As the final round drew to a close, Erna emerged victorious, her last toss securing the winning point. She did a little victory dance, her laughter mingling with the evening breeze.
“All right, all right, you win,” Joel said, chuckling. “You’ve got quite the arm there, Erna.”
“Thank you kindly, sir,” she responded with an exaggerated curtsey. “Now, how about we call it a day?”
“Only if you grant me one dance,” Joel offered, holding out his hand. “To celebrate your victory, of course.”
Erna nodded, placing her hand in his. They moved inside to the small living room, where the waning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the wooden floor.
“Music, ma’am?” Joel asked, as they found their position, his hand resting lightly on her waist.
“Allow me,” Erna replied, clearing her throat before humming a slow, sweet melody—one Mrs. Jackson used to sing. Her voice was soft but carried enough tune for them to sway gently in time with the rhythm.
As they danced, Erna rested her head against Joel’s shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart through the fabric of his shirt. There was something tender in the way he led her, careful and attentive to her every move. They turned slowly, wrapped in the harmony of the moment, the world beyond their quiet cocoon fading away.
“Erna,” Joel murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “I reckon this is far better than any victory at horseshoes.”
“It is,” she whispered back, her heart fluttering at the closeness between them. “Far better.”
ERNA TIPTOED ACROSSthe wooden floorboards of the kitchen, a sly smile playing on her lips as she balanced the freshly baked cake in her hands.
“Joel,” she called out. “Could you come here for a moment?”
From the porch outside, the sound of boots against wood approached, and Joel appeared in the doorway, his brow raised in mild curiosity. “What’s all this now?” he asked, eyeing the cake.
“Surprise!” Erna announced with a flourish, presenting the confectionery masterpiece to him. It was a simple creation by most standards, but the careful icing and the way the cinnamon mixed with the sugar spoke volumes of her efforts. “Your favorite, if I’m not mistaken.”
Joel’s eyes lit up like the stars that would soon pepper the evening sky. “Well, I’ll be,” he said, a chuckle escaping him. He moved closer, admiring the cake. “Erna, this is something else. Thank you kindly.”
“Go on, have a taste,” she urged, handing him a fork.
He obliged, cutting a modest piece and bringing it to his mouth. His eyes closed, savoring the familiar flavor, then opened to meet hers with unspoken gratitude. “Perfect, just perfect.”
“Then it was worth every minute spent in the kitchen,” Erna said, her heart swelling at his enjoyment.
“Speaking of perfect,” Joel said, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth, “how about we finish up with that dollhouse? The little folks are waiting for their final touch.”
“Lead the way.” She grinned, setting the cake aside for later.
The tiny wooden figures were lined up like silent spectators, awaiting their colorful details. Joel picked up a small brush, his large hands surprisingly nimble as he dipped it into a pot of paint.
“Like this?” he asked, his concentration etched into the furrow of his brows as he attempted to color the miniature dog with careful strokes.
“Exactly,” Erna encouraged, watching him bring the tiny creature to life. “Remember, the smallest details make the grandest difference.”
“Never knew painting dogs could be so...” Joel searched for the word, “...delicate.”
“Everything has its art,” Erna replied, pleased with his progress. “Even ranch life.”
“Guess you’re right.” Joel nodded, adding another stroke of brown to the dog’s back. “And you, Erna Brown, are quite the artist.”
“Thank you, Joel. But today, you’re the artist, and I must say, you’ve got quite the knack for it.”
When he’d finished the dog, he showed it to Prince, who barked at it as if to say it was good.
The moon hung low in the night sky, casting a gentle glow through the window of the small bedroom where Erna and Joel lay side by side. A soft breeze carried the scent of blooming nightflowers and fresh hay as it whispered through the curtains.
“Joel?” Erna’s voice was a mere murmur, barely louder than the rustling leaves outside.
