds of meeting her had already gone differently than he expected.
He didn't like surprises.
Not on a ranch.
Not in marriage.
Not anywhere.
As they rode toward Cole Ranch, neither spoke for several miles.
The silence eventually became unbearable.
Ethan looked at her.
“You don't have to marry me.”
Mara continued watching the road.
“I know.”
“You could return on the evening train.”
“I know.”
“You don't seem very interested in this.”
She finally looked at him.
“I came because I chose to.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
“It does.”
Ethan frowned.
“You always talk like that?”
“Only when someone asks questions they already have answers for.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead, he faced forward.
The ranch appeared just before sunset.
A weathered farmhouse stood beside a line of cottonwoods. Behind it were barns, corrals, and rolling pasture disappearing toward the mountains.
Mara looked around.
“This is yours?”
“Yes.”
“How many acres?”
“Four thousand.”
“How much water?”
Ethan glanced at her.
“What?”
“How much water does the ranch have?”
“Enough.”
“That wasn't my question.”
He sighed.
“Not enough.”
She nodded.
That was the first time Ethan realized she wasn't looking at the ranch as a visitor.
She was evaluating it.
When they reached the house, Ethan showed her the bedroom.
“You can use this one.”
Mara placed her bag beside the bed.
“Where do you sleep?”
“The room at the end of the hall.”
She looked at him.
“So we're strangers.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Ethan blinked.
“Good?”
“It means we can begin honestly.”
He didn't know how to answer that.
That night, Mara cooked dinner.
Not because Ethan asked.
Because she noticed the kitchen had food but no plan.
She made stew from the remaining beef, added potatoes, onions, and herbs, and placed two bowls on the table.
Ethan stared.
“When did you learn to cook?”
“Before I learned to ride.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“I know.”
Again, that almost-smile.
He sat.
They ate in silence.
After a few minutes, Mara asked, “Why is the north pasture empty?”
Ethan looked up.
“Because there's no water.”
“Where did the creek go?”
“It used to run through the northern field.”
“Used to?”
“Yes.”
“When did it disappear?”
“About twelve years ago.”
“Why?”
“Drought.”
Mara shook her head.
“No.”
Ethan put down his spoon.
“What do you mean, no?”
“Drought lowers water.”
She looked toward the dark window.
“It doesn't make a creek vanish in one season.”
Ethan stared at her.
“Who told you that?”
“No one.”
“Then how do you know?”
“My father taught me.”
Ethan leaned back.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
Mara lowered her eyes.
“He disappeared when I was sixteen.”
Something in her voice told Ethan not to ask more.
So he didn't.
For the next week, Mara surprised him every day.
She could ride.
Not simply sit on a horse.
Ride.
She handled difficult animals better than most men Ethan had hired.
She could repair a fence.
She knew how to read clouds.
She knew plants.
She knew which springs remained underground even when the surface was dry.
And she never complained.
One morning Ethan found her standing beside the northern pasture.
She was kneeling in the dirt.
He approached.
“What are you doing?”
“Listening.”
“To what?”
She pressed her palm against the ground.
“Water.”
Ethan laughed.
“There isn't any water here.”
Mara looked up.
“Then why is the grass greener?”