About his father, Walter Carter, who had built the ranch from nothing, and who had opinions about everything, including Nathaniel's recent decisions, which he expressed regularly and at volume. She asked him questions no one else seemed to ask. Not about his wealth or his land, or his standing in the county, but about what he wanted the ranch to look like in 10 years, about whether he'd ever thought of doing things differently than his father had. About what he actually thought when he was out on the range alone about the kind of life he was living. People don't usually ask me that, he said once.
What do they ask? How many head I'm running this season? What I'm getting per pound at market. Whether I've thought about buying the Hendricks Land, he paused. Whether I've thought about getting married and have you?
She asked. Thought about it. He looked at her. Or the Hendricks Land. Either the Hendricks Land is overpriced and the water rights are contested, he said.
And yes, I've thought about getting married. My father's been thinking about it on my behalf for approximately 15 years. Anyone specific? Several someone specific, he said. All of them very suitable.
But he was quiet for a moment, his eyes on the mountains. There's a quality to talking to the right person, he said slowly, working out the thought as he spoke it, that I didn't know I was looking for until I found it. The feeling that the other person is actually there, actually present, that you're not just performing the conversation. He looked at her. I don't feel like I'm performing anything when I talk to you, he said.
Nathaniel, Nathaniel, she said quietly. I know, he said. I know what you're going to say. Do you you're going to say that I'm being careless with both our reputations? That this isn't how things are done.
That the gap between what I am and what you are is too wide to cross without consequences. Isn't it? She asked. He turned to look at her fully. I don't know, he said.
But I'm finding it very hard to care about it the way I probably should. She said nothing. The mountains sat there in the distance, patient and ancient and entirely indifferent to the small human drama being conducted at their base. I have nothing, she said finally, not with self-pity, with the plain clarity she brought to most things. No name, no connections, no property.
What you're doing, spending time with me, defending me, coming here week after week, it creates a story. People in this town are already telling it. And the story they're telling is not kind to either of us, but it is especially unkind to me because they will say I am chasing something I have no right to and they will say it loudly and they will find ways to make sure I feel it. I know, he said, and that doesn't concern you. It concerns me enormously, he said, but not the way it should.