The wind howled through the cracks in the old log cabin, carrying with it the bitter cold of another Wyoming winter.

Silas Boone sat hunched over his rough-hewn table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his elbow and a sheet of paper before him. The lamplight flickered across his weathered face, casting deep shadows that made him look older than his forty-two years. He’d been staring at that blank page for the better part of an hour, wrestling with words that didn’t come easy to a man who’d spent more time talking to horses than people these past ten years.

Outside, snow began to fall in heavy flakes, blanketing the mountainside in silence so complete it made his ears ring. Silas took another pull from the bottle, feeling the burn slide down his throat, and finally put pen to paper.

“To the Matrimonial News Agency of Boston,” he wrote in blocky, deliberate letters. “I am a man of simple needs, seeking a wife of quiet disposition. Must cook, keep house, and ask no questions about the past. I offer a solid roof, three meals daily, and the protection of my name. No romantics need apply.”

He signed it. Silas Boone, Grizzly Hollow, Wyoming Territory.

He sealed the letter with candle wax and set it aside. Come morning, he’d ride the fifteen miles down to town and post it. The decision made, he should have felt relief. Instead, the familiar weight of loneliness pressed against his ribs—the ache that came when the whiskey stopped working.

 

Three months later, on a day when the March wind still carried winter’s bite, Silas stood on the platform at Grizzly Hollow Depot.

The train was late, as usual. He pulled his coat tighter and took a swig from his flask, watching the gray horizon where the tracks disappeared. Folks passing by gave him curious glances. Silas Boone didn’t come to town often, and when he did, people gave him space. Some remembered him from the old days, when he’d ridden with men whose names were better left unspoken. Others just knew him as the hermit who lived up on Redemption Ridge, trading pelts and keeping to himself.

The whistle pierced the air. A moment later, the great iron engine came chugging into view, black smoke trailing behind it like a storm.

Silas straightened, his hand brushing against the letter in his pocket—the one confirming that Miss Evelyn Carter of Richmond, Virginia, would be arriving today.

The train screeched to a stop. Steam hissed, and passengers began to spill out. Traveling salesmen with polished shoes. A minister and his wife. A pair of ranch hands laughing loud enough for everyone to hear.

Silas waited. The whiskey bottle hung loose in his right hand.

Then he saw her.

She stood in the doorway of the passenger car, pausing as if taking measure of the world beyond. Everything about her was unexpected. Where he’d imagined a sturdy farm woman in plain calico, she wore a dress of faded black bombazine that had once been fine. Her face was pale as winter moonlight, her lips drawn in a line that spoke neither fear nor welcome.

But it was her eyes that made him forget the whiskey in his hand. They were gray, like storm clouds gathering over the prairie. And in them, he saw something he recognized: a soul that had walked through hell and come out the other side—scorched, but unbroken.

She descended the steps with careful grace, a single carpet bag in her gloved hand. The wind tugged at her dark hair beneath a plain black bonnet—and that’s when he saw it.

A scar. Pale and sharp, running from her jaw down into the high collar of her dress.

The bottle slipped from Silas’s fingers and shattered on the platform. He didn’t even notice.

 

Evelyn Carter walked toward him, boots clicking against the wooden boards. He could already hear the whispers. “That’s her, the one from Virginia. Heard she killed a man back east.” “Black widow,” they called her in the papers. “What’s Silas Boone thinking, bringing a woman like that here?”

If she heard them, she gave no sign. She stopped in front of him and set down her bag.

“Mr. Boone, I presume?”

He nodded, suddenly aware of his rough beard and the deerhide patches on his coat. “Miss Carter.”

“Mrs. Carter,” she corrected softly. “Though I suppose that will change soon enough.”

The wind picked up, swirling snow around them. She didn’t flinch.

“You have a conveyance?”

“Wagon’s out back.”

He bent to lift her carpet bag, surprised by how light it was, and led her through the depot, aware of every eye watching. Martin Fletcher stepped out of the general store to stare. The banker’s wife pulled her children closer. Even the saloon girls behind the windows of the Lucky Strike fell silent.

Evelyn kept her chin high, her gaze fixed straight ahead. There was a quality to her silence that was not simple quiet. It was the silence of someone who’d learned that words could be turned into weapons.

