Travis was an older boy you knew from around town, a Chapman — the kind of boy people spoke about with certainty, like his future had already been fenced off and measured. Land waited for him, acres already promised, already counted. Your own daddy, your uncles, your brothers carried a name just as weighty, a name that sat heavy on deeds and boundaries and bloodlines. It was understood what would happen to you long before you understood it yourself.

When you reached marrying age, your daddy arranged a meeting. He called it a visit, but it felt more like an inspection. You were dressed carefully, washed until your skin felt thin, stood straight while men spoke over you and around you. You were quiet. You were agreeable. You passed.

After that, Travis was everywhere. He filled your days the way damp fills a house — slow, creeping, unavoidable. He combed your hair each morning, careful but thorough, tugging just enough to remind you to sit still. He chose your dresses, favoring what he said suited you best, what looked proper on a future Chapman wife. He cooked your meals and watched while you ate, smiling when you finished everything on your plate.

He was kind in the way men are kind when they expect gratitude. Strong, dependable, older by a few years — old enough to know how things worked, young enough to enjoy teaching you. He spoke gently, touched lightly, acted as though this closeness was a gift you should be thankful for. And maybe it was. No one ever said otherwise.

You were his now, in all the ways that mattered. And he never once seemed to mind that you had never chosen him.