Ruth's brown smoky liner had softened in the heat; her glossy terracotta lips trembled and then smiled. "Only if you let me teach the left foot for the rest of our lives."
"Deal," Walt said.
She said yes. The windmill sang. Somewhere a meadowlark agreed. They danced in the dirt aisle of the barn as dusk came down, and if there were ghosts in the rafters they were kind ones, tapping time.
The wedding was in September, small, in the Methodist church with sunflowers on the altar because some traditions deserve to continue even when the names change. Margaret cried. Dale carved at the reception in the Miller barn, which had been cleaned within an inch of its life. Mrs. Henshaw supervised the pies like a general. Ruth wore a dress that was not quite prairie and not quite city, cream-colored, lace at the collar, and she played one song herself before the dancing began—an open phrase from a winter morning finally closed in front of everyone who mattered. Walt wore the sheepskin vest over a pressed shirt, brass buckle shining, brown Stetson hung respectfully near the door. When they two-stepped for the first time as husband and wife, he stepped on her boot once, laughed, and let her pull him closer.
"Still got two left feet," he murmured.