He helped her onto the wagon seat. Her gloved fingers trembled slightly as she took his hand—the first crack in her composure. Silas climbed up beside her, aware of Sheriff Watson’s stare from across the street.

“It’s fifteen miles to my place,” he said as he took the reins. “Roads are rough.”

“I don’t mind rough roads, Mr. Boone.”

He glanced at her, realizing she was younger than he’d first thought. Maybe thirty. The scar caught the light again, pale against her skin. He wondered who had given it to her, then pushed the thought aside. He’d asked for no questions about the past. That rule went both ways.

 

As the wagon climbed toward the mountains, Evelyn finally spoke again.

“They talked about me on the train. They didn’t think I could hear, but voices carry.” She turned to him, her gray eyes sharp. “Does it matter to you what they say?”

Silas considered his answer, the horses’ hooves crunching through the snow. “I reckon everyone’s got things they’d rather leave buried. That’s why folks come west.”

She studied him a long moment, then faced forward again. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I suppose that’s true.”

The rest of the journey passed in silence, but it was a different kind of quiet now—the kind shared by two people who understood that ghosts didn’t stay buried long in the West.

When the cabin finally came into view, perched against the snowy mountainside, Silas found himself strangely anxious.

“It ain’t much,” he said, almost defensive.

Evelyn looked at it—the rough-hewn logs, the smoking chimney, the endless sky behind it—then turned to him.

“It’s perfect,” she said. And for the first time since stepping off that train, she almost smiled.

The cabin was exactly what Evelyn had expected from a man who lived alone on a mountain. And yet, it surprised her, too. Yes, it was rough-hewn and sparse, with gaps between the logs that let in the cold wind. But it was clean and orderly. A stone fireplace stood blackened from years of use, and the floor had been worn smooth by boots and time. There was a table, two mismatched chairs, and a shelf holding a few books with cracked spines.

It wasn’t much. But it was honest.

Silas stood by the door, watching her move through the room. He’d removed his hat, and the lamplight showed his dark hair streaked with gray. He gestured toward a doorway covered by a heavy blanket.

“That room’s yours. I’ll sleep out here.”

Evelyn paused near the mantel, where a faded photograph rested—a group of soldiers, their faces blurred by age. “That’s kind of you, but unnecessary. We’ll be married within the week, won’t we? No sense keeping up formalities that don’t matter out here.”

“Just the same,” Silas said quietly. “Until it’s official.”

She nodded, accepting it. Her eyes swept toward the cold cookstove. “When did you last have a proper meal?”

“I manage.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

He almost smiled. “Been a while.”

 

Without another word, she unpinned her bonnet, rolled up her sleeves, and moved to the stove. “Is there a root cellar out back?”

“It’s stocked.”

“Water in the springhouse?”

“Yep.”

“Good. I’ll need both.”

She moved with practiced efficiency, and before long, Silas heard the scrape of a knife and the rhythmic sound of peeling potatoes. For the first time in years, the cabin smelled of cooking instead of smoke and whiskey.

“You don’t have to—” he began.

“Yes, I do,” she said firmly. “You offered three meals daily. I agreed to cook them. I’ll start as I mean to go on.”

He pulled out a chair and sat across from her, the wood creaking beneath him. “We should talk about terms. Make things clear.”

“By all means.”

“The justice of the peace rides through town the first Monday of every month. That’s six days from now. He’ll marry us proper. After that, you’ll be Mrs. Boone, with all the protection that name affords.”

“Protection.” She repeated the word slowly, as if tasting it. “And what do you get in return?”

“A wife. Someone to cook, keep house. Maybe make this place feel less like a grave.”

Her hand stilled on the potato. “Is that what it feels like to you? A grave?”

He hesitated. “Sometimes.”

“I don’t require love, Mr. Boone. I’ve had love.” She gave a bitter smile. “It started with poetry and ended with scars. I prefer plain dealing now.”

“Then we understand each other,” he said.

“Do we?” she asked softly. “Do you know what they say about me?”

“Some.”

“And still you sent for me?”

