A Good Match
by Ray Dean

Missus Charles Weston was used to the sizzle of a pan and heat of a stove. She was used to the hustle and bustle around a kitchen, even one as small as this one was.

There was little comfort in the things surrounding her, they had only been able to bring the essentials from home when she'd come west to Arizona Territory and even now she found herself reaching for items she hadn't been able to fit in the wagon.

Had Charles still been alive she could have thrown a comment to him over her shoulder, give him a smile mixed in with her sighing memories of easier times and have his assurance that she'd have those things again.

But Charles had only made it as far as the Territorial border when he'd lost his battle with some fever that had laid him up for days. She stopped right there and buried him on the highest point of land and made her home beside the wagon, setting up their tent and meager belongings inside. It had only been a month ago, but it felt like the better part of a year.

"Howdy."

She almost missed the greeting even though it must have been bellowed loud enough to breach the memories that filled her thoughts.

"I said 'Howdy to you, Missus!'"

The curious greeting was enough to bring her away from the stove and over to the doorway to see what manner of creature was outside.

The man was as big as a bear, or rather, Missus Weston surmised, as big as she had expected a bear to be. He even managed to lumber about on two feet as he made his way toward her. When he opened his mouth she expected a mighty roar to knock her from her shoes, but she was again surprised as words issued forth from his mouth. "I hear tell you're a right strong woman."

She knew she was the only woman in the area, but it was still difficult to believe that the man was addressing her. "I am sure that I am adequate, if not as strong as some would like me to be."

He looked down at her as one might view an exhibit in a menagerie. "Fancy talk's alright, just as long as you ken understand the way folks 'round here talk. Them's the ones you'll be dealing' with most of the year."

"I expect that I'll get along just fine, Mister . . . "

He waved off the question. "Ain't no 'mister' 'bout me, Missus Weston." Indicating the town's sprawling cluster of buildings with a sweep of his large hand. "Folks 'round here just call me Bear, on the count of me lookin' the way I do." He paused and swept his gaze about the general area and then back at her. "So? Are you gonna say yes?"

She cocked her head at him and found her patience waning at the odd interchange. She had water on to boil and a portion of meat in the pan. "Yes? What question did you ask?"

Bear huffed out a breath and she fancied strong enough to ruffle the stray hairs against her face. "Stubborn woman." He waited for a moment and then seemed to be at the end of his own rope. "Yer a widow."

Quiet for a moment, her gaze dipped to the brush of her hem across the top of her boot before she looked back at up a the man before her. "Yes . . . that I am."

"And me," he continued, his tone softening just the littlest bit, "I'm by myself at my claim." He gestured off toward the low hills that bordered the west side of town.

"That's where most men are, I expect." Missus Weston looked over her shoulder at the front door of her home. "Mister . . . Bear," she wiped her nervous hands on her apron, "if you don't mind, I have supper cooking and—" she looked up into his face and saw the most unexpected thing, hope—pure unadulterated hope, "would you like to stay?"

He straightened his spine as a smile curled beneath his ponderous mustache and she thought he'd managed to grow a few inches with the simple adjustment. "Why, I'd be delighted, Missus Weston."

A moment later he was hustling to the door, only to stop in his tracks just shy and gesture toward the opening. "Womenfolk first."

She lifted her skirt with one hand and stepped in before him. "I'm sorry to be so abrupt, Mister Bear, but I've something on the stove and I didn't want it to burn."

" 'Twould be a shame if it did," he conceded.

She indicated the table and moved herself to the stove, taking up her fork and turning the meat. The scrape of chair legs against the rough hewn floor was followed by a quiet thump and then a groan of wood.

"I wasn't expecting company, so I didn't make a dessert to go along with—"

"That's all right with me, ma'am." She could almost hear the watering of his mouth and she couldn't really blame him, the salted pork was fresh from the barrel and the smell of it along with the biscuits was quiet enough to round out the simple fair she'd intended for her own table. The corner of her apron was firmly in hand as she opened the stove to retrieve the biscuits and she blinked as the heat rolled across her face.

