She looked up at him. He looked down at her, realizing he was seeing her differently than he had seen her before. Her brown eyes stared back at him, unblinking, clear, and, he thought, beautiful. To others she was not a beautiful woman, but her features were regular and pleasing, and she might be thought beautiful if she were not a ranch girl. Her hands were red and calloused, but her wrists were small and delicate and somehow precious. She had thin shoulders, and that surprised him, having thought of her as sturdy and, maybe, stocky. Her breasts, which he had noticed many times before, were heavier than he would have thought for a woman who was actually slight.

“Yes,” she said. “Go away.”

He felt like a horse. He would catch her at the odd moment, looking at him, sizing him up, judging him. More often than not, she wore a frown. There was an occasional smile, a less occasional neutral look, but mostly her brows were down. He would straighten his back, lift his chin, take off his hat, and run his hand through his hair, become more deliberate in his actions and more self-conscious. Once or twice, he began to whistle a tuneless sibilance to indicate that he was not bothered by the scrutiny, or that he even welcomed it.

But he did not. It was not natural for a woman to eye a man that way—openly, critically. The smallest tasks became difficult for him. Once he tripped and nearly fell just walking to the barn. Another time he hammered his thumb and endured the pain silently, showing her his strength of character. Pain was not meant to be endured without swearing, and it confirmed a deep-seated suspicion that the overly holy were deficient.

He was soaping a bridle before putting it away when she came into the tack room. “And how do you feel about children?” she asked.

“Good day to you, too, Mattie. I like children. I used to be one.”

“I wasn't looking for a smart answer or an entertainment.”

“Yes,” he said. “I guess I know that. I like children just fine, and I want to have children. A man should have sons to carry his name forward.”

“And daughters.”

“Yes. Daughters, too, though they do not carry the name forward.”

“It will be a sacrifice.”

“How's that?”

“Marrying me. It will be a sacrifice. A big sacrifice. You'll need to give up your pleasures.”

“Marrying you won't be a pleasure?”

“Probably not the kind you're counting on. You will stay home. Friday nights you won't go out unless I go with you. The same for Saturday. And Sunday is for church.”

“You don't go to church very often, Mattie.”

“I will. And you will, too. And the drinking. And smoking. And swearing.”

“My goodness, Mattie. You want me to turn preacher?”