“My father said you needed a wife,” I said, and the single dad in front of me looked like I had just accused him of murder.
He stood there beside a half-broken gate on a quiet Colorado farm, with sawdust on his flannel, mud on his boots, and a hammer hanging from one hand.
Behind him, the Cimarron Mountains sat cold and blue against the October sky.
Behind me, my Range Rover ticked as the engine cooled in the driveway.
For three long seconds, neither of us moved.
Then he said, “I need a witness.”
Not “hello.”
Not “your father is ridiculous.”
Not even “who are you?”
Just that.
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