Mountain Man Found Her Starving After Three Days Lost, He Fed Her Slowly and Stayed Until She Better

The woman stumbled through the sage brush and rocky terrain of the New Mexico desert.

Her lips cracked and bleeding, her vision blurring as the merciless sun beat down on her bonnet less head.

Florence Emerson had been wandering for 3 days now. Ever since her stage coach had been attacked by bandits, and she’d fled into the wilderness in pure terror, running until her lungs burned and her legs gave out, only to realize she had no idea which direction would lead her back to civilization.

The year was 1878, and the land surrounding Albuquerque was as beautiful as it was deadly.

She collapsed against a boulder, her green traveling dress torn and filthy, her throat so parched she could barely swallow.

Florence had stopped crying yesterday, her body too dehydrated for tears. She was 22 years old and she was going to die out here in this godforsaken wilderness.

The thought made her want to laugh, but she couldn’t even manage that. She’d traveled all the way from Boston to start a new life teaching school in Albuquerque, and she wouldn’t even make it to see the town.

The sun continued its brutal assault, and Florence felt consciousness slipping away. Maybe it would be better this way, she thought.

Maybe dying in her sleep would be easier than suffering through another scorching day without water.

Her eyes drifted closed and she slumped against the rock, her breathing shallow and labored.

That was when Warren Gallagher found her. He’d been tracking an elk through the high country when he noticed the buzzards circling in the distance.

Warren had lived in these mountains for the better part of 8 years, and he knew what circling buzzards meant.

Still, something compelled him to investigate. He guided his sturdy bay horse through the rocky terrain.

His keen blue eyes scanning the landscape. His long dark hair stre with sunlightened strands hung past his shoulders tied back with a leather cord.

Years of survival in the wilderness had hardened his body into pure muscle. His broad shoulders and powerful arms a testament to the physical demands of mountain life.

His weathered buckskin clothing bore the marks of a man who lived off the land.

When he spotted the crumpled figure against the boulder, Warren’s heart lurched. He dismounted in one fluid motion, his tall frame covering the distance in quick strides.

The woman was barely breathing, her skin flushed and hot to the touch. Sunstroke, dehydration, probably hadn’t eaten in days.

He’d seen men die from less in the desert. Warren didn’t hesitate. He lifted her carefully into his arms, surprised by how light she was, how fragile she felt against his chest.

She didn’t stir, didn’t even whimper. He carried her to his horse, settling her in front of the saddle before mounting behind her, keeping one strong arm wrapped around her waist to hold her upright.

His cabin was only about 2 mi away, but in her condition, 2 mi might as well be 200.

He urged his horse into a careful trot, supporting the unconscious woman against his chest.

He could feel her heartbeat, weak and thready. She was burning up with fever, and he needed to cool her down fast.

Warren’s jaw tightened with determination. He’d saved injured animals, helped fellow trappers through harsh winters, and once pulled a prospector from a collapsed mine shaft.

He could save this woman, too. The cabin came into view, a sturdy log structure Warren had built with his own hands, nestled in a grove of pinan pines near a clear mountain stream.

He dismounted and carried the woman inside, laying her gently on his bed. The interior was simple but clean with a stone fireplace, a rough huneed table and chairs, shelves lined with supplies, and animal pelts hanging from the walls.

Warren immediately set to work. First, he needed to cool her body temperature. He grabbed a wooden bucket and hurried to the stream, filling it with cold water.

Back inside, he tore strips from a clean cloth and began dampening them, laying the cool compresses on her forehead, her neck, her wrists.

She moaned softly, the first sound she’d made since he found her. “Easy now,” he murmured, though he doubted she could hear him.

“You are going to be all right.” Once he’d gotten her temperature down to something less alarming, Warren knew he had to get water into her.

But he also knew the danger of giving too much too fast to someone as dehydrated as she was.

He’d seen what happened when desperate men drank too quickly after days without water. Their bodies couldn’t handle it, and they’d end up worse off than before.

He filled a tin cup with water from his barrel, sat on the edge of the bed, and carefully lifted her head, cradling it in the crook of his arm.

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glazed with fever. “Just a sip,” Warren said softly, bringing the cup to her cracked lips.

“Small sips, that is all.” Florence felt the cool metal against her mouth and instinctively tried to gulp the water, but firm hands held the cup steady, allowing only the smallest amount to trickle into her mouth.

“Slow!” That deep voice said again. “I know you want more, but you have to take it slow.”

She managed to swallow, and the sensation of water on her parched throat was like heaven.

She reached for the cup with trembling hands, but he pulled it back. Not yet, he said firmly.

