For the next three weeks, I worked on the green dress after Abel went to bed.
Not because I was ashamed for him to see it.
Because I wanted to finish something that belonged entirely to me.
Abel noticed anyway.
Sheriffs apparently developed an unreasonable ability to detect hidden activity.
One evening, he leaned against the bedroom doorway while I hurriedly folded the half-finished bodice beneath a blanket.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing."
His eyebrow rose.
"Harriet."
"Something."
"Illegal?"
"Extremely."
"Should I get my handcuffs?"
That caught me so completely off guard that I laughed.
Abel smiled.
Those moments had become more frequent.
Small ones.
Private ones.
The sort of moments that made me understand how affection could grow without announcing itself.
It simply kept returning until one day it occupied the whole house.
The invitation from Lavinia arrived the following morning.
Heavy paper.
Careful handwriting.
Mr. and Mrs. Silas Peton request the pleasure of Sheriff and Mrs. Renfrew's company for dinner honoring Circuit Judge Nathaniel Whitmore.
I read it twice.
Abel read it once and tossed it onto the table.
"We don't have to go."
"I know."
"Lavinia Peton doesn't invite anybody without a reason."
"I know that too."
He studied me.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Harriet."
I sighed.
He waited.
That was one thing Abel did better than any man I had known.
He knew silence could pull truth from a person better than interrogation.
So I told him what I had overheard at the church.
His face darkened immediately.
"She said I settled?"
"More or less."
"I'll tell Peton exactly—"
"No."
"Harriet."
I stepped close enough to touch the front of his shirt.
"You're the sheriff, not my dueling champion."
"Could be both."
I nearly smiled.
"Abel."
His anger softened, though it didn't disappear.
"Why would you want to sit through dinner with people who mean to insult you?"
"Because leaving would give Lavinia exactly what she wants."
"What does she want?"
"To decide where I belong."
That answer stopped him.
I continued.
"I've spent most of my life watching people make decisions about me before they know me. Too rough. Too strong. Too plain. Too opinionated. Too useful in all the wrong ways. I'm tired of helping them by disappearing."
Abel looked down at my hand against his chest.
Then he covered it with his own.
"We'll go."
Thursday came cold and clear.
Miller's Gulch had received its first real snow two days earlier, leaving rooftops edged white and wagon tracks frozen into uneven ridges.
I spent the afternoon preparing.
When I finally put on the green dress, I almost didn't recognize the woman in the mirror.
The deep color made my brown hair appear warmer.
The bodice fit properly because I had constructed it for my body rather than forcing myself into someone else's pattern.
The skirt was simple but elegant.
I had used cream thread along the cuffs.
Nothing excessive.
Nothing apologetic.
Abel knocked.
"May I come in?"
"You live here."
"Still seems polite."
"Come in."
He stepped through the doorway adjusting his black coat.
Then he stopped.
Completely.
I suddenly became aware of every inch of myself.
"Well?" I asked.
Abel's mouth opened.
Closed.
I felt panic crawling into my chest.
"Is something wrong?"
"No."
"Then say something."
"I'm trying."
"Try faster."
His gaze traveled over the dress and returned to my eyes.
"You look beautiful."
It was the first time he had said the word to me.
Not strong.
Not capable.
Not fine.
Beautiful.
I looked down.
"Harriet."
I raised my eyes again.
He walked closer.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For taking eight months to say it."
My throat tightened.
"You didn't owe me the word."
"No." His voice lowered. "But I should've told you what I saw."
Before I could answer, he leaned forward and kissed my forehead.
Then, after a hesitant second, my mouth.
We had kissed before.
This was different.
Slower.
Not obligation.
Not courtesy.
When we separated, Abel seemed almost embarrassed.
"We should go."
"Probably."
"Before I decide we shouldn't."
That time I did laugh.
Lavinia's house stood near the center of town, large by Miller's Gulch standards, with imported curtains and polished floors that remained suspiciously clean despite Wyoming mud.
Conversation fell quiet when Abel and I entered.
I saw Lavinia notice the dress.
Her eyes narrowed just enough.
Clara looked surprised.
Judge Nathaniel Whitmore was a silver-haired man in his early sixties with intelligent eyes and the tired patience of someone accustomed to listening to foolish arguments in court.
Abel introduced us.
"Mrs. Renfrew," the judge said, shaking my hand.
Unlike most men, he did not glance down at its size.
"I'm pleased to meet you."
"And I you, Judge."
"I understand you came from Pennsylvania."
"Yes, sir."
"Long journey."
"It was."
"Worth it?"
I looked toward Abel.
"Most days."
The judge laughed.
Abel muttered, "Most?"
"You burn coffee."
"You married me anyway."
"I didn't know about the coffee until afterward."
Judge Whitmore laughed harder.
Lavinia heard.
I could tell she disliked the sound.
Dinner began.
There were twelve guests.
Lavinia seated me precisely where she had promised—beside the judge.
At first, conversation remained harmless.
Rail lines.
Cattle prices.
Territorial politics.
Winter supplies.
The judge asked thoughtful questions.
I answered when I had something useful to say.
Apparently, that irritated Lavinia.
