“How Long Do You Plan To Avoid Getting In Bed With Me?” — Her Words Made The Cowboy Freeze

The wind swept low across the red plains when Joseph Hail placed the folded papers on the wooden table. The room was simple, silent, carrying the faint scent of old tobacco and dust, the kind that settled into every beam of the ranch house. There were no flowers, no rings, no guests.

 Only two people sitting across from each other, signing away five years of their lives because the world had cornered them both in different painful ways. Mary Whitmore sat with her back straight, her hands carefully folded over her worn skirt. Her dress was old but clean, her hair neatly pinned, her eyes soft but refusing to break.

 She had the gentle look of someone raised to be polite, yet the spine of someone who had endured more responsibility than her age should have demanded. She didn’t tremble when Joseph pushed the contract toward her. Joseph signed first, a single sharp stroke of his pen, decisive but heavy. Mary signed after him, her breath catching only for a moment, as though she could feel the weight of the ink sinking into the paper like a stone dropped into water. Marriage contract.

5 years. Joseph needed a legitimate child before he turned 40 or the ranch, his father’s, his grandfathers, would be taken from him. Mary would receive the money her parents desperately needed to keep their land. No kiss, no vows, only inc obligation and a long, heavy silence.

 Joseph didn’t say a word after the signing. He simply stood, tipped his hat with the stiff politeness of a man who never learned how to be gentle, and walked out the door as if the air inside the house had suddenly become too tight around him. Mary watched him go, noting how his boots pressed deep into the dirt, how his shoulders hunched slightly, as if even the wind weighed on him.

 The ranch house loomed before her, larger than she expected, yet strangely hollow. When she stepped inside, the floorboards creaked like they were greeting a stranger. There were no curtains, no lace, no flowers. The walls were bare, save for a single photograph of a man who must have been Joseph’s father. Stern eyes, rigid posture, a shadow of sorrow around the mouth.

 Mary placed her small val on the table and opened it. Two dresses, a comb, a Bible with her mother’s handwriting inside the cover. That was all she owned in the world worth bringing. Joseph walked in again only long enough to say, “You can have the big room.” Mary swallowed. “And you?” The porch suits me fine.

 He didn’t stay for her response. He didn’t even look at her. Mary exhaled slowly. Joseph Hail didn’t want companionship. He wanted compliance. And she wasn’t here for love. She was here for survival. Still, she felt something cold bloom inside her chest when she realized how completely alone she was in this house built for two.

 Night settled over the ranch like a heavy blanket, but inside the house the cold felt sharper, cleaner, almost deliberate. Mary lay in the center of a bed far too large for one person, staring at the ceiling as the wind pulled long, mournful sounds from the eaves. She tugged the quilt closer, but no amount of fabric filled the emptiness on either side of her.

 Her thoughts wandered home. Her father hunched over the kitchen table, calculating overdue taxes, her mother pretending not to worry, as she needed dough with tired hands. The land they lived on had been in their family for two generations. Losing it would break them in ways Mary refused to imagine.

 “I did what I had to,” she reminded herself. “I’ll endure whatever comes.” Outside, Joseph sat on the porch with his back against a post, coat drawn tight. He didn’t sleep. The forged will, his uncle’s cruel trick, echoed through him like metal striking metal, produce an air before 40. Or the ranch is mine. He hated how powerless it made him feel.

He hated signing a contract to fix a trap he didn’t set. But more than anything, he hated the thought that Mary might believe he wanted this marriage. He didn’t want a wife he couldn’t be good to. He didn’t want to disappoint someone else. Two strangers, one wall between them, and miles of unspoken fear neither dared confront.

Morning came with a thin smell of coffee and the distant balling of cattle. Mary woke early, habit, duty, necessity. She braided her hair tight, rolled up her sleeves, and stepped into the kitchen expecting to find Joseph already gone. She was right. Only his empty cup sat on the table, a small ring of coffee staining the wood.

 She cleaned without complaint. The contract didn’t require her to help with ranch work, but she did anyway. She cooked simple meals. She swept. She mended a torn curtain. She fed the chickens when the feed bucket was left a skew. Small things, the kind only a woman would notice, and only a lonely man would pretend he didn’t appreciate.

Joseph watched from a distance. Always from a distance. He’d return from the fields and see Mary bent over the garden or hanging laundry in the wind. She moved quietly, gracefully, with a soft, steadiness that made something inside him twist uncomfortably. Guilt, maybe, or recognition. At dinner, they barely spoke.

 Mary offered him stew. He muttered a thank you without lifting his gaze. But late at night, Joseph would catch himself pausing at the door, hearing her soft footsteps inside. And sometimes Mary would glance through the window, catching the shape of him smoking on the porch, never coming in, never getting close.