He looked down at his hands—scarred and strong. “Maybe because I figured a woman who’d been through what you’ve been through wouldn’t ask questions about blood that won’t wash clean. Or why a man wakes up shouting names of folks long dead.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “No. The dead don’t always stay buried, do they, Mr. Boone?”

They looked at each other across the small space. Two people who had run to the edge of the world to escape ghosts.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the shutters.

“I’ll fix those gaps come spring,” Silas said quietly.

“I can help with that.”

“You ever built a cabin before?”

“No. But I’ve done harder things.”

He believed her.

 

Dinner was simple—fried potatoes, salt pork, and biscuits made from flour and lard. But it was hot, and Silas couldn’t remember the last time anyone had cooked for him. They ate in comfortable silence, the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled.

Afterward, while Evelyn washed dishes, Silas showed her the small bedroom. The bed was narrow, the quilt handmade.

“Was this your mother’s?” she asked, touching the careful stitching.

“My wife’s,” he said after a pause. “Fever took her the second winter. A long time ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

But she heard what he didn’t say. That some kinds of pain never really fade.

That night, Evelyn lay awake in the narrow bed, listening to Silas move around the main room, banking the fire. The wind moaned against the walls, and somewhere outside, a wolf howled. She wondered about the woman who had stitched the quilt she lay under—who had come to this same mountain and died here. She wondered if she’d been afraid.

At some point, exhaustion took her. But later, she woke to the sound of voices.

No—one voice. Silas.

He was thrashing in his sleep, caught in some nightmare, muttering names she didn’t know. His face twisted in pain.

“Mr. Boone,” she said softly.

When he didn’t wake, she stepped closer. “Silas!”

His eyes flew open, wild and unfocused. For a moment, he didn’t seem to know where he was. Then recognition flickered.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, sitting up. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” she said gently. “The wind did.”

It was a lie—a small kindness. She pulled her shawl tighter. “Would you like some coffee? I find it helps after dreams like that.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“So it is.”

She moved to the stove, coaxing the coals to life. The soft light warmed the cabin again.

“When I couldn’t sleep back in Richmond, I’d make coffee and walk the halls. It kept the ghosts quiet.”

“Do they stay quiet now?” he asked.

“Quieter than they used to.”

 

They sat together at the table, sharing coffee in the stillness. Neither spoke of what haunted them, but the understanding between them was deeper than words.

When dawn came, gray and soft through the window, Silas looked at her across the table.

“Those names I was calling,” he said, voice rough. “They were men I fought beside. Some didn’t make it back. Some didn’t deserve to.”

“You did what you had to,” she said simply. “That’s what survival is.”

He nodded slowly. Outside, the first light touched the snowy peaks. Their first full day together had begun.

“I should start breakfast,” she said quietly.

“I’ll see to the animals.”

She hesitated at the doorway. “This is strange, isn’t it?”

“Which part?”

“All of it. You, me, this place. It’s like we’re playing house—except neither of us remembers the rules.”

He smiled faintly. “Maybe that’s better. We’ll make our own rules.”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Maybe it is.”

By the fourth day, they had found a rhythm. Her cooking and mending. Him chopping wood and repairing fences. The quiet between them had shifted into something companionable.

But that fragile peace shattered when Evelyn heard the sound of horses.

Through the window, she saw three riders approaching—two men and a woman dressed in their Sunday best, though it wasn’t Sunday.

“Silas,” she called quietly.

He stepped out from the lean-to where he’d been splitting logs, axe in hand. The riders stopped a few yards from the porch. The lead man, a portly figure with graying whiskers, wore a preacher’s collar.

“Brother Boone,” he called cheerfully. “Might we have a word?”

Silas set down the axe but didn’t step closer. “Reverend Walsh.”

The reverend’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We heard you’d taken in a visitor.”

“My intended,” Silas said evenly. “Soon to be my wife.”

The woman beside the reverend—sharp-faced and sour-mouthed—sniffed audibly. “From Virginia, isn’t she?”

“She is.”

“Such a colorful past.”

Evelyn appeared at the doorway, chin high, gray eyes steady. “Good morning, Reverend. Mrs. Walsh. Deacon.”

The reverend tipped his hat. “We come only out of concern, ma’am. This is a small community. We like to know who’s joining it.”

“How charitable of you,” she said coolly.

