And what had grown from that ordinary extraordinary morning was a family and a home and a love that was not the consuming theatrical kind, but the daily constant, deeply rooted kind that holds through drought and difficulty and all the ordinary emergencies of human life and keeps holding.
In the evenings, when the children were in bed and the ranch was quiet, and the mountain stood dark against a sky full of stars, they sat on the front porch and talked or did not talk.
And either way, it was enough and more than enough, and everything they had needed.
The fire in the stove burned low and orange in the ranch house windows, visible from the road as a warm glow in the dark, a small fixed point of light against the vast and indifferent beauty of the Colorado night, steady and unhurried and entirely completely home.
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