 Two people living under the same roof. While carefully orbiting around each other like strangers, afraid of what might happen if they ever touched. It happened on the third week. Mary had taken it upon herself to carry a stack of chopped firewood toward the shed. She handled chores well, but the weight was more than she expected.

 The ground was uneven, slick with morning frost, and her boot slid on a patch of frozen mud. She stumbled. The wood tumbled. Her knee struck the edge of a stone, sending a sharp flare of pain up her leg. Joseph saw the whole thing from the corral. His heart lurched before his body did. He was at her side within seconds. Mary, hold on.

 His voice, normally flat and cool, cracked with something raw. She tried to push herself up. I’m fine, really. But when she put weight on her leg, she winced, her breath hitching. Joseph’s jaw tightened. “Stop! Don’t move!” Then, before she could protest, he lifted her, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back.

 Mary stiffened, startled by how easily he carried her, how warm his chest felt beneath her palms. “You don’t have to You’re hurt,” he muttered, eyes fixed ahead. “Let me do this.” It was the first time his hands had touched her. The first time she’d seen fear, not coldness, on his face. Inside the house, he lowered her gently onto the chair.

“I’ll get water and bandages.” Mary blinked, watching him practically sprint to the cupboard. For a brief moment, the silence between them didn’t feel icy. It felt human. Mary’s knee healed within days, but something between them shifted, subtle, fragile, noticeable. Joseph ate closer to her at supper. Mary found him leaving an extra piece of cornbread at her place.

He spoke a few words more each night, and she answered with soft nods and half smiles. She didn’t realize he noticed. But there was one thing neither of them addressed. The purpose of their marriage, the one condition the entire contract depended on. Joseph avoided it like poison. He worked late, stayed outside longer, slept on the porch even when the wind cut through his coat.

Every choice screamed the same message. He didn’t want to touch her and didn’t want to share a bed and didn’t want to be vulnerable. Mary wasn’t blind, nor was she naive. One cold evening, as she sat sewing by lamplight, she heard Joseph pacing outside the door. steps rough, uneven, like a man fighting a war inside his own ribs.

 She set her needle down, staring at the faint outline of his boots beneath the crack. They couldn’t go on like this. Not if the contract had any chance of being fulfilled. Not if her parents’ land was to be saved. Not if Joseph wanted to keep his ranch. And not if both of them were going to stay trapped in this limbo where fear pretended to be courtesy.

Mary inhaled slowly. Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow she would break the silence. Tomorrow she would force him to face what they were both avoiding. Joseph was already tightening the saddle cinch when Mary stepped onto the porch. Dawn wasn’t even fully awake, but he looked like a man trying to outrun the sun itself.

Joseph, she called. He didn’t turn. I’ll be out by the canyon today. Won’t be back till late. We need to talk. There’s nothing to There is. Her voice didn’t rise, but it cut clean through the cold morning air. He finally faced her. His eyes were tired, guarded. The eyes of a man who had been holding too much inside for too long.

 “I’m not here to make your life harder,” Mary said quietly. “You’re not?” His jaw tightened. “But you’re treating me like a ghost in this house.” A flicker of guilt crossed his face. “I just don’t want you to regret any of this. I won’t. She stepped closer. But we can’t keep living like we’re strangers sharing a roof.

 He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. I need time. Time won’t change what the contract requires. Joseph. He flinched at the word contract. Mary softened her tone. We both entered this bargain for reasons, but if you keep avoiding me completely. Neither of us gets what we came here for. Joseph looked away, fingers curling around the res.

 He didn’t leave, but he didn’t answer either. Mary realized then if she wanted progress, she would have to force the moment herself. The lantern flickered against the barn wall that evening as Joseph polished his saddle for the third unnecessary time. Mary stood in the doorway watching him pretend he wasn’t avoiding her. Joseph. He stiffened.

Mary, I’m busy. No, you’re hiding. He froze at that. She walked toward him, stopping an arm’s length away. This has to be said. His breathing hitched. Then Mary delivered the line that shattered every wall he’d built around himself. How long do you plan to avoid getting in bed with me? The saddle brush dropped from his hand.

 Joseph stared at her, stunned, almost pale. Mary didn’t retreat. You think I can make a baby all by myself, Joseph? His ears reened instantly. Embarrassment. Fear, pride, all tangled. It’s not that, he murmured, voice unsteady. Then what? She pressed. He opened his mouth, closed it. The truth hovered in his eyes.

 Shame, uncertainty, a fear of doing everything wrong. I don’t want to hurt you, he finally said. and I don’t want to spend the next year living beside someone who won’t even look at me,” she replied softly. “We made an agreement.” “You need an heir. I need the money to save my parents’ land. If you keep running from this, we both lose.

” Joseph looked like a man standing on a cliff edge, terrified to jump, terrified not to. “Mary,” he whispered. I’m trying. Then try with me, she said. Just meet me halfway. Joseph stood in the bedroom doorway like a soldier walking into enemy fire. Mary sat on the edge of the bed, fingers clasped tightly together.

