She Asked the Gunsmith to Wed Her Before Her Uncle Sold Her Land — “I’ll Want to Court You After,” the Gunsmith Said
Chapter 15
Margaret died many years later.
She was surrounded by family.
The house was quiet.
Snow fell outside.
Samuel sat beside her bed holding her hand.
She looked at him.
“Do you remember?”
He smiled through tears.
“What?”
“My proposal.”
He laughed softly.
“How could I forget?”
“I was desperate.”
“You were brave.”
“I asked you to marry me.”
“You did.”
“And then I said I would court you after.”
“You did.”
She smiled.
“Did you?”
“What?”
“Court me.”
Samuel’s eyes filled.
“Every day.”
She closed her eyes.
“Good.”
He kissed her hand.
“I’ll keep doing it.”
She smiled.
Then her breathing became quiet.
Samuel remained beside her.
Outside, the snow continued falling.
Years passed.
The shop remained.
The bracelet remained.
The marriage certificate remained.
And in a small wooden box, Samuel kept the first letter Margaret had ever written to him.
The ink had faded.
The paper had softened at the folds.
But one sentence remained clear:
I need you before they take everything from me.
Samuel had once believed he was saving Margaret’s land.
Later, he understood that she had saved something in him too.
He had spent his life believing a man needed wealth to deserve a woman like Margaret.
She had taught him otherwise.
She had shown him that love was not a bargain.
It was not ownership.
It was not rescue.
It was a choice made again and again.
The marriage began with fear.
The courtship began afterward.
And love came quietly.
Not in a ballroom.
Not beneath chandeliers.
Not through a grand declaration.
It came in a gunsmith’s shop smelling of iron and oil.
It came in shared breakfasts.
In muddy roads.
In winter evenings.
In hands reaching across tables.
In the simple promise:
I’ll want to court you after.
And he did.
For the rest of his life.