Straightening she turned to table and used her free hand to clear a space, she didn't normally need space for two on the surface.

"Here, I'll hold that for a moment."

The offer was a nice one and before she could think better of it, Bear took the pan from her hands. She finished the quick shift of items on the table before turning back to her guest. "Again, I wasn't expecting company and so I didn't—" she stopped short and gaped at the sight before her. The man was sitting at her table as patient as could be with a burning pan in his bare hands. "Goodness! Give me that!"

Frantic to give him relief she took the pan back with her hands protectively wrapped in her apron corners. With a clatter, the pan was left to rest on the scarred tabletop as she reached for his still bare hands.

"Dear me," she began breathlessly, "you're not supposed to . . . what were you . . . I can't believe—" She turned his hands, one and then the other, over and over, searching for burns or marks left by her pan, but there was nothing. The thick calluses that covered his palms weren't any worse for the contact with the metal.

When she looked up into his face, her own expression tight and near tears, she saw his shocked expression. "Somethin' wrong, Missus?"

She got to her feet, leaning heavily on the table beside her. "Your hands." She gulped air in around the lump in her throat. "I thought you'd burned your hands."

He looked down at his palms and shrugged. "My hands've seen a mess of work in my time and by now I 'spect they've probably got a score of layers to 'em. Comes in handy when I try to cook, haven't drawn blood with the knife yet."

Her hand to her chest, she took in his words and nodded. "You frightened me." A bite of nervous laughter brought tears to her eyes. "Still, I'm glad you weren't hurt."

"Would take more to hurt me than that." He grinned and sat up in the chair, setting the poor thing to groaning again. "I expect it would take more than a brown bear and a pack of wolves to take me down and make me say 'Uncle.'"

His grin was infectious and she felt herself laughing softly as the fear and horror subsided within her.

When she straightened she skirted around him to take out a jar of preserves and set it on the table. "Don't have butter, but my jam should add a little sweetness to the biscuits."

He was quiet for a moment and she looked up only to be startled again. His eyes were soft with some emotion she didn't dare to give a name to, she only knew that again she was also on the verge of tears.

"You lost your man, and I ain't never had a woman to wife," he began by stating the obvious and she was grateful for the boon, for it gave her time to gather her wits, "but you look to be a strong woman and you've got yourself a good heart." He reached out and took her hand in his, a gesture mirrored from a few moments before. "If you'd be agreeable to the idea, I'd like to offer for you . . . make you my bride."

Her mouth was dry, her eyes wet, and some odd emotion filled up the emptiness that she'd believed would always gnaw at her insides.

"I have no experience with mining." She wanted there to be no secrets.

"I have no experience with real cookin' if the truth be told." He gave her a shrug and a look of chagrin. "Less with women, but I'm willin' to learn if you're willin' to teach."

She wrapped her free hand around the back of his and her two hands nearly reached around the width of his one. "You certainly don't waste time, do you?" She didn't wait for an answer before posing another question. "If we were to marry, what would my name be?"

His thoughts pinched up the skin between his brows. "Hmm . . . . Can't have folks callin' you Missus Bear, 'twouldn't be right." He tilted his head to the side and shook it with chagrin. "I guess if we were to be proper you'd be called Missus Elisha Cavanaugh."

Leaning back, she looked at his face, half hidden behind what she could only assume was several months of hair, and wanted to see the man beneath. The name was a proud one, but the rough character before her seemed more like his animal nickname than a man. Still, she could tell that he would remain just as proud no matter what name he carried.

"If folks are used to you one way," she reached for a plate and set it before him. "It might be confusing to change now." Stepping away from him and toward her stove she smiled. "Right now we've a supper to eat and we'll just have to talk about the rest later."

"Later." His eyes followed her as she moved, taking in the subtle shift of weight on her feet as she set the meat on a board and cut it into two portions with a quick slice. He heard the soft hum of a song as if it echoed deep within her body. And he found himself more interested in the soft smell of soap from her skin than the robust scent of the meal she was about to set before him.

They would be a good match, they would fit.