He Sat Beside Her Sickbed for Two Nights… Then Waited Until the Right Time to Ask
…
They worked the last of the branches free together and the dam broke apart and the creek came loose underneath their hands.
Brown at first, then quick and clear over the stones.
She straightened up and looked at the water moving the way it was supposed to move.
The sun was going low through the cottonwood leaves, throwing its light across the surface downstream toward both their properties.
Edmund pulled off his gloves and wrung them out.
He looked at the running water for a moment.
Creek’s going.
It is.
She looked downstream.
I should have caught the blockage in August.
He turned to face her.
Creek’s going now.
And went to get his tools.
She stood there a moment after he turned away.
Then she went to get hers.
She made supper because it was past 6:00 and sending him home after what they’d done would have been a different kind of statement.
He sat at her table without ceremony and she put beans and cornbread in front of him and sat across and they talked through what the creek would need through October, what she should watch for, whether the beaver situation would need another pass in spring.
After a while he set down his fork.
Clara used to say water problems were like tooth problems.
Ignore them long enough, eventually the tooth comes out.
Ruth looked at her plate.
Thomas said the same thing about fence.
She turned her cornbread over in her hand.
Said it every year.
We ignored it anyway.
Lost two steers in ’91.
Edmund looked up at that.
There was something in it.
The particular recognition of people who have survived the same weather without having planned to survive it side by side.
He held her eyes for a moment, then went back to his food.
The lamp sat between them on the table and the stove worked its steady heat into the corners of the room and the evening settled in around the house.
She had eaten alone at this table for 4 years.
Thomas had sat where Edmund sat now most evenings in the body if not quite in the way that made a room feel occupied.
The house had not changed much when he died and she had understood something about her marriage in the understanding of that and had put it somewhere she did not take out often.
After supper, Edmund carried his plate to the basin and took his hat from the hook.
He stopped at the door.
Gate latch on your south pen is going.
Noticed it on the way in.
I know it.
It’s on my list.
He nodded once and went out and she listened to his horse leave the yard and stood at the basin a moment before she went to bed.
October came in dry and stayed that way.
He found reasons to be useful that she did not examine too carefully.
A fence section her hired man hadn’t finished, the line feeding the east trough that had been giving trouble.
He had taken to stopping by on Mondays after checking his north fence though neither of them called it a habit.
She returned things in kind without making a ledger of it.
The accounting between them had always been inexact by design and had never needed to be otherwise.
She had started hearing his horse in the yard a moment before she actually heard it.
She noticed this and did not sit with it for long at a stretch.
Florence Marsh came on a Tuesday afternoon with the careful warmth of a woman who had organized her concern before she arrived.
She stood at the porch rail and spoke about Edmund the way you speak about something that needs attending before it becomes a problem.
His situation, what made practical sense.
There was a woman from the valley she had in mind established sensible.
Then Florence looked at Ruth with the particular kindness that was the sharpest part of it and said that Ruth had built something real here.
And that hope could be a costly thing when it got ahead of what had actually been offered.
She went back up the road and her buggy raised its dust going north.
Ruth stood at the porch rail and felt the words sit in her chest in the way of things that land because they are partly true.
She had been reaching or near enough to it that the distinction didn’t matter and having Florence name it changed the texture of the carrying.
She went inside and stood at the stove with the burner going and nothing on it.
Thomas had been a decent man.
He had worked beside her, provided adequately, never been unkind.
He had also been somewhere else most of the time even when he was in the room and she had learned over 20 years not to expect his full presence and then learned so well that she stopped noticing the absence.
When he died, the house had stayed largely the same.
She had understood what that meant and had folded it away without examining it often.
What she had not done in four years alone was want something.
She had protected herself from that with work and with the knowledge that she was sufficient and with the habit learned so long ago she couldn’t find the start of it of not reaching for things that might not be there.
Edmund was there.
That was the plain fact of it.
He came when the water needed working.
