She Was Working Herself To De4th In The Fields, The Cowboy Said “Let Me Carry That Load”

The blood red sun beat down mercilessly on Theresa Bryson’s back as she struggled to lift another bail of hay, her muscles screaming in protest. April 1875 had been unforgiving in the droughtstricken farmlands outside Laramy, Wyoming territory. At 24, Theresa had already lived several lifetimes of hardship.

 Her once soft hands now calloused and cracked, her fair skin bronzed and weathered by years of working the unyielding land that had claimed both her parents. Just one more row, she muttered to herself, though her trembling arms betrayed the lie.

 The family farm had been failing long before the fever took her father last winter, leaving her alone with mounting debts and endless work. Sweat dripped into her eyes, and she paused to wipe her brow with a tattered sleeve, leaving a streak of dirt across her forehead. She didn’t hear the approaching hoof beatats over her labored breathing, didn’t notice the tall figure dismounting at the edge of the field, didn’t sense his presence until a shadow fell across her.

 Madam, that load looks mighty heavy for one person to be carrying. Theresa startled, nearly dropping the bale as she whirled around to face the stranger. He stood a full head taller than her, broad shouldered with sunlightened brown hair peeking from beneath a worn stson. His face was tanned and lined around the eyes the mark of a man who spent his days squinting against the western sun.

 I managed just fine,” she replied, lifting her chin defiantly despite the weariness in every limb. “What business brings you to my property, mister?” Miles Xavier, he said, touching the brim of his hat. Cattle driver passing through saw you working alone out here. His eyes deep blue like a mountain lake surveyed the vast field and the many bales yet to be moved.

 Let me carry that load for you. I don’t need charity, Theresa insisted, attempting to hoist the bail again. Her arms gave out and the hay tumbled to the ground. She bit her lip in frustration, refusing to meet his gaze. Without another word, Miles bent down and effortlessly lifted the bail, his strong arms flexing beneath his worn cotton shirt. “Just point me where to take it, Miss Bryson.

 Theresa Bryson,” she replied reluctantly. “The stack by the barn.” As Miles carried the heavy bail toward the weathered barn, Theresa found herself watching the easy way he moved, the confidence set of his shoulders. It had been months since she’d spoken to anyone other than the banker threatening foreclosure or the mercantile owner who was running out of patience for her to settle her father’s outstanding accounts.

 Miles returned, reaching for another bail. This is a lot of work for one person. I don’t have much choice, Theresa admitted. The farm doesn’t run itself, and hired hands cost money I don’t have. Well, I’ve got some time before I need to catch up with my outfit, Miles offered.

 I could help you get these bales in before sundown, Theresa hesitated. Pride told her to refuse, but practicality went out. I can offer you supper in exchange, she said finally. Nothing fancy, but it’s hot. Miles smiled, revealing a small dimple in his right cheek. That’s more than fair, Miss Bryson. They worked together through the afternoon, miles carrying two bales for everyone Theresa managed.

 The work that would have taken her days was completed before the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the Wyoming sky in stripes of orange and purple. In the small farmhouse kitchen, Theresa stirred a pot of bean stew that had been simmering all day, adding the last of her dried herbs. She’d sent Miles to the water pump to clean up, feeling suddenly self-conscious about her own disheveled appearance.

Quickly, she splashed water on her face from the basin, smoothed her hair back into its bun, and changed into her one good dress of faded blue cotton that had once belonged to her mother. When Miles returned, his hair was damp, face freshly scrubbed. He’d removed his duster and Theresa noticed a holstered revolver at his hip.

The leather worn with age and use. “Smells mighty good in here,” he said, standing awkwardly in the doorway, hat in hand. “Been a while since I’ve had a home-cooked meal.” “Sit,” Theresa instructed, gesturing to the small wooden table. “It’s not much, but it’s filling.” Over bowls of stew and the last of her cornbread, Theresa found herself talking more than she had in months.

 Miles was easy to talk to, his questions gentle but interested. “How long have you been on your own here?” he asked. “Since December.” Pa held on through Christmas at least. Theresa stared into her bowl. “Ma died when I was 16. It’s been just me and Pa for a long time.” Miles nodded thoughtfully. “My parents had a small spread in Colorado.

