I'll survive.” “I know.” He looked at her. The words hung between them, the same words he had given her beside the wagon. I know. Rebecca pushed the blanket another few inches. Take your half.
Everett reached down, his fingers closed around the edge. He drew it over one shoulder while leaving the middle stretched across the floor between them. They sat that way, not touching, not speaking. Two people beneath one old blanket with several feet of rough plank floor still separating them. Outside, thunder moved farther east.
The rain softened. Rebecca watched the fire settle into red coals. Across from her, Everett's eyes had closed, though she could tell from his breathing that he was not asleep. She thought about his words, not entirely talking about the food. She had spent years learning not to build hope from the way a man looked at her.
Years learning the difference between courtesy and interest, years making herself practical before anyone else could make her foolish. But Everett had not asked her to become foolish. He had asked what she thought. He had turned his horse away when she told him to, and now he sat on a cold floor rather than take the whole blanket from her. Rebecca looked toward the dark window.
The storm was passing. Morning would come. Mercer would still have his ditch. Hail Creek would still need its water. Nothing had been solved.
Yet something had changed. Everett opened his eyes. Rebecca was still looking at him. Neither looked away. And in the small line shack beneath the Wyoming mountains, with rain dripping from the eaves and one worn blanket stretched between them, the silence no longer felt empty.
By morning the storm had washed the country clean. Mist hung low among the cottonwoods, and every blade of grass along the trail carried water. Rebecca and Everett rode back toward Hail Creek without speaking much about the night. There was no need. At one muddy crossing, Everett dismounted first and checked the footing before Rebecca brought her mare through.
When they reached the ranch gate, Rebecca handed him the folded half of the blanket she had carried behind her saddle. Everett took it, their fingers brushed. Neither apologized. Franklin met them near the barn. Creek dropped another inch.
Whatever had been between Rebecca and Everett in the mountains had to wait. For the next several days, they worked. Everett contacted the county water commissioner and began gathering statements from the upstream homesteaders. Rebecca returned to Copper Ridge, carrying notes she had made from memory about the fresh wagon tracks, the marked timber, and Elias Ward's old irrigation sketch. She told herself the distance was useful.
Then Everett came to town 3 days later. He ate lunch at her counter. Neither mentioned the blanket. He did not need to. When he left, Rebecca found his coffee mug placed beside the wash basin instead of abandoned on the table like most men's.
She smiled at it before she caught herself. The trouble began the following morning. Two regular customers stopped outside Rebecca's shed. They were freight drivers who usually arrived hungry enough to argue over the first skillet biscuit. That day, they stood near Harvey's Forge, speaking quietly.
One glanced toward Rebecca, then both continued down the street. Rebecca watched them go. At noon, Mrs. Langley from the dry goods store came for stew. She barely touched it.
Something wrong with the food? No. Mrs. Langley folded her napkin. Just haven't much appetite.
She left 10 cents beneath the bowl and hurried away. By afternoon, Rebecca understood. People were talking. She learned what they were saying at the general store. Rebecca had gone for lamp oil and flour when Claudia Mercer's voice carried from behind a shelf.