He noticed things.
He did not make her feel like a problem he was solving.
She put the thought away and went back to work.
But she put it away more carefully than she’d been putting other things away, the way you are careful with something you intend to come back to.
The fever came on her on a Monday, and by Tuesday morning it had said plainly what it intended.
She had felt it building since Saturday and had told herself October had no room for being sick.
By the time she got the stock fed Monday morning, it had stopped waiting for her permission.
She made it back to the house and sat at the kitchen table and understood she was not going to be feeding anything else that day.
She got herself to bed.
She did not think to latch the door.
She did not hear him come in.
She heard him in the kitchen, the stove coming up, the pump, the movement of someone who knew what they were looking for.
Then he was in the bedroom doorway, taking in the room the way he took in any problem that needed solving.
He came to the bedside and put the back of his hand to her forehead and took it away.
He asked how long.
Since Saturday.
I didn’t think it was this.
He pulled Thomas’s chair from the corner and set it beside the bed and sat in it.
Your stock is done.
I’ll get the evening round.
She started to tell him he didn’t have to.
He looked at her with an expression that was patient and also finished.
I know that.
She stopped arguing.
Not because she had no argument, but because she did not in that moment actually want him to leave and she was too tired to pretend otherwise.
He was there through both nights, the compress replaced when it warmed, water given when she surfaced.
Once, deep in the second night, she said his name without meaning to say anything at all, and he said he was there, and she heard it and believed it, and went back under.
The fever broke Wednesday morning.
She lay still for a while in the particular quiet of a body that has finished its argument.
Light came in at the window and stayed where it landed.
She could smell coffee.
She got herself to the kitchen in stages.
He was at the stove and turned when she came through the door and looked at her carefully.
He pulled the chair closest to the stove and she sat in it without being asked twice.
He put coffee in front of her and then eggs and sat across and let her eat without making conversation of it.
Outside the horses moved in the pen and the morning sat cold and still around the house.
After a while she told him he hadn’t needed to stay two nights.
He wrapped both hands around his cup.
That south gate latch, I’ll fix it before I go.
She looked at him across the table.
You mentioned that latch in August.
He looked down into his cup for a moment.
I remember.
That was two months ago, Edmund.
He met her eyes.
Wasn’t the right time yet.
She held his gaze and something sat in the kitchen between them that was not uncomfortable and was not small.
And after a moment she looked back at her coffee, and he looked at the window and the morning went on at its own pace.
She thanked him before he left.
He lifted a hand, not quite a wave, the gesture of a man who has received what he needed to receive and doesn’t require more, and went out to fix the latch.
She watched him from the window, and let herself watch.
The diversion proposal came on a Friday in November at the county land office in town.
She had not known it was coming.
She found out from the land agent, Purvis, who ran the office with the efficiency of a man who kept careful track of who owned what, and occasionally forgot that ownership and right were not the same thing.
He told her a ranching concern from the east of the county had put in a proposal to redirect a portion of the creek’s upstream flow through a diversion ditch above the cottonwood bend.
Legal, he said, if the downstream users agreed.
Good for the county, he said.
He looked at her over the proposal papers with the particular expression of a man who considers a widow’s water rights a manageable inconvenience.
She asked who the downstream users were, in the legal sense of the question.
He named Edmund first, which told her something about how the county saw the arrangement, and named her second, and said that Edmund had already been contacted and found the proposal worth considering.
She drove home, and did not let herself think too clearly about that last part, until she was out of town and on her own road.
Edmund was at her gate when she got back.
He took his hat off when she pulled up.
She sat in the wagon and looked at him, and waited.
Purvis tell you? He did.
She kept her hands on the reins.
He said you found it worth considering.
Edmund looked at the ground for a moment, then back up at her.
I told him I’d need to look at the downstream impact before I said anything.
He turned his hat in his hands.
That’s not the same thing as considering it.
She looked at him.