Wait a minute. Warren watched her carefully, counting slowly to 60 in his head before allowing her another small sip.

Her eyes had closed again, but he could see some of the tension leaving her face.

He continued this way for nearly an hour, giving her tiny amounts of water at carefully measured intervals until finally he felt confident she’d absorbed enough to keep her stable.

The sun was setting by the time Warren allowed himself to step away from her bedside.

He needed to tend to his horse, bring in firewood, and prepare something for the woman to eat when she woke properly.

But food would have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight, water was enough. He built up the fire, checked on her one more time, then headed outside to unsaddle his horse and settle the animal in the small lean to he’d constructed as a stable.

The evening air was cooling rapidly, as it always did in the high desert. Warren carried his saddle and supplies inside, then gathered an arm load of firewood.

When he returned to the cabin, the woman was stirring, her head turning restlessly on the pillow.

Warren set down the firewood and moved to her side. You are safe, he told her, keeping his voice low and calm.

You are in my cabin. I found you out in the desert. Her eyes opened, and for the first time, he got a good look at them.

Even clouded with fever and exhaustion. They were remarkable, a warm brown that reminded him of honey in sunlight.

She tried to speak, but only a horse croak came out. Do not try to talk yet, Warren said.

He reached for the water cup. More water first. This time she let him control the pace, taking small sips when he offered them, waiting when he pulled the cup away.

He saw intelligence in her eyes, understanding. She knew she needed to go slow, even if her body was screaming for more.

“What is your name?” Warren asked after she’d had several small drinks. “Florence,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.

“Florence Emerson.” “I am Warren” Gallagher. “You have been lost out there for a while, I reckon.”

“Three days,” she whispered. Stage a coach. Bandits attacked. His expression darkened. Bandits have been getting bold lately.

You ran, she nodded weakly. Thought they would kill me. Ran into the desert. Got lost.

You did the right thing, Warren assured her. And you are safe now. But you need to rest.

Your body has been through hell. Florence wanted to ask more questions. Wanted to know where she was and how far from Albuquerque.

But exhaustion was pulling at her like an undertoe. Her eyes drifted shut despite her efforts to keep them open.

Warren pulled the blanket up over her and added another log to the fire. He dragged his chair closer to the bed and settled in for the night.

He’d sleep in shifts, keeping watch on her, making sure the fever didn’t spike again.

He’d done this before with injured animals, sitting vigil through the night, monitoring their breathing, their temperature.

This was no different, he told himself. Just another creature in need of help. But as he watched the fire light play across Florence’s face, he knew he was lying to himself.

This was different. Very different. The night passed slowly. Warren dozed in his chair, waking every hour or so to check on Florence and give her more water.

By dawn, some color had returned to her cheeks, and her breathing had evened out into the deeper rhythm of genuine sleep rather than unconsciousness.

Warren stepped outside into the crisp morning air and stretched his stiff muscles. The sun was just breaking over the eastern peaks, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink.

He walked to the stream and splashed cold water on his face, then filled his bucket.

When he returned to the cabin, Florence was awake, watching the door with wide eyes.

“Good morning,” Warren said, setting down the bucket. “How are you feeling?” “Tired,” Florence admitted.

Her voice was still, but stronger than last night. And hungry. I have not eaten since before the attack.

I figured as much, Warren said. But we have to be careful with food, same as water.

Your stomach will not handle much right now. He moved to his supply shelves and pulled down a tin of oats and a small jar of honey.

Within minutes, he had a pot hanging over the fire, and the smell of cooking oatmeal filled the cabin.

Florence watched him work, taking in her surroundings for the first time. The cabin was rough but surprisingly tidy for a bachelor dwelling.

Everything seemed to have its place, and while the furnishings were simple, they were wellmade.

Animal pelts lined the walls, bear and elk and deer, and various tools hung from wooden pegs.

“You live here alone?” Florence asked. Warren nodded, stirring the oatmeal. 8 years now. Came out here after the war.

The war. Between the states I was at Gettsburg. His voice was flat, offering no details, and Florence understood.

Some memories were too painful to share with strangers. When the oatmeal was ready, Warren spooned a small portion into a wooden bowl and drizzled a bit of honey over it.

He brought it to her along with a spoon, but she was so weak her hands shook when she tried to hold the bowl.

“Here,” Warren said, taking the bowl back. “Let me help.” He sat on the edge of the bed and scooped up a small spoonful, holding it out to her.

Florence felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I can manage,” she protested weakly. “I am sure you can, but you do not have to,” Warren said simply.

“You are still too weak. Let me help. There was no pity in his voice, no condescension, just a simple statement of fact and an offer of help.