Mrs. Walsh’s lips tightened. “We’ve heard troubling things. Terrible rumors. Murder. Trial. Scandal.”

Evelyn cut her off, her voice like steel. “Rumors travel fast. Truth, not so much.”

Silas took a step forward. “That’s enough. You’ve said your piece. Now say your goodbyes.”

The reverend’s smile faltered. “We only mean to offer guidance. Folks are talking.”

“Let them talk,” Silas said, his voice low and dangerous. “But if anyone speaks ill of my wife-to-be again, they’ll answer to me. That clear?”

The deacon’s horse shifted nervously. Reverend Walsh cleared his throat. “We’ll pray for you both.”

“Do that,” Silas replied.

They rode off in a cloud of dust, the woman’s disapproval trailing like smoke behind her.

 

Evelyn stood beside Silas, arms folded. “Well,” she said dryly. “That was bracing.”

He was still watching the horizon. “Hypocrites. All of them.”

“They always are,” she said softly. “But you stood up for me. Thank you.”

He looked at her then. “Really looked.”

“You don’t have to thank me for doing what’s right.”

“In my experience,” she said, turning toward the cabin, “that’s exactly what deserves thanks. So few people do it.”

As the door closed behind her, Silas realized something had shifted between them. She wasn’t just a woman he’d sent for. She was someone he needed to protect. Someone who, against all odds, had already begun to matter.

The snow melted slow that spring, revealing patches of green in the meadows below the cabin. Evelyn had taken to working in the small patch of earth near the fence—sleeves rolled, hair pinned back, planting beans and potatoes with hands that had once known only embroidery needles.

Silas watched her from the porch, mending a bridle. He’d thought he’d ordered a quiet housekeeper, someone to fill the silence. What he got was a woman who filled the space with quiet strength instead.

By late April, laughter had started returning to the cabin—cautious at first. When Silas teased her about crooked garden rows, she shot back that vegetables didn’t care about straight lines. When he brought her wildflowers from the ridge, she called them the finest bouquet Wyoming ever grew.

The loneliness that had once hung over the mountain began to lift.

Then the riders came.

Evelyn heard them first—the steady clop of hooves on the dirt trail. She shaded her eyes and saw three men coming up the hill. Not neighbors. Their clothes were too fine. Their horses too clean for mountain travel.

She stepped onto the porch, her pulse quickening. “Silas,” she called quietly.

He came from behind the barn, wiping his hands on a rag.

 

The lead rider dismounted—tall, dark-haired, with a cruel confidence that sent a chill down her spine.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, removing his hat with mock courtesy. “Would this be the Boone place?”

“It is,” Evelyn answered, voice steady. “My husband isn’t here.”

“That’s all right,” the man said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s you we came to see, Mrs. Blackwood.”

Her blood ran cold. “My name is Evelyn Boone.”

“Was,” he said. “Name’s James Blackwood. Thaddeus was my brother.”

The world tilted for a moment. She gripped the porch rail to keep herself steady.

“We’ve come a long way for justice,” James went on. “You murdered my brother and walked free on a lie. But the truth has a way of catching up.”

Behind him, another man produced papers. “Arthur Hutchins, attorney for the Blackwood estate. We’ve reopened the case. New witness. New evidence. You’ll be coming back to Richmond to stand trial.”

“I won’t,” Evelyn said flatly.

“Then we’ll ruin this place,” James snapped. “Tell every soul from here to Cheyenne what kind of woman you are.”

“Get off my land.”

The new voice came from the corner of the cabin. Silas stood there, rifle in hand, eyes cold as the peaks behind him.

“Ah,” James said softly. “The new husband. Did she tell you how she killed the last one? Or did she spin you a pretty story about self-defense?”

Silas stepped closer. “You’ve got ten seconds to ride out.”

Hutchins raised a hand. “Sir, we represent the law—”

“Five seconds,” Silas said.

Porter, the third man, reached for his revolver. The rifle cocked with a metallic click that froze him mid-motion.

“Four.”

They retreated to their horses. James mounted last, eyes blazing. “This isn’t over.”

Silas’s mouth curved into a grim smile. “You’re right about that.”