They sent the proposal to me first.
He kept his eyes on her.
Left you off the initial paperwork.
I noticed that.
He put his hat back on.
I told Purvis the creek serves two properties and both owners needed to be at any meeting about it.
Purvis put your share of the flow as secondary by the county record.
A pause, and then flat and certain.
I told him it was not secondary by any standing that mattered.
She sat with that for a moment.
The afternoon light was going flat and cold across the fields and the horses stood easy in the traces and the creek ran somewhere behind the cottonwoods recovered now running the way it was supposed to run.
She climbed down from the wagon.
Come inside.
I’ll put coffee on.
They sat at the table and worked through the proposal together.
What it would take from her land, what the upstream diversion would do to the gauge by midsummer, which was the dry season and was precisely when it mattered most.
By August it would take the shallows first, then the lower trough, then the grass along the south bend and after that the cattle would start leaning through fence for what the pasture could no longer give.
He had already done the same math.
They arrived at the same answer by slightly different routes and then they wrote a joint response to the county and she signed it and he signed it and she drove to town on Monday and handed it to Purvis herself.
Purvis looked at the two signatures.
He looked at her.
She waited.
She said the creek had run between both properties for 20 years and served both equally and any proposal affecting its flow required the consent of both owners and that consent was not given.
She said it in the tone of a woman who had held land alone for four years and knew the difference between a legal question and a man trying to invent one.
Purvis filed the response and without both signatures the proposal had nowhere to go.
Florence Marsh was in the land office that morning and saw the two signatures on the paperwork before Purvis put it away.
Ruth did not speak to her.
Florence looked at the two names on the same page and then looked at Ruth and gave a small nod.
Not warm, not hostile.
The nod of a woman who has reassessed the situation and is doing it honestly.
Ruth returned it and went out to the wagon.
She did not see Edmund’s face when she told him, but she heard something in the way he set his coffee cup down.
November moved through its second half and into December.
He came in the evenings and she made supper when he came and neither of them spoke about the pattern directly.
They talked about the winter grazing plan and the creek and what the dry season had taken from the east acreage that the spring might or might not give back.
After a while they talked about other things, Missouri, Ohio, the particular quality of having left a place young enough that the leaving still felt like a choice even after decades.
She found herself saying things she hadn’t said to anyone in years.
Not confessions, just the ordinary facts of a life that she had stopped telling because there was no one to tell them to and had grown so used to that she had stopped noticing it as a loss.
Her daughter had a life two counties south and came when she could, which was less often than either of them wished.
And Ruth had learned not to measure love by distance.
One evening, he set down his cup and looked at the table.
My son wrote from Colorado again, asking whether I’d thought any more about selling and coming up there.
Ruth looked up.
He turned the cup in his hands.
Told him the same thing I told him in October, that I was where I intended to be.
The lamp held its light across the table and the stove worked at the cold in the walls and the silence that followed had a particular texture, the kind that forms when something has been said and both people in the room understand it means more than it said.
She held it carefully and went back to her plate and so did he.
And the evening moved around them at its own pace and that felt right for now.
The night it happened was a Thursday, nothing marking it as different from any other.
Supper was done and the dishes were done and the stove was banked and there was no practical reason left for either of them to be sitting at her kitchen table.
Neither of them moved toward the door.
He set his coffee cup down.
He looked at her across the table, not the assessing look he brought to problems, the other one, the one that had been staying open longer since October.
I’m not good at talking around things.
He kept his eyes on her.
So, I’ll say it plain.
I’d like to marry you, Ruth.
I think you already know that and I think you’ve known it for a while.
And I would rather say it plainly than let another winter go by with both of us knowing it and neither of us saying so.
The wind pressed at the kitchen window.
A log shifted in the stove.
She looked at this man who had come to her gate before she’d gotten home to tell her what he’d said to Purvis about the creek.
Who had pulled Thomas’s chair to her bedside and sat in it through two nights without making her feel like an occasion.