Lost them both to a flash flood when I was 17. Been working cattle drives ever since. The simple sharing of loss created a bridge between them, an understanding that needed no elaborate words. “Where are you headed?” Theresa asked, refilling his cup with chory coffee. “The outfit I ride with is driving a herd up from Texas to Montana,” Miles explained.

 “I got separated during a thunderstorm 2 days back. Horse came up lame, so I’ve been making slow progress. Should catch up with them in a few days.” You’re welcome to stay in the barn tonight,” Theresa offered, surprising herself. “Your horse could use the rest, and it’s getting late,” Miles studied her face, seeming to understand her reluctance to appear improper by inviting a stranger to stay. “I appreciate that, Miss Bryson. I’ll be gone at first light.

” That night, Theresa lay awake longer than usual, listening to the night sounds of the prairie. Knowing someone else was on the property, even if only in the barn, brought an unexpected comfort. She’d grown accustomed to solitude. But tonight, it felt like a burden temporarily lifted.

 Morning arrived with golden lights streaming through threadbear curtains. Theresa dressed quickly and made her way to the kitchen, intent on preparing breakfast before Miles departed. To her surprise, she found him already at the water pump filling her kitchen bucket. Good morning, he said, carrying the water inside. Hope you don’t mind.

 Thought I’d make myself useful before heading out. Thank you, Theresa replied, flustered by the simple kindness. She busied herself making biscuits and frying the last of her bacon. Your outfit must be worried about you. Miles leaned against the door frame. They know I can handle myself. Trail boss is more likely worried about losing an experienced hand. They ate breakfast together.

 the conversation easier than the night before. When Miles finally stood to leave, Theresa felt an unexpected pang of regret. “I’m obliged for your hospitality, Miss Bryson,” he said, settling his hat on his head. “And if you don’t mind some advice, that South Fence line could use some reinforcement before your next big storm.” Theresa walked with him to the barn where his chestnut geling was saddled and ready.

 I know there’s a lot that needs fixing, just not enough hours in the day or coins in my purse. Miles mounted his horse, looking down at her with those piercing blue eyes. You’re working yourself to death out here alone. It’s my home, she said simply. What choice do I have for a moment? Miles looked like he wanted to say more, but instead he tipped his hat.

Thank you again for the meals and the barn. Good luck to you, Miss Bryson. Theresa watched him ride away, a solitary figure against the vast Wyoming landscape until he disappeared beyond the rolling hills. Only then did she turn back to her endless chores, the farm somehow feeling emptier than before.

 3 days passed in the usual routine of backbreaking work. Theresa mended fences until her fingers bled, collected eggs, milked her only cow, and tended her vegetable garden with desperate determination. Each night she fell into bed exhausted, pushing away thoughts of the blue-eyed cowboy who had briefly lightened her burden.

 On the fourth day, as she struggled to fix the sagging roof of the chicken coupe, Theresa heard the now familiar sound of hoof beatats approaching. Her heart quickened as she turned to see Miles Xavier riding toward the farmhouse, leading a second horse packed with supplies. “Miss Bryson,” he called, dismounting with fluid grace.

 “Seems I’ve found myself with some unexpected free time.” Theresa climbed down from her precarious perch on the coupe. “Your outfit moved on without you,” Miles shrugged, an easy smile spreading across his face. “They needed to keep to their schedule. I told them I’d catch up in Billings. He gestured to the packed horse.

 Brought some supplies. Thought maybe I could help with those repairs before I head north. Suspicion war with hope in Theresa’s chest. Why would you do that? You don’t know me. Let’s just say I know what it’s like to be alone with too much to carry. His eyes held hers steadily. No strings attached, just offering a hand where it’s needed.

 Theresa’s practical nature calculated quickly the roof needed fixing before the next rain. The south fence was barely standing and the well pump had been sticking for weeks. Pride was a luxury she couldn’t afford. 2 weeks, she said finally. I can offer room and board in exchange for help with repairs. Then we’re square. Miles nodded, satisfaction evident in his expression. Two weeks it is.