Florence opened her mouth and accepted the spoonful of oatmeal. It was warm and sweet and absolutely delicious, the first food she’d had in days.

Warren fed her slowly, just as he’d given her water the night before. Small amounts with pauses between bites to let her stomach adjust.

He didn’t speak, just focused on the task with the same careful attention he’d shown when cooling her fever.

Florence found herself studying his face as he worked. He was younger than she’d first thought, probably no more than 30.

His face was weathered and tanned with the kind of lines that came from squinting into bright sun and facing harsh winds.

But his eyes were kind, a startling blue against his sun darkened skin. His jaw was strong and angular, shadowed with several days worth of dark stubble.

And when he leaned forward to offer her another spoonful, she could see the powerful muscles of his shoulders and arms beneath his buckskin shirt.

He was, she realized with some surprise, a very handsome man in a rough, untamed way.

Nothing like the pale, softhanded gentleman she’d known back in Boston. “That is enough for now,” Warren said, setting aside the bowl when it was half empty.

“We will try more in a few hours.” “Thank you,” Florence said quietly. “You saved my life.”

Warren shrugged, looking uncomfortable with her gratitude. “Could not very well leave you out there to die.

Many men would have,” Florence said. The world is not as kind as you might think.

I know exactly how unkind the world is, Warren replied, his voice hard for a moment.

Then he seemed to catch himself and softened. But that does not mean we have to add to it.

He stood and moved to the fireplace, giving her space. Florence realized she was still wearing her torn and filthy traveling dress, and she probably looked like something the cat dragged in.

I must look terrible, she murmured. You look alive, Warren said. That is what matters.

Over the next few hours, Warren continued his careful nursing. He helped her drink more water, gave her another small portion of oatmeal, and changed the dressings on the cuts and scrapes she’d gotten during her frantic flight through the desert.

His touch was gentle, but impersonal, clinical, and Florence found herself both relieved and oddly disappointed by his professional distance.

By afternoon, she felt strong enough to sit up on her own, though the effort left her dizzy and trembling.

“You need to rest more,” Warren said, frowning at her pale face. “I have been resting,” Florence protested.

“I should not impose on you any longer than necessary. If you could just point me toward Albuquerque, I am sure I can manage.

Warren crossed his arms over his broad chest and gave her a look that clearly said she was talking nonsense.

You can barely sit up without shaking and you want to walk to Albuquerque. It is a full day’s ride from here on horseback.

You would not make it half a mile on foot. But I cannot stay here, Florence said, feeling heat rise to her cheeks again.

It would not be proper. Proper? Warren’s eyebrows rose. You nearly died of exposure 3 days ago, and you are worried about propriety.

I have a reputation to consider, Florence said stiffly. I am supposed to be the new school teacher in Albuquerque.

If word got out that I spent days alone in a cabin with an unmarried man, I would be ruined before I even started.

Warren was silent for a long moment, his jaw working. Finally, he sighed. Look, Miss Emerson, I understand your concern.

But the plain fact is that you are not strong enough to travel yet. Your body has been through hell and it needs time to recover.

You try to leave now, you will just collapse again, and next time there might not be anyone around to find you.”

Florence knew he was right, much as she hated to admit it. She was so weak she could barely feed herself.

The thought of trying to walk anywhere, much less a full day’s ride, was laughable.

“How long?” She asked quietly. “A week, maybe more,” Warren said. “You need to build your strength back slowly.”

“Good food, plenty of water, rest. Same as nursing any injured creature back to health.”

Florence bristled slightly at being compared to an injured creature, but she supposed that was essentially what she was at the moment.

And my reputation, she asked. Warren shrugged. No one knows you are here. Far as anyone in Albuquerque knows, you disappeared when the stage was attacked.

When you show up alive in a week or so, I reckon folks will be too happy to see you to ask many questions.

And if they do ask, well, you tell them you found shelter in a cave or an abandoned prospector’s shack.

No need to mention me at all. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was practical, and Florence had to admit she had little choice in the matter.

She could either stay here and recover properly or try to leave and likely die in the attempt.

Very well, she said finally. I will stay, but only until I am strong enough to travel.

That is all I am asking, Warren said. As the days passed, Florence’s strength gradually returned under Warren’s careful ministration.

He fed her small meals throughout the day, gradually increasing the portions as her stomach adjusted.

Oatmeal gave way to eggs from the chickens he kept in a small coupe, then to venison stew rich with wild onions and herbs he’d gathered from the mountains.

He showed remarkable patience with her weakness, never showing frustration when she needed help with simple tasks.

When she finally felt strong enough to walk outside, he was there to steady her when her legs trembled.