Who had noticed a broken latch in August and waited until it was the right time because that was simply how he did things, all of it, all the time.
And she had been watching him do it for 20 years.
She had spent a long time learning not to need anything from a man and had gotten so good at it she had stopped noticing what the not needing cost her.
She understood now, sitting across from him in the low lamplight, that it had been costing her something steady and daily the way a creek loses an inch at a time.
She reached across the table and took his hand.
He closed his around hers with the care of a man who understood the value of what he was holding.
Yes.
She held his gaze.
I should have said so sooner.
Something moved through him that she felt in his hand before she saw it in his face.
A long, slow release.
The careful part of him finally, somewhere it didn’t need to be careful.
He looked at her steadily.
It’s my water, too.
The words landed the way he had meant them to, carrying everything back to the beginning, to the creek bank in September, to the thing she had said that first day that had told him she understood now everything he needed to know about her.
Outside the wind moved across the flat land and the lamp held steady and the night was ordinary in every way except the one that mattered.
They married on a Saturday in January, the ground frozen hard, the sky the pale flat white of a New Mexico winter.
The town came the way towns come when a thing has been decided long before the ceremony and there is still the quiet pleasure of seeing it made official.
Florence Marsh sat near the back with her hands folded and her face doing the genuine work of being glad and getting most of the way there.
Afterward the road home was quiet, frost white at the field edges, the horses moving at their own pace, his shoulder against hers on the wagon seat, the kind of quiet that has nothing left it needs to say.
A morning in March.
Ruth came in from the creek with cold in her fingers and pulled off her gloves at the door.
Edmund was at the stove and turned when she came in.
“7 in.
” He looked at her for a moment with something open and unhurried in his face.
>> [snorts] >> Then he turned back to the stove.
“Sit down.
It’s ready.
” She hung her coat and sat at the table and wrapped her hands around the cup he set in front of her.
Through the window the morning light was coming up clean across both properties, burning the frost off the south pasture, the cottonwoods along the creek throwing their first thin shadows of the day across the ground.
Outside a meadowlark started up from somewhere in the fence line, one long note and then another and then the whole yard filling with it, ordinary and unhurried, the sound of a country that had wintered through and come out the other side.
She held her cup and looked at her land coming back to itself in the early light.
Edmund moved quietly at the stove behind her and both chimneys put their smoke into the same cold sky.
Down in the south pasture, the cattle stood in the new grass along the bank, heads low, steam lifting off their backs where the sun found them, and the creek ran at 7 in through both their properties, steady and clear.
Edmund’s son came from Colorado that first spring, ostensibly to help with the north pasture fencing.
Ruth’s daughter had met him at the January wedding and said little about him afterward, which Ruth noticed and did not mention.
He stayed 3 weeks, worked without complaint, and said almost nothing about the marriage directly.
His silence had the quality of a man revising something he had thought he understood.
Ruth’s daughter came in June.
She stood in Ruth’s kitchen the first morning and looked at the second cup already on the table, and something passed between them that did not require words.
By the second summer, both of them were coming at once, arriving within days of each other because the same work needed doing and neither had found a reason to stay away.
They worked the properties side by side without negotiating it, without making a production of it.
Edmund noticed.
Ruth noticed.
Neither of them said anything for a while.
And then one evening, Edmund set his cup down with a particular expression, and Ruth said she had been thinking the same thing.
And that was the whole of that conversation.
The wedding came that October, small, the church cold enough to see breath between the words.
Afterward, the outer fences stayed.
The fence between the two properties came down section by section, post by post.
The wire rolled and stacked, the ground between the two places opening into one unbroken run.
The gauge post stayed where it had always stood.
The water it measured now ran through land that no longer held itself apart.
In the evenings, both houses had lights in the windows, and smoke from both chimneys went up into the same sky, and the families moved between the two kitchens the way families do when the distance between them has stopped meaning anything.
