On Cedar Ridge, the fence lines were long and the mornings came early.
They had built the homestead together; post by post and row by row. They both worked hard to keep it standing, growing, and solvent.
He handled the cattle, the contracts, the heavy posts that needed driving deep into stubborn ground. He thought about expansion. About markets. About what the ranch could become. He did a lot of thinkin.’
She handled the garden, the books, the meals, the mending, the cleaning, and the rhythms that made this land their home. She kept the house steady. She helped with calves when needed. She showed up wherever the work spilled over.
They both worked every day, with rare days off, because a homestead doesn’t run itself.
One morning, pulling on his hat, he said,
“I know you’ve got a lot going on, but don’t let the house go.”
She stood still for a moment.
Later that afternoon, watching him sketch plans for a new venture at the kitchen table, she nearly said, “I know you’re dreaming big, but don’t forget to bring in what keeps this place fed.”
She didn’t.
Because she knew something.
It’s easy to protect your own domain.
Harder to honor the labor that doesn’t look like yours.
He carried weight she could not carry the same way.
She carried weight he barely saw because it ran quietly in the background.
So instead of sharpening the moment, she waited.
That evening she said, evenly,
“We both build, grow, and protect this land. We’re guarding the same ground. Let’s not talk as if only one of us is.”
He was quiet.
Out on the ridge, the fences stood straight.
A fence doesn’t shout across the pasture.
It simply holds its line.
And in a marriage, sometimes strength looks like restraint; not because you lack words,
but because you guard what has been entrusted to you.
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