When she wanted to wash but was too embarrassed to ask for help, he heated water and left it in a bucket with clean cloths, then made himself scarce.

Taking his rifle and heading out to check his trap line, Florence washed as best she could, and examined the dress Warren had laid out on the bed.

It was simple calico, worn but clean, and she realized it must have belonged to a woman at some point.

The thought stirred a pang of something she did not want to examine too closely.

Jealousy. She had no right to feel jealous. Warren Gallagher was just a kind stranger helping someone in need.

But as the days passed and her strength returned, Florence found herself thinking about Warren in ways that had nothing to do with gratitude.

She noticed the way his muscles flexed when he chopped wood, the gentle competence of his hands when he worked, the rare but genuine smile that transformed his serious face.

She found herself watching for those smiles, saying things she hoped might coax one out.

Warren, for his part, seemed determined to maintain a respectful distance. He slept on the floor by the fire, insisting she keep the bed.

He was never anything but proper in his behavior. Never said or did anything that could be construed as improper.

And yet Florence sometimes caught him watching her when he thought she was not looking.

His blue eyes holding an expression she could not quite read. One evening about 5 days after Warren had found her, Florence felt strong enough to help with supper.

Warren had shot a turkey and she insisted on helping pluck and prepare it. “You do not have to do that,” Warren protested.

“But Florence was already reaching for the bird. You have been taking care of me for days,” she said firmly.

“The least I can do is help with one meal.” They worked together in comfortable silence.

Florence plucking feathers while Warren prepared vegetables from the small garden he kept behind the cabin.

The domesticity of the scene struck Florence suddenly. This was what it might be like to have a home with someone to share the simple tasks of daily life.

Tell me about Boston, Warren said suddenly, breaking the silence. “What made you leave?” Florence was quiet for a moment, considering her answer.

“I suppose I wanted adventure,” she said finally. “My parents died two years ago within months of each other.

They left me a small inheritance, enough to live modestly. But all my friends were getting married, settling into predictable lives, and I just felt like if I did not do something different, something bold, I would spend the rest of my life wondering what else was out there.

“So, you came west to teach school,” Warren said, a slight smile playing at his lips.

“It seemed adventurous at the time,” Florence said defensively. Then laughed. I suppose nearly dying in the desert qualifies as adventure, though not the kind I was hoping for.

What kind were you hoping for? Warren asked, genuinely curious. Florence thought about it. I suppose I wanted to feel useful, needed.

In Boston, I was just another young woman expected to find a husband and have children.

But out here, teachers are scarce. I thought I could make a real difference, help build something new.

Warren nodded slowly. That is why I came out here too in a way. After the war, I could not go back to how things were.

Too much had changed. I needed space. Needed to be somewhere I could breathe. These mountains gave me that.

Do you ever get lonely? Florence asked. Warren’s hand stilled on the knife he was using to chop carrots.

Sometimes, he admitted, especially in winter when the snow gets deep and I do not see another soul for months, but lonely is better than feeling lost in a crowd of people.

Florence understood that feeling more than she wanted to admit. “Yes,” she said softly. “I know what you mean.”

Their eyes met across the table, and something passed between them, an understanding, a recognition.

They were both running from something, seeking something, and maybe, just maybe, they had found it in each other.

Warren looked away first, returning to his vegetables with perhaps a bit more focus than necessary.

Florence went back to plucking the turkey, but her heart was beating faster, and she could feel a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the fire.

That night, as they sat by the fire after supper, Warren pulled out a harmonica and began to play.

The melody was melancholy and beautiful, and Florence sat mesmerized, watching his fingers move over the instrument.

“That is beautiful,” she said when he finished. “Where did you learn to play?” “My father taught me,” Warren said, looking at the harmonica with a sad smile.

“Before the war.” Seems like a lifetime ago now. Play another,” Florence requested. Warren obliged, playing a livelier tune this time, something that made Florence’s foot tap along with the rhythm.

When he finished, she applauded, and he actually blushed, the color visible even in the firelight.

“I have not played for anyone in years,” he admitted. “Forgot how nice it is to have an audience.

You should play more often,” Florence said. You have real talent. They talked late into the night, sharing stories of their lives.

Warren spoke haltingly of the war, of losing friends and seeing things no man should have to see.

Florence talked about growing up in Boston, about her parents and her dreams for the future.

The conversation flowed easily naturally, and Florence realized she had never felt so comfortable talking to a man before.

When she finally retired to bed, Florence lay awake for a long time, listening to Warren Steady breathing from his place by the fire.

She was falling for him. She realized this rough, kind mountain man who had saved her life and asked nothing in return.