 The first week passed in a blur of activity. Miles proved to be as skilled with tools as he was with cattle, methodically addressing the most critical repairs around the farm. Together, they rebuilt the south fence line, fixed the chicken coupe roof, and repaired the sticky pump. Theresa found herself watching him when he wasn’t looking.

 The careful precision of his movements, the quiet competence in his hands, the occasional smile that transformed his weathered face. Each evening over supper, they talked more freely, sharing stories of their lives. “How’d you learn all these repair skills?” Theresa asked one night as they sat on the porch watching fireflies emerge in the gathering dusk.

 “My paw believed a man should know how to work with his hands,” Miles replied, whittling a small piece of wood. “And I’ve picked up bits and pieces on different ranches. When something breaks on the trail, you either fix it or do without. You’re good at it, Theresa admitted. That pump hasn’t worked this well since P got sick. Miles glanced at her, his expression softening. You’ve been carrying a heavy load, Theresa.

 It was the first time he’d used her given name, and something in the way he said it made her chest tighten. We all have our burdens, she replied quietly. True, Miles agreed. But some try to carry theirs all alone when they don’t have to. The conversation shifted to lighter topics, but his words lingered in Theresa’s mind long after she’d retired to her bedroom.

 During the second week, they tackled the barn’s leaking roof, replaced rotting porch steps, and cleared irrigation channels for her small fields. Working alongside Miles, Theresa found herself laughing more than she had in years. The crushing weight of solitude temporarily lifted from her shoulders. On Wednesday, they rode together to Laramy for supplies.

 Miles insisting on using some of his own wages to purchase materials for remaining repairs. The shopkeeper, Mr. Hollister, raised his eyebrows at seeing Theresa with a companion, but had the good sense not to comment directly. “Your credit’s good again, Miss Bryson,” he said instead, glancing at Miles. “With the company you’re keeping.

” Theresa felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment and anger. My credit should be good based on my character, Mr. Hollister, not on who accompanies me to town. Miles stepped forward, his presence suddenly commanding the small space. Miss Bryson has been working that farm single-handedly, sir.

 I’d say that speaks volumes about her character. Mr. Hollister had the decency to look abashed. No offense intended. Just ain’t seen you with a smile on your face in a long time, Miss Bryson. The ride back to the farm was quiet. Theresa’s thoughts churning between gratitude for Miles’s defense and humiliation that it had been necessary.

 “People talk,” she finally said as they crossed the creek that marked her property line. “A woman alone with a man she barely knows they’ll assume things.” Miles guided his horse alongside hers. “Does that bother you?” Theresa considered the question carefully. “It should.” “But I’m finding I care less about what others think and more about.

” She paused, uncertain how to continue. More about what, Miles prompted gently. More about not feeling so alone, she admitted, vulnerability making her voice soft. That evening, as they unloaded supplies, their hands brushed accidentally. Theresa felt a jolt of awareness run through her, followed by an unfamiliar warmth.

 Miles held her gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary before continuing his work, a subtle tension now humming between them. Two days later, disaster struck. Theresa was checking her vegetable garden when she heard a crash from the barn, followed by Miles’s shout of pain. She ran toward the sound, heart pounding in her chest.

 Inside the barn, she found Miles pinned beneath a fallen support beam, his face white with pain. Miles, she cried, rushing to his side. What happened? Beam gave way. He managed through gritted teeth. Rotted through more than I thought. Working together, they managed to lever the beam off his leg, but it was immediately clear that the injury was serious.

 His lower leg was bent at an unnatural angle and blood soaked through his pant leg. “We need to get you to a doctor,” Theresa said, already tearing strips from her pedicote to bind the wound. “Larame’s too far,” Miles argued, sweat beating on his forehead. “Just help me to the house.

” With considerable effort, Theresa supported Miles as he hopped on his good leg to the farmhouse. She helped him onto her father’s old bed, then rushed to fetch water and clean cloths. “I need to cut away your pant leg,” she told him, retrieving her sharpest scissors. Miles nodded, jaw clenched against the pain.

