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Dick and Minnie were married two days after they walked out of the Polka together. He never would have thought a ring and words would matter to him but, standing in front of a mining town preacher next to the woman he loved (and who, impossibly, loved him right back), he found himself nearly overwhelmed by emotion. It was hardly a ceremony at all, just the attention three bits could buy from a man with a collar and the neighbor he woke up to play witness, but it felt mighty important to have it announced to God and everyone that Minnie was his and he was Minnie's.
(Together they loved, hard and soft.)
It hadn't taken long for them to fall into a rhythm. Together, they moved from town to town, setting down roots for months or even years at a time, and then moving on when it felt right. Often, they didn't even need to talk about it — Dick would arrive home, ready to tell Minnie he thought it was time, and she would meet him at the door with a matching look in her eye. And then they would laugh, pack, and go into town to say goodbye.
(Hard in the way he needed her, with teeth and nails and insatiable hunger; hard in the way she took control of him, binding him to her will with a ferocity that left him breathless.)
Minnie couldn't leave anywhere without saying goodbye. Or, Dick guessed, she probably could, but the hole her sudden departure would leave in the lives of those who stayed behind was so enormous that she needed to help them fill it with a farewell. And so Dick said his simple goodbyes and went home to bed while she stayed: saying goodbye to yet another saloon in yet another town, talking and listening and loving deep into the night.
(Soft in the gentle touches Dick gave her in the small of her back when he moved past her on the porch; soft in the way he'd brush her hair at night when she felt too tired to move. Soft in the way she listened to him talk about his father, freeing himself of years of frustration and anger; soft in the way she ironed his shirts before church every Sunday, so there would be a sharp crease on each sleeve.)
Which was as it should be, because Minnie was the very roots they put down, wherever they went. Without her, Dick would live in a place, but he wouldn't live there the way Minnie did: wouldn't be drawn right into the heart of the community; wouldn't be a friend to everyone who needed one; wouldn't offer the kind of attention that made the loneliest men feel like they mattered. Dick moved through the world, but Minnie changed it.
(Hard in the way they mourned when smallpox took their son. Hard in the grief they learned to carry together, and the choice they made to go on, claiming joy again.)
He would never tire of the way rooms instinctively reoriented themselves toward Minnie when she entered, of the way he could tell where she was by the bright, wondering faces he glimpsed through crowds and over heads. The explosive pride Dick felt in those moments always threatened to knock him right off his feet, and he would marvel, yet again, that this wondrous woman was his.
(Soft in the way they laughed in bed; in the way they laughed at the kitchen table; in the way they laughed riding in the hills together. Soft in the way they fit together, two pieces amounting to a much greater whole.)
They were getting old together, the two of them. They hadn't been young even when she saved him (over and over again), and that was a long time ago now. But even as Minnie's hair grayed, and her back sometimes ached, and her muscles lost a little of their power, her heart shone as brightly as it ever had. That heart that loved people and poker and adored Dick, and that became the beating core of every town they called home.
(Hard in the ferocious way they held on to one another. Hard in the man Minnie killed outside Denver for thinking he could take a sleeping Dick's saddle bags; hard in the fingers Dick broke when a drunk farmer put his hands on Minnie after she'd kindly asked him to stop. Hard in the way Minnie needed people, but would throw it all over if it meant keeping Dick safe.)
Because Minnie was made for people. They made her shine and, in exchange, she brightened their worlds with her sincerity and patience, and with the humor that sneaked up on men and made them love her all the more. But Minnie wasn't made for cities — wasn't needed in cities. She was made for places on the fringes of the world, where human connection is rare and precious, and where one person, determined to love, can change everything. Minnie didn't go places to change them, but her restless soul compelled her to wander, and wherever it alighted magic would burst forth.
(Soft in the way she felt like home to him; in the way he was her touchstone, the solid thing to which she always returned. Soft in the way they loved with their whole selves, and that each loved every inch of the other. Soft in the way she whispered "my dashing outlaw" as she ran her hands through his near-white hair; soft in the wondering way he touched her heavier thighs, and ran his tongue along the stretch marks that made them both remember.)
And so, after the goodbyes and a few hours of sleep, they would brew their last pot of coffee, saddle and pack the horses, and ride off into another unknown together. One of them would say "Maybe, next place we go, we'll buy a saloon, settle down for good!" And the other would say "Maybe we will!" And they would both smile, knowing they could never stop — that they'd be moving until they couldn't anymore. They never talked about what would happen then, but they knew one thing, firm as iron: they would be together. Always together.