“I Heard You Want a Wife — We Are Perfect for You.” Identical Chinese Twins Said to the Lone Rancher

Chapter 7

We did not wait for a preacher. The nearest one was three days away, and the snow was already falling in the high passes.

Instead, on an evening in late autumn, we stood on the porch of the cabin, the vast star-strewn sky serving as our cathedral. The air was cold and sharp, carrying the scent of pine and wood smoke. The coyotes yipped in the distance, a wild choir witnessing our vows. The moon hung low over the mountains, full and silver.

I held Mai and Leanne’s hands.

“I promise to keep you safe,” I said, my voice steady and sure. “To honor you. To never let you be cold again.”

Mai squeezed my hand. “We promise to keep your heart warm.”

“To fill this house with life,” Leanne continued.

“And to never let you eat flavorless stew again,” Mai finished.

I laughed—a sound that had become familiar now, a sound that no longer surprised me.

I slid a ring onto Mai’s finger. Then onto Leanne’s. Simple bands of silver I had hammered from coins in my workshop that afternoon, polished until they shone. Not fancy. But they caught the moonlight and glowed like small stars.

“I reckon that makes it official.”

—

The years that followed were not easy.

There were droughts and blizzards, lean years and hungry winters. There were wolves that took calves and traders who tried to cheat us. There were moments when the weight of the past pressed down on us, when the ghosts of Annabelle and Sarah seemed to fill the cabin with silence instead of warmth.

But we learned to carry them together.

Mai and Leanne learned to ride as well as any cowhand, their balance perfect, their hands gentle on the reins. They helped with the calving in spring and the harvest in fall. They brought a sharp, shared mind to the books, finding ways to save money and trade smarter.

And they planted a garden.

A sprawling, impossible garden that grew vegetables from both sides of the world—potatoes and tomatoes growing alongside bok choy and bitter melon, sage and thyme tangled with lemongrass and ginger. Travelers passing through the territory spoke of the Thorne-Mei place. They spoke of the strange and beautiful garden, of the hospitality, of the best meals west of the Mississippi.

But mostly, they spoke of the family who lived there—the towering, graying rancher and his two petite, fierce, identical wives.

They said you could see it in the way we looked at each other.

A quiet, unshakable bond.