 As Theresa carefully cut the fabric away, she revealed a jagged wound where bone had pierced skin. Fighting nausea, she cleaned the area as gently as possible. It’s broken badly, she said, meeting his eyes. I don’t know how to set it properly. Had a broken leg before, Miles replied, his voice strained. Need to straighten it and splint it tight.

 What followed was one of the most harrowing experiences of Theresa’s life. Following Miles’s tur instructions, she braced herself to pull his leg straight while he held onto the bed frame. His scream when the bone realigned tore through her heart, and she had to blink back tears as she hurried to bind the leg between two straight pieces of wood.

 By the time she finished, Miles had passed out from the pain. Theresa sat beside him, gently wiping his face with a cool cloth, her hands trembling with the aftermath of adrenaline. The practiced self-reliance that had sustained her for years suddenly felt insufficient. For the first time, she allowed herself to acknowledge how deeply she’d come to care for this man who had appeared so unexpectedly in her life.

 The next few days established a new routine. Miles was confined to bed, feverish and in pain despite Theresa’s careful nursing and the willow bark tea she brewed to ease his discomfort. She divided her time between tending to him and completing essential farm chores, often working late into the night to ensure everything was done. On the third evening, Miles’s fever finally broke.

“Terresa found him awake and lucid when she brought his supper, his blue eyes clear for the first time since the accident. “You should have gone for the doctor,” he chided gently, watching as she arranged his meal on a tray and left you alone. “Not likely.” Theresa helped him sit up against the pillows.

 Besides, who would do the chores if I spent all day riding to town and back? Miles caught her hand as she turned to leave. You’ve been working yourself to death again. The simple touch of his callous fingers around hers made Theresa’s breath catch. I’m used to hard work.

 That doesn’t mean you deserve it, Miles replied, his thumb tracing small circles on her wrist. Thank you for taking care of me. You were supposed to be helping me, Theresa reminded him with a small smile. Not making more work. I’ve overstayed my two weeks, Miles acknowledged. As soon as I can ride, I’ll be out of your hair. Theresa felt an unexpected pang at his words. There’s no rush, she said carefully. Your leg needs time to heal properly.

Their eyes met something unspoken passing between them. Miles’s hand tightened slightly around hers. Theresa. I a sudden clap of thunder interrupted whatever he had been about to say. Theresa jumped, pulling her hand away. Storm’s coming. I need to check the animals. She hurried outside, heart racing as she secured the chicken coupe and made sure the barn doors were tightly fastened.

The sky had turned an ominous green black wind whipping her skirts around her legs as she ran back to the house just as the first heavy drops began to fall. By midnight, the storm had become a deluge. Rain hammered against the roof and windows, wind howling around the eaves of the old farmhouse.

 Theresa sat in the kitchen, unable to sleep as she listened to the fury of the elements, worrying about her crops and fences. A particularly violent gust rattled the house, and she heard Miles call her name from the bedroom. She found him attempting to get out of bed, face tense with pain.

 “What are you doing?” she demanded, hurrying to his side. You can’t walk on that leg. Roof’s leaking, he said, gesturing to the corner where water had begun to drip steadily onto the floor. Need to check the rest of the house. Theresa pushed him gently back onto the bed. I’ll check. You stay put. A quick inspection revealed several leaks throughout the house. Theresa placed buckets and pots to catch the water, then returned to Miles’s room with extra blankets.

 “How bad is it?” he asked, watching her face. “Nothing that can’t be fixed once the storm passes,” she replied, trying to sound more confident than she felt. The truth was the farm could ill afford another setback, and roof repairs would require money she didn’t have. Another powerful gust shook the house, and suddenly the bedroom window burst inward, glass shattering across the floor as rain and wind invaded the room. Theresa cried out in surprise, instinctively shielding her face.

“Terresa!” Miles shouted, struggling to rise. She rushed to the window, fighting against the wind to close the shutters. Rain soaked her night dress, plastering it to her skin as she finally secured the latches and turned back to the room.

