Omaha felt too crowded.
Beatrice realized it within a day.
Too many wheels.
Too many voices.
Too many walls close together.
She had once considered the city ordinary.
Now she missed pine trees.
Snowmelt.
Boone’s terrible coffee.
Her mother recovered slowly.
The illness had been frightening but not fatal.
Beatrice remained for six weeks.
She cooked.
Cleaned.
Sat beside her mother’s bed.
She reunited with her sisters.
And almost immediately discovered how much she had changed.
At dinner one evening her aunt Clara examined Beatrice across the table.
“So this husband of yours really lives on a mountain?”
“He does.”
“And you enjoy that?”
“Yes.”
“With your constitution?”
Beatrice set down her fork.
“My constitution?”
Clara glanced at her body.
“You know.”
Once, Beatrice would have laughed politely.
Pretended not to understand.
Made herself smaller.
Not anymore.
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
Her aunt blinked.
“I only mean—”
“You mean my weight.”
The table became quiet.
Her mother shifted uncomfortably.
Clara flushed.
“Beatrice, there’s no reason to become sensitive.”
“I am not sensitive. I’m precise.”
Her sister Margaret hid a smile.
Beatrice continued.
“I carried water through snow. Helped butcher deer. Survived pneumonia in January. Planted potatoes in ground that appears personally offended by farming. If you have concerns about my constitution, I suggest you visit Fletcher Mountain and attempt the climb.”
Margaret burst out laughing.
Even her mother smiled.
Aunt Clara never raised the topic again.
The longer Beatrice stayed, the clearer one truth became.
Omaha was where she had come from.
It was not home.
Home was a rough cabin beside a Colorado ridge.
Home was flour-sack curtains Boone hated.
Home was a ridiculously large chair beside a stone fireplace.
Home was a quiet man who would rather fight a bear than explain his feelings.
She wrote him every week.
Boone’s replies were short.
BEATRICE,
GARDEN IS FINE.
GOAT GOT OUT AGAIN.
FIXED ROOF.
YOUR CHAIR IS STILL HERE.
BOONE.
The final sentence made her cry.
Margaret caught her.
“Is something wrong?”
Beatrice handed her the letter.
Margaret read it.
“That’s it?”
“You don’t understand.”
“I certainly do not.”
“That is practically poetry from him.”
Week six brought another letter.
BEATRICE,
HOPE YOUR MOTHER IS BETTER.
RAIN HEAVY HERE.
COME HOME WHEN YOU CAN.
No joke.
No practical information.
Just come home.
Beatrice bought a ticket the next morning.
Back in Colorado, Boone did not know she was coming.
She intended it that way.
The stage driver remembered her.
“Well,” he said when she boarded, “mountain man didn’t eat you.”
“Not yet.”
“Going back?”
“Obviously.”
“Most women don’t.”
“I’ve been informed.”
The road took two days.
When they reached the base of Fletcher Mountain, evening was approaching.
Beatrice looked at the trail.
Then at her trunk.
The driver frowned.
“You expect to haul that again?”
“No.”
She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled.
The driver stared.
Nothing happened.
Beatrice waited.
Then, from high above, came a distant bark.
She smiled.
Boone’s dog, which had joined them during winter, came racing down the trail.
Behind him appeared Boone on horseback.
He stopped so abruptly the horse tossed its head.
For a second Boone simply stared.
Beatrice had never seen his face look like that.
Disbelief.
Hope.
Fear.
Then something enormous and unguarded.
She raised one hand.
“Hello.”
Boone dismounted before the horse completely stopped.
He walked toward her.
Then faster.
Beatrice barely had time to smile before his arms closed around her.
He lifted her.
Actually lifted her.
The driver whistled.
Beatrice laughed into Boone’s beard.
“You are making a scene.”
“Don’t care.”
“You missed me?”
Boone buried his face against her neck.
“Don’t ask stupid questions.”
She closed her eyes.
He set her down.
Then held her face between both hands.
“You came back.”
“I told you.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t believe me.”
“I tried.”
“And now?”
Boone looked at her.
“Now I do.”