 

When they were gone, Evelyn’s knees gave out. Silas caught her before she hit the ground.

“It’s my fault,” she whispered. “They’ll destroy everything.”

He tipped her chin up gently. “Not while I’m breathing.”

That night, the wind howled again—the way it had the day she’d arrived. Neither of them slept. When dawn came, they sat together in silence, the rifle leaning against Silas’s chair.

By the next afternoon, word spread that a territorial marshal was in town. Marshal Garrison—gray-haired, steady-eyed—rode up to the cabin near sunset.

“Afternoon,” he said politely. “Mind if I come in? Better to talk over coffee than gunfire.”

Inside, he explained what he’d learned. “The Blackwoods want you arrested, Mrs. Boone. They claim fresh evidence. Trouble is, I telegraphed Richmond. Seems their ‘new witnesses’ are paid liars. Couple of servants already recanted.”

“Then why are you here?” Silas asked.

“Because they’ve still got money and connections. They’re pushing for extradition. But folks here can decide how they feel about it. Territorial hearing. Public-like. Let the town speak. If they stand with you, it’ll be hard for outsiders to force the issue.”

Evelyn stared into her cup. “They’ll never stand with me.”

“Maybe you’ll be surprised,” Garrison said quietly.

Three days later, the meeting hall overflowed. Half the town crammed inside, drawn by curiosity, gossip, or loyalty. The Blackwoods sat on one side, polished boots and sneers shining alike. Silas and Evelyn sat on the other, flanked by a handful of friends: Tom Martinez, the blacksmith; Mrs. Chen from the laundry; and old Doc Hartwell, who had ridden through too many blizzards to care about scandal.

When her turn came to speak, Evelyn rose slowly.

“My name is Evelyn Boone,” she began, her voice trembling only once. “Before that, I was Evelyn Blackwood. And before that, Evelyn Carter—a governess who thought she’d found love.”

She told them everything. The courtship. The charm. The first blow. The years of fear.

The room stayed silent except for the creak of benches and the steady crackle of the potbellied stove.

“The night he died,” she said, “he came at me with a knife. Said if he couldn’t have me perfect, he’d make sure no one else would. I swung the poker once. He never got up.”

She lifted her chin.

“I’m not proud of it. But I’m not sorry either. Because if I hadn’t, I’d be the one buried.”

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then Mary Perkins, the seamstress, stood up. “My sister died that way,” she said softly. “No one believed her either.”

Another woman stood. Then another. One by one, voices rose. Wives, mothers, daughters—each with a story that sounded too much like Evelyn’s. The room filled with their truths until even the men shifted uneasily.

Marshal Garrison raised his hand. “Enough. I’ve heard all I need.”

He turned to the Blackwoods. “Your request for extradition is denied. As far as Wyoming’s concerned, this matter is settled. You ride east—and don’t come back.”

James’s face turned red with fury, but he knew better than to draw against a room full of armed ranchers. He spat on the floor, then stormed out.

When the door shut behind him, the room erupted—not in cheers, but in quiet nods and murmurs of respect. Mrs. Walsh, once her harshest critic, even pressed a loaf of bread into Evelyn’s hands as she passed.

“For starting over,” she said.

 

That night, back at the cabin, the fire burned bright.

Silas and Evelyn sat side by side, the tension finally breaking. “It’s over,” she whispered.

“For now,” he said. “But whatever comes next, we face it together.”

Outside, thunder rolled over the peaks—the kind that promised rain instead of snow. Evelyn leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek.

“I love you, Silas Boone,” she said softly.

He smiled—a rare, unguarded smile. “Took you long enough.”

Weeks later, summer bloomed across Grizzly Hollow. The garden flourished, and laughter once again filled the mountain cabin. The past still lingered in the shadows, but it no longer owned them.

In the years to come, folks would talk about Silas Boone and his mail-order bride—the woman with the scar who faced down a family of killers and built a refuge for others like her. But for now, she was simply Evelyn Boone. Wife. Survivor. And the heart of a home rebuilt from ashes.

As the sun set behind the peaks, Silas wrapped an arm around her shoulders and watched the light fade from the valley.

“Funny thing,” he said. “I thought I was buying myself peace and quiet.”