During the second course she turned toward me.
"Harriet, that is a surprisingly lovely dress."
"Thank you."
"Did you have it made?"
"No. I made it."
Clara's eyebrows lifted.
Lavinia smiled.
"How industrious."
Something in the word sharpened.
She continued.
"I suppose sewing is rather delicate work for someone accustomed to heavier labor."
Silence gathered slowly around the table.
Abel set down his fork.
I touched his knee beneath the table.
Lavinia pretended not to notice.
"Tell us, Harriet," she said, louder now. "Did you learn fine sewing before or after you began doing a man's work?"
The question hung there.
Everyone understood it.
It wasn't about sewing.
It was about me.
I placed my napkin beside my plate.
Then I looked directly at Lavinia.
"I learned that useful hands rarely remain idle long enough to become decorative."
Judge Whitmore lowered his mouth behind his napkin.
I caught the smile anyway.
Somebody at the far end coughed to cover a laugh.
Lavinia's face tightened.
Abel looked at me as though he might burst with pride.
I believed the worst part of the evening had passed.
Then someone began pounding on the front door.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Silas Peton stood.
"What in God's name?"
The door flew open before he reached it.
Earl Hutchins, who worked at the livery, stumbled inside with snow on his boots.
His face had gone white.
"Sheriff!"
Abel stood instantly.
"What happened?"
"It's Danny Pike. Horse threw him behind the stable. Landed wrong."
"Where is he?"
"Saloon. We couldn't get him farther."
Earl swallowed.
"His arm, Sheriff. It's bad."
Everything changed.
Chairs scraped.
Men grabbed coats.
The judge followed Abel immediately.
Lavinia protested that the doctor should be fetched.
Earl shook his head.
"Doc Mercer left for Cheyenne yesterday. Won't be back until Sunday."
Abel froze.
That mattered.
Everyone knew it.
The nearest physician besides Mercer lived almost forty miles away.
In winter conditions, maybe farther.
We hurried across the street.
The saloon had been cleared of drinkers.
Danny Pike lay across two pushed-together tables.
I knew Danny.
Seventeen years old.
Thin.
Restless.
Always grinning.
His father had died in a mining accident three years earlier, and he worked long hours at the stable to help support his mother and two younger sisters.
He wasn't grinning now.
His face was gray.
His right forearm was bent at an unnatural angle.
The swelling had already begun.
I stopped in the doorway.
For a moment, I was twenty-four again.
My father beside me.
A lantern swinging.
A boy screaming after falling from a hayloft.
Father's voice:
Don't look at the fear, Harriet. Look at the injury.
Abel dropped beside Danny.
"Easy, son."
"It hurts."
"I know."
"Don't let them cut it off."
Abel's face changed.
He looked toward the gathered men.
"Anybody know what to do?"
No answer.
Judge Whitmore examined the arm but didn't touch it.
"Someone has to set it."
"Who?" Earl asked.
"Mercer's two days away!"
Danny cried out.
His mother hadn't arrived yet.
His breathing came fast and shallow.
Abel looked helpless.
I had never seen that expression on him.
Not once.
Then I felt something inside me become very still.
The same stillness that had always come when my father placed an instrument in my hand.
I turned.
"Abel."
He looked at me.
"I need to go home."
"What?"
"My trunk."
He stared, confused.
"The brown leather case."
Understanding did not come.
Not yet.
I spoke more firmly.
"Bring me the medical case from beneath our bed."
The entire saloon looked at me.
Abel slowly stood.
"Harriet..."
"Go."
There must have been something in my voice he recognized.
He ran.
I moved toward Danny.
Lavinia followed.
"What could you possibly—"
"Boil water."
She blinked.
"What?"
I turned to Earl.
"Clean towels. Wooden slats about this long. Smooth ones."
I indicated the length.
Then to Silas Peton.
"Get me whiskey."
That he understood.
People began moving.
Judge Whitmore watched me carefully.
"Mrs. Renfrew."
"Yes?"
"You've done this before."
It wasn't a question.
Before I could answer, Danny moaned.
I bent beside him.
"My name is Harriet."
"I know."
"Good. Then you know I'm the sheriff's wife."
He nodded through tears.
"And if I wanted to hurt you, I'd have to answer to him."
A weak, frightened laugh escaped him.
"Mrs. Renfrew..."
"I'm going to help you."
"Can you?"
That was the only question that mattered.
I looked at his arm.
Then into his eyes.
"Yes."
Footsteps pounded outside.
Abel entered carrying the leather case.
He set it beside me.
I rested my hand on the worn surface.
For two years, I had kept it closed.
For eight months, nobody in Miller's Gulch had known it existed.
I opened the brass catches.
Click.
Click.
The lid rose.
Inside lay my father's instruments.
Bandages.
Forceps.
Scissors.
Needles.
Straps.
Tools polished by years of use.
The room became completely silent.
Abel stared into the case.
Then at me.
I rolled up my sleeves.
"All right," I said.
"Someone hold the boy steady."
And for the first time since I had arrived in Wyoming, nobody looked at my hands as though they were something I should hide.
They watched them because a boy's future depended on what those hands did next.
---