He sat across from her. The brass buckle pressed against the table edge. He took off his Stetson and set it aside, greying temples uncovered. "When Eleanor died, everybody told me she'd want me to be happy. They meant well. What they didn't say is that happiness after somebody dies feels like theft at first. Like you're stealing from the grave. It took me three years to dance. It might take me three more to stop feeling like joy is a kind of disloyalty. But the other night in that barn, when your string broke and I had a spare— that didn't feel like theft. It felt like she left me a tool and you handed me a reason to use it."
Ruth reached across the table and took his hand. Her fingers were cold from the walk in from the truck. "So what do we do with Denver?"
"You go," Walt said. "You play. You find out if the open door leads somewhere you need. And I stay here and keep the porch light on and the spare strings in my pocket. And if you come back in March, I'll meet you at the county line with coffee. And if you don't—" He stopped, swallowed. "If you don't, I'll still have learned how to dance again. That counts for something."
"That's a terrible bargain," Ruth said, but she was smiling through it. "You're supposed to fight for me. Isn't that how these stories go?"
"I am fighting," Walt said. "I'm fighting the part of me that wants to ask you to shrink your life so I can keep mine small and safe. You deserve the gig. I deserve not to be the reason you resent winter."