 Miles had managed to get himself upright, leaning heavily against the bedpost. Their eyes met across the rain spattered room, and something in his expression made her heart stutter. “You’re freezing,” he said, his voice rough. “Come here,” Theresa hesitated only a moment before crossing to him. Miles wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, his hands lingering longer than necessary. “You’re trembling,” he observed, drawing her closer.

 “Just the cold,” she whispered, though they both knew it wasn’t entirely true. Miles’s hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing away raindrops or perhaps tears. “Terresa,” he said softly. “I never planned to stay this long, but I’m finding it harder to imagine leaving.” The confession hung between them, honest and unadorned. “Terresa closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself to lean into his touch.

 I’m finding it harder to imagine you gone,” she admitted, opening her eyes to meet his gaze directly. Miles drew her closer, giving her every opportunity to pull away. Instead, Theresa lifted her face to his, and their lips met in a kiss that began gently but quickly deepened with weeks of unspoken longing. When they finally parted, both breathless, Miles rested his forehead against hers.

 “I should probably sit down before I fall down,” he admitted rofully, his injured leg trembling with the strain of standing. Theresa helped him back to the bed. her mind reeling with the implications of what had just happened between them. As Miles settled against the pillows, he kept hold of her hand. “Stay,” he said simply. “Just to sleep.

It’s cold, and I reckon we both could use the company tonight.” Outside, the storm continued to rage, but within the small bedroom, Theresa made a decision that would alter the course of her life. She slipped under the covers beside Miles, her head coming to rest naturally against his shoulder as his arm encircled her.

 “Is this proper?” she murmured even as she nestled closer to his warmth. Miles chuckled softly. “Not in the least, but it feels right, doesn’t it? And it did more right than anything had felt since her father’s death.” In Miles’s arms, the relentless burden of solitude lifted, if only for one stormy night.

 By morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a soden landscape and considerable damage to the farm. The eastern fence was down. The chicken coupe roof had partially collapsed again, and the vegetable garden was flooded. Theresa surveyed the destruction with a heavy heart, calculating how many more impossible days of work lay ahead.

 She was so absorbed in her assessment that she didn’t hear Miles approach until he spoke from behind her, leaning heavily on a makeshift crutch he’d fashioned. “We’ll fix it,” he said simply, his free arm coming around her waist. “One thing at a time,” Theresa turned in his embrace. “We Your leg is broken, Miles.

And you have an outfit waiting for you in Montana. They’ll manage without me,” he replied, his eyes serious as they held hers. Unless you’re asking me to go. The moment stretched between them, waited with possibility.

 Theresa thought of all the practical reasons to send him on his way, the impropriy, the uncertainty, the risk of opening her heart. Then she thought of the endless solitary days before his arrival. And the thought of returning to that existence suddenly seemed unbearable. I’m not asking you to go, she said finally. But I can’t ask you to stay either. This farm is barely supporting one person, let alone two.

Miles’s hand came up to brush a strand of hair from her face. What if I told you I’ve been saving most of my wages these past years? That I’ve been looking for a place to put down roots. Hope fluttered in Theresa’s chest, fragile as a newborn bird. I’d say that sounds too convenient to be true. Truth is, Miles continued, a smile warming his eyes.

 I’d been planning to look at land up in Montana, but plans change when you find something someone worth changing for. Theresa searched his face, looking for any sign of insincerity. You barely know me. I know you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met, Miles replied. I know you work harder than any three men I’ve ridden with. I know you’re stubborn and proud and kind, his voice softened.

 And I know that every day I spend with you makes me want to spend another. The simple honesty of his words brought tears to Theresa’s eyes. “It won’t be easy,” she warned. “This place demands everything you have and gives little in return.” “Then it’s fortunate I’ve got plenty to give,” Miles said, bending to kiss her softly. “And I’m not afraid of hard work.

” Over the following weeks, as Miles’s legs slowly healed, they established a partnership that extended beyond romantic feelings. Miles proved to be as good with numbers as he was with repairs, reviewing her father’s ledgers and helping Theresa develop a plan to make the farm viable again. “If we plant alfalfa in the north field,” he suggested one evening as they sat at the kitchen table, papers spread between them, we could sell it as feed come fall. “Better profit margin than wheat given the soil quality.” Theresa nodded,

adding notes to their growing list. And if the chicken coupe expansion works, we could double egg production by winter. They worked together each day. Miles handling what tasks he could with his healing leg. Theresa taking on the more physically demanding chores.