It was foolish, impractical, and probably hopeless, but her heart did not seem to care about any of that.

The next morning, Florence woke to find Warren already up and gone, though he’d left the fire built up and water heating over it.

She washed and dressed in the calico dress, then ventured outside. The morning air was crisp and clean, and she could hear the sound of the stream nearby.

She found Warren by the stream washing something in the cold water. As she got closer, she saw it was her green traveling dress.

You do not have to do that, she said embarrassed. Warren looked up, water dripping from his hands.

It needed washing. Figured you might want it back. Thank you, Florence said, touched by the gesture.

You have been so kind to me. I do not know how I will ever repay you.

No repayment needed, Warren said firmly. He rung out the dress and stood, and Florence found herself very aware of how tall he was, how his wet shirt clung to the muscles of his chest and arms.

“You saved my life,” she insisted. “That deserves something.” Warren looked at her for a long moment, and Florence saw something flicker in his blue eyes, something intense and hungry that made her breath catch.

Having you here has been payment enough, he said quietly. I did not realize how much I missed having someone to talk to until you came along.

I have enjoyed it too, Florence admitted, her heart pounding. More than I expected. They stood there by the stream, the sound of running water filling the silence between them.

Warren took a step closer, and Florence could see the internal war playing out on his face.

He wanted to kiss her. She could see it clearly. But he was holding back, being honorable.

Florence made the decision for both of them. She rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to his for a heartbeat.

Warren was frozen, shocked. Then his arms came around her, pulling her close, and he was kissing her back with a passion that took her breath away.

His lips were warm and firm, and when his hand came up to cup the back of her head, Florence felt her knees go weak.

They finally broke apart, both breathing hard. Warren’s eyes were dark with desire, but there was also worry there.

“Florence, I should not have done that,” he said, his voice rough. “You did not,” Florence pointed out breathlessly.

“I kissed you, but I kissed you back,” Warren said. And I want to do it again, which is why I should not.

You are supposed to be a school teacher in Albuquerque. You have a whole life ahead of you.

I am just a mountain man living alone in the wilderness. I have nothing to offer you.

You have yourself,” Florence said, placing her hand on his chest. She could feel his heart pounding beneath her palm.

“And that might be enough.” Warren covered her hand with his, holding it against his heart.

You do not know what you are saying. You have been here less than a week in the middle of nowhere with no one else around.

It is easy to develop feelings in a situation like this, but they might not be real.

Do your feelings feel real? Florence challenged. Warren closed his eyes. Yes, he admitted. But that does not mean acting on them is the right thing to do.

Florence wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that she knew her own heart, but she could see the turmoil in his expression.

Warren was trying to do the honorable thing, trying to protect her reputation and her future.

She could not fault him for that, even if it frustrated her. “All right,” she said softly.

“We will not speak of it again, but Warren, my feelings are real, and I think yours are, too.

Whatever we decide to do about that, the feelings themselves are real.” Warren nodded slowly, then stepped back, putting distance between them.

“You are getting stronger every day,” he said, changing the subject. “Another few days, and you should be well enough to travel.”

The thought of leaving sent a pang through Florence’s chest, but she nodded. “Yes, I suppose so.”

The next few days were bittersweet. Florence continued to regain her strength, helping more around the cabin, taking walks in the surrounding area.

Warren was unfailingly polite and helpful, but he maintained a careful distance between them, never letting himself get too close, never allowing a repeat of that kiss by the stream.

But Florence could feel the tension between them, could see the way Warren’s eyes followed her when he thought she was not looking, and she knew he could see the longing in her own gaze.

They were both trying to do the right thing, but it was getting harder every day.

One afternoon, Warren announced he needed to ride into Albuquerque to sell some pelts and pick up supplies.

“I will ask around about the stage attack,” he said. See if anyone is looking for survivors, and I can let them know you are alive and well.”

“All right,” Florence said, though the thought of him leaving, even for a day, made her anxious.

Warren left before dawn the next morning, and the cabin felt impossibly empty without him.

Florence tried to keep busy, tending the chickens, working in the garden, but she found herself constantly listening for the sound of hoof beatats that would signal his return.

He arrived back just as the sun was setting, looking tired and dusty from the long ride.

But there was something else in his expression, too, something troubled. “What is it?” Florence asked immediately.

“What did you find out?” Warren dismounted and began unsaddling his horse. The stage company reported the attack.

You and two other passengers are listed as missing, presumed dead. They have not sent out search parties because the bandits have been active in the area and they do not want to risk more lives.

So, no one is looking for me, Florence said. No, Warren confirmed. He turned to face her.

I spoke to the superintendent of schools in Albuquerque. Told him I had news of