She smiled, eyes bright in the firelight. “Instead, you got me.”

He kissed her forehead. “Best trade I ever made.”

And somewhere far below, a train whistle echoed through the twilight. The same train that had once carried a frightened widow west—and delivered, instead, the beginning of a new life.

 

The whiskey bottle shattered on the platform that day. But something else broke, too.

Silas Boone had been holding on to his past the way he held that bottle—tightly, desperately, afraid of what would happen if he let go. But when Evelyn stepped off that train with her scar and her silence and her storm-gray eyes, she didn’t ask him to let go of his ghosts.

She just showed him that he didn’t have to face them alone.

Two years later, on a summer morning when the wildflowers bloomed across the meadow, Silas walked out to the garden where Evelyn knelt among the beans, pulling weeds with the same careful determination she brought to everything.

“You’re up early,” she said, shading her eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

She studied him—the way she always did, like she was reading something written beneath his skin. “Bad dreams?”

“No.” He knelt beside her in the dirt, not caring that his trousers would stain. “Good ones, for a change.”

She smiled—a real one, the kind that reached her eyes. “About what?”

“About you. About this place. About the way the sun comes through the window in the morning and I know you’re in the kitchen, making coffee.”

Her hand stilled on a weed.

“Silas,” she said softly. “Are you trying to be romantic?”

“Not trying,” he said. “Failing, probably.”

“No,” she said, and her voice caught. “Not failing.”

He took her hand—the one with dirt under the nails, the one that had swung a poker in self-defense and planted a garden in defiance.

“I’ve never said it before,” he said. “Not to anyone. Not like this. But I love you, Evelyn Boone. I love the way you laugh when I burn the biscuits. I love the way you stand up to people who should know better. I love that you came here—to this mountain, to this cabin, to me—when everything you’d known had tried to break you.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe them away.

“That’s a lot of words for a man who said ‘no romantics need apply,’” she whispered.

“Changed my mind,” he said. “Figured I’m allowed.”

She laughed—the sound bright and clear, scattering the morning quiet. Then she leaned forward and kissed him, there in the garden with the sun rising over the peaks and the smell of earth all around them.

When she pulled back, her gray eyes were shining.

“Best trade I ever made,” she said, echoing his words from that first night.

He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then the pale scar that ran along her jaw—the one she’d stopped trying to hide.

“Best trade,” he agreed.

 

The years that followed were not without hardship. Winter came hard, and summer brought drought, and there were nights when the ghosts still walked—for both of them. But they walked together now, and somehow that made all the difference.

They built a life, not out of grand gestures, but out of small ones. A cup of coffee left by the bed. A fence mended before the storm. A hand held in the dark when the memories came calling.

The children came, too—first a girl with her mother’s gray eyes and her father’s steady calm, then a boy who laughed like thunder and never met a stranger. The cabin grew crowded, and Silas added rooms, and the sound of boots and voices filled the spaces that had once been silent as a grave.

Evelyn never stopped gardening. Her hands stayed dirty, and her laugh stayed bright, and every spring she planted something new—sunflowers along the fence, roses by the porch, a small apple orchard on the south slope that she said would feed their children’s children.

Silas watched her from the porch, the way he had from the beginning, and marveled that a man who had once believed himself beyond saving had been saved anyway.

Not by a woman who needed rescuing—but by one who had rescued herself and decided to stay.

The whiskey bottle lay shattered on the platform, and he never bought another. He didn’t need it. He had her.

And that was enough.

More than enough.

The train came and went, carrying passengers and cargo and the endless traffic of lives moving west. But Silas Boone never stood on that platform again. He had no reason to.

The woman he’d been waiting for had already arrived.

And the words he’d written on that cold winter night—no romantics need apply—turned out to be the biggest lie he ever told.

Because he’d been romantic all along. He just hadn’t met anyone worth being romantic for.

Until a woman with a scar and a carpet bag stepped off a train and made him drop his whiskey and his past in the same moment.

You’re safe now, he’d told her, unlocking her shackles on the auction platform.

But she had done the same for him—without chains, without keys, without a single word.

She had looked at him across a lamplit table in a cabin on a mountain and said, I don’t require love.

And then she had given it to him anyway.

Best trade he ever made.