 In the evenings, they planned and dreamed, their vision for the farm expanding with their deepening feelings for each other. One month after the storm, Mr. Hollister from the general store rode out to the farm with news. Railroads coming through 10 mi north, he announced, accepting the coffee Theresa offered.

 They’re looking for regular suppliers of fresh goods for their dining cars, eggs, butter, vegetables, quality stuff for their first class passengers. The opportunity was significant. A contract with the railroad would provide steady income and potentially transform their financial situation. Miles and Theresa exchanged a look of cautious optimism. When do they need to know? Miles asked. Weeks end.

 Hollister replied. They’re talking with the Petersons, too, but between us, he lowered his voice conspiratorally. Their eggs ain’t half as good as yours, Miss Bryson. After Hollister departed, Theresa and Miles sat on the porch contemplating the potential turning point before them. “We need to invest in more chickens,” Theresa said, “and improve the dairy setup for butter production.

” Miles nodded, his hand finding hers. I’ve got the savings to cover it. The question is, do you want a partner in this venture, Theresa, in every sense of the word? She turned to face him fully, recognizing the deeper question beneath his words. Are you proposing a business arrangement or something more, Mr.

 Xavier? A slow smile spread across Miles’s face. Well, now, Miss Bryson, I reckon I’m proposing both. He shifted to face her, wincing slightly as he adjusted his spinted leg. I didn’t plan on finding you when I rode onto your farm that day, but I’m mighty glad I did. Theresa’s heart quickened as Miles reached into his pocket and withdrew a small silver ring. Simple but beautifully crafted.

“Bought this in town yesterday,” he admitted. “It’s not fancy, but neither are we.” His eyes held her steadily. “I love you, Theresa. I love your strength and your determination. I love the way you never give up, even when you’re working yourself to death.

 And I’d consider it the greatest honor of my life if you’d let me share your burdens and your joys from this day forward.” Tears blurred Theresa’s vision as emotions overwhelmed her joy, disbelief, and a profound sense of coming home after being lost for so long. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Miles.

” They were married two weeks later in Laramy’s small church with only the minister, his wife, and a few towns folk as witnesses. Theresa wore her mother’s dress, carefully altered with wild flowers in her hair. Miles stood tall and proud, his leg healing well enough that he needed only a cane for support. The railroad contract came through the following week, providing the financial stability they needed to begin expanding their operation.

They named their enterprise Bryson Xavier Farm, honoring both their legacies as they built something new together. That first year brought challenges of plenty drought in August, an early frost in September, and the constant work of meeting their contractual obligations.

 But each evening Theresa returned to a home warmed by more than just the fire in the hearth. The solitude that had once threatened to consume her had been replaced by partnership, by shared burdens and doubled joys. On their first anniversary, Miles presented Theresa with a rocking chair for the porch handcrafted during stolen moments over the winter. “Thought you might need this soon,” he said.

 A meaningful glance at her midsection where the first subtle signs of their child had begun to show. Theresa placed her hand over her stomach, still amazed by the new life growing within her. “How did you know?” “I only just became certain myself.” “You’ve been glowing for weeks,” Miles replied, drawing her into his arms.

 “And you’ve been adding extra milk to your coffee every morning.” “Terresa” laughed, leaning into his embrace. “You notice everything about you?” “Absolutely.” Miles kissed her tenderly. “Are you happy, Theresa? Truly, she considered the question, thinking of the long journey from that sweltering day when a stranger had offered to carry her load. The farm was prospering now, their home filled with love and purpose.

 The work remained demanding, but it was work they shared, its fruits enjoyed together. “I’m happier than I ever thought possible,” she answered honestly. “Who would have thought that a broken down cowboy with a soft heart would change everything? Who would have thought a stubborn, beautiful farmer would let him, Miles countered, his eyes crinkling with the smile that still made her heart skip? Their son was born the following spring, a sturdy boy they named Thomas James Xavier, with his father’s blue eyes and his mother’s determined chin.