 Neither spoke at first. “You don’t have to be afraid,” she said gently. He let out a shaky breath. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of doing this wrong. There is no wrong, she whispered. There’s only trying. He sat beside her, stiff as a fence post. The mattress dipped, and for the first time, he felt her closeness, warm, steady, human.

 They approached each other awkwardly. His hands were hesitant. Hers trembled despite her resolve. Their first kiss missed slightly. Their first touch wasn’t smooth. Nothing about it resembled the wild stories sung in saloons. But slowly, carefully, they found a rhythm, not passionate, not perfect, just real.

 Two strangers trying to honor a bargain they barely understood. When it was over, Joseph lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like it might judge him. “Was Was it all right?” he asked quietly. “It was enough,” Mary said, and she meant it. He turned his head, eyes softening for the first time. “Thank you for being patient.” She smiled faintly.

“We’re in this together, Joseph. For the first time since the agreement, they slept in the same bed, and Joseph didn’t move to the porch. Three quiet months slipped by after their first night together, quiet, careful, but no longer cold. Joseph still spoke little, still moved around the ranch like a man made of stiff boards, but he didn’t avoid Mary anymore.

 He fixed the loose hinge on her dresser without being asked. He left a mug of warm tea by her seat in the mornings. Small things, awkward things, things he didn’t know how to say out loud. Mary worked the ranch with her usual determination. But one morning, halfway through feeding the chickens, she suddenly leaned against the fence, dizzy.

Joseph rushed toward her, hands fumbling as if he’d never helped a human being before. Mary. Mary, sit down here. Lean on me. Slow, slow. She blinked, breath unsteady. I’m fine. Just lightheaded. No, you’re not. His voice cracked more than he wanted. Their local midwife confirmed it 2 days later. Mary was pregnant.

 Joseph stood frozen, hat in hand, shoulders trembling with too many emotions at once. Relief, awe, terror. Mary watched him carefully. You okay? He nodded slowly, then knelt in front of her, both hands resting on her waist as if she were something fragile. I just didn’t think this would ever actually happen. She touched his cheek softly.

It is happening. That night, Joseph sat beside her in bed instead of hugging the edge. And for the first time, Mary felt his hand rest protectively over her belly without hesitation. Labor came early. Too early. A storm rolled over the valley, thunder shaking the cabin walls while Mary struggled for breath, gripping the bed sheets with white knuckles.

 The midwife barked orders. Joseph tried to stay strong, but his hands shook violently as he fetched towels, boiled water, held Mary upright through each wave of pain. “Joseph,” she gasped. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” But inside, he was falling apart. Every scream tore him open. Every minute felt like a lifetime dragging her closer to danger.

 At one point, Mary slumped back, too exhausted to speak. The midwife snapped. She’s fading. Keep her awake. Joseph grabbed Mary’s hand, voice breaking. Mary, stay with me. Please don’t leave. I can’t I can’t do this without you. Tears stung his eyes, falling freely. He didn’t care who saw. Then, after one final agonizing push, a cry split the air, sharp, alive, miraculous.

The baby boy was placed in Joseph’s trembling arms. His knees nearly buckled. Mary was barely conscious, chest rising in uneven breaths. Joseph knelt beside her, placing their son gently against her shoulder. He’s here. And you’re here. Thank God. His voice cracked completely. Mary, I love you.

 I love you. Please don’t ever scare me like that again. Her fingers brushed his cheek. Weak but certain. I’m not going anywhere. 5 years later, the ranch echoed with a different kind of noise. Laughter. Their boy, Caleb, chased the family dog across the yard while the evening sun spilled gold over everything it touched. Joseph stepped outside holding a folded sheet of paper, the original contract.

The one that said either party could walk away when the child turned six. Mary glanced up from shelling beans on the porch. What’s that? Joseph exhaled. A mistake I’m fixing. He tore the paper down the middle. Mary stood, walked over, and snatched the halves from his hands. Hold on, cowboy. He blinked. Mary, you don’t get to decide alone.

 She smoothed the torn edges. If we’re renegotiating, we do it properly. She grabbed a pencil from the porch table and scribbled on the margin before handing it back. Joseph read aloud, “Addendum. Joseph Hail will love, protect, and care for Mary Hail for as long as either one draws breath.

 Effective immediately, no expiration.” He stared at the words, “Simple, fierce, unmistakably merry.” Then he laughed bright and unrestrained. “Ma’am,” he said, offering his hand. “It’s an honor to renew this agreement.” Mary shook it firmly. “Please doing business with you.” He pulled her close, kissed her slow, the kind of kiss that belonged to years of choosing each other, not contracts.

Caleb’s giggles echoed across the yard. Their family, once built on desperation, now lived on something stronger than any signature. Love. chosen freely every single day.