He kissed her.
The stage driver cleared his throat theatrically.
“Some of us are working.”
Beatrice laughed.
Boone collected her trunk.
Together they climbed the mountain.
This time Beatrice rode part of the way.
Boone insisted.
She complained.
He ignored her.
When the cabin appeared, her throat tightened.
Everything looked almost the same.
Almost.
Then she saw the porch.
There were two chairs.
One was hers.
The enormous pine chair Boone had built.
The second stood beside it.
Smaller.
Rougher.
Clearly intended for Boone.
Beatrice stopped.
“You built yourself one.”
He shrugged.
“Got tired of the floor.”
She touched the back.
“Why outside?”
“Thought we could sit here evenings.”
We.
Such a small word.
Such a large promise.
Inside, she discovered more changes.
The blue curtains hung slightly crooked.
Her jars remained where she left them.
The bedroom had a new shelf.
Two hooks stood beside the door.
Her things had not been packed.
Moved.
Or erased.
Boone had kept space for her.
That night they sat beside the fire.
Beatrice told him about her mother.
Her sisters.
Her aunt’s comment.
Boone frowned.
“What did you say?”
“I invited her to climb your mountain.”
He laughed.
“Wouldn’t make it.”
“Boone.”
“What?”
“Be polite.”
“She wouldn’t.”
Beatrice leaned against him.
After a while Boone said, “I did something.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
He reached into his pocket.
Pulled out a small wooden box.
Beatrice’s breath caught.
Boone opened it.
Inside lay a ring.
Simple silver.
A small green stone.
Not expensive.
Beautiful.
“We’re already married,” Beatrice whispered.
“I know.”
“What is this?”
“Doing it right.”
Her eyes filled.
Boone stared at the fire.
“First time was paper.”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t know you.”
“No.”
“Didn’t expect you to stay.”
“I noticed.”
He looked at her.
“I want to ask this time.”
Beatrice’s heart hammered.
Boone shifted awkwardly onto one knee.
The position clearly made him uncomfortable.
She laughed through tears.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
He held the ring.
“Beatrice O’Reilly.”
She smiled.
“Fletcher.”
His expression softened.
“Beatrice Fletcher.”
“Yes?”
“Would you marry me?”
She covered her mouth.
Boone waited.
“Again,” he added.
She laughed.
“Yes.”
He slipped the ring onto her finger.
It fit.
Of course it did.
Boone Fletcher measured everything carefully when it mattered.
They planned a ceremony for midsummer.
Small.
At the cabin.
Margaret promised to come.
The Silver Creek preacher agreed to make the journey.
Boone grumbled about strangers on his property.
Beatrice ignored him.
For weeks they prepared.
She planted flowers near the porch.
He built a long table.
They argued over whether twelve guests required three pies or four.
“Four,” Beatrice insisted.
“Three.”
“Four.”
“No one needs that much pie.”
“Then you do not deserve pie.”
“Four.”
“Excellent decision.”
Their life was not perfect.
Boone still withdrew when frightened.
Beatrice still grew sharp when she felt dismissed.
But now they knew how to return.
To the conversation.
To one another.
One evening, shortly before the ceremony, Beatrice found Boone standing beside her chair.
He ran one hand across its back.
“What?”
she asked.
“Nothing.”
“That is never true.”
He looked at her.
“Thought you’d leave.”
“I know.”
“Thought everyone did.”
Beatrice walked to him.
“And now?”
Boone glanced around the cabin.
At the curtains.
The table.
Two mugs.
Two coats.
Two chairs on the porch.
Then back to her.
“Now I think maybe some people just need a reason to stay.”
Beatrice shook her head.
“No.”
His brow furrowed.
“No?”
“Some people need a reason to come.”
She touched his chest.
“But staying is a choice.”
Boone covered her hand with his.
“You choose this?”
“Every day.”
His eyes softened.
“So do I.”
Outside, the Colorado sunset turned the mountain gold.
And inside the cabin Boone Fletcher finally began to understand that love was not proven because someone never had the opportunity to leave.
Love was proven when the road opened—and they came home anyway.