Miles proved to be as natural a father as he had been a farmer, carrying the baby in a sling across his chest while he worked, singing old trail songs as lullabibis. By the time Thomas was two, the Bryson Xavier farm had become one of the most successful operations in the county.

 Known for quality produce and reliability, they had added three farm hands to help with the expanded fields and livestock, built a new barn, and completely renovated the farmhouse. On a warm summer evening, much like the one when Miles had first ridden onto the property, they sat together on the porch watching Thomas toddle after fireflies in the yard. Theresa leaned against her husband’s shoulder, his arm a comfortable weight around her.

 “Remember when you told me I was working myself to death?” she asked, watching their son’s delighted face as he chased the glowing insects. “Mm,” Miles murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. You were carrying too heavy a load alone. I didn’t think I had a choice then, Theresa reflected. I couldn’t imagine any other life.

 Miles’s hand found hers, their fingers intertwining with the easy familiarity of deep love. And now Theresa turned to meet his gaze, seeing in his eyes the same devotion that had been there from those early days. Now I can’t imagine any life without you carrying it with me. As the Wyoming sun dipped below the horizon, painting the land in hues of gold and amber, Miles drew his wife closer and their son ran back to climb into their laps.

The once failing farm had transformed into a thriving home, and the woman who had worked herself to death in the fields had found not just help with her burden, but a love that made even the heaviest loads bearable when shared. 5 years after Miles Xavier had written onto her farm, Theresa sat at their kitchen table reviewing the accounts for their now thriving business.

 Their railroad contract had expanded to include three different lines, and they’d added a small apple orchard that promised to yield its first significant harvest that fall. Thomas, now five, sat beside her, carefully practicing his letters while his two-year-old sister, Elizabeth, napped upstairs. Outside, Miles was directing their farm hands in constructing a new storage, shed his voice, carrying occasionally through the open window, confident and steady, Theresa paused in her calculations, allowing herself a moment to savor the fullness of her life. The desperate days of working alone,

fighting a losing battle against nature and debt, seemed like another lifetime ago. Yet she knew that without those struggles, she might never have become the woman she was now, nor would she have recognized the treasure that had arrived in the form of a trailworn cowboy offering to carry her load. That evening, after the children were asleep and the day’s work complete, Theresa and Miles walked hand in hand along the creek that marked the eastern edge of their property. The water flowed clear and strong, much like their

partnership. I was thinking, Miles said, skipping a stone across the water’s surface. It might be time to build that larger house we’ve been talking about. The children are growing and the farmhouse is getting crowded. Theresa smiled, leaning against his solid warmth. especially if we have another little one someday. Miles turned to her surprise and delight crossing his features.

 Are you saying not yet? Theresa laughed, enjoying his reaction. But I wouldn’t mind trying for a son who looks like his father. Thomas has my stubbornness but your eyes. Heaven help us if the next one has my stubbornness and your fierce independence. Miles chuckled, drawing her into his arms.

 As they stood together beside the creek, the Wyoming stars emerging in the vast sky above them, Theresa reflected on the journey that had brought them here. The work remained challenging the days long, but she no longer carried her burdens alone.

 In finding Miles, she had discovered not just a partner to share the labor, but a love that made every effort worthwhile. “What are you thinking about with that smile?” Miles asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face. I was thinking about loads, Theresa replied. And how the heaviest ones become bearable when carried together. Miles’s eyes softened with understanding.

 And how the most precious things we carry aren’t burdens at all. As his lips met hers in a kiss that still held all the promise of their first embrace, Theresa knew with absolute certainty that whatever challenges life might bring, they would face them together.

 Two hearts joined in purpose, two sets of hands sharing every load. The farm that had once been her prison of endless toil had transformed into the foundation of their shared dreams, a legacy they would someday pass to their children. And the woman who had been working herself to death in the fields had found not just help, but a life more abundant and joyful than she had ever dared to imagine.

 Together they walked back toward the lights of home, their shadows merging into one on the moonlit path. A fitting image for the life they had built from two separate journeys into one shared destination.