“No, call me by my given name.”
“Lizzie, Bess, Elizabeth, or Sis?” he asked, remembering the various nicknames of her family.
“You may call me whatever you choose,” she answered, drawing the pony up where they were to dismount.
John Hunter stepped to the ground and with his bridle rein over his arm came around to the left side of her pony. Laying one hand on its neck and the other on the hand that grasped its bridle, he looked up into her face earnestly and said:
“I would like to call you ‘Wife,’ if I may, Elizabeth,” and held up his arms quickly to help her from the saddle.
When she was on the ground before him he barred her way and stood, pulsing and insistent, waiting for her answer.
It was a full minute before either moved, she looking down at their feet, he looking at her and trying to be sure he could push his claims.
When Elizabeth did look up it was with her eyes brimming shyly over with happy tears, and without waiting for her answer in words, John Hunter gathered her into his arms and smothered her face in kisses.
Ten minutes later they tied the horses to the new hitching post and passed into the yard.
“It is to be your house and mine, dearie,” the young man said, and then looked down at her to see why she did not answer.