She laughed, and the laugh turned into a quieter sound, and he held her while the cold tried and failed to get between them.
December settled over Dawson County like a held breath. Snow came in soft installments. Walt drove into town more often than feed schedules required. Ruth came to the ranch twice a week with her fiddle and a thermos, and sometimes they played records on Eleanor's old turntable—Merle, Emmylou, a scratched Hank Williams album Walt had been afraid to touch—and sometimes Ruth played live while Walt mended tack and pretended the music was background when it was the whole room. They two-stepped in the kitchen once, between the stove and the table, laughing when he nearly knocked over a chair. "Still got two left feet," he said. "I'll teach the left one first," she answered, and the callback felt like a door staying open.
Margaret invited Ruth to Sunday dinner. Dale carved the roast. Margaret's teenage daughter asked Ruth if she knew any songs that weren't old, and Ruth played something that had been on the radio that year until the girl forgot to look bored. Afterward Margaret cornered Walt in the mudroom.
"She's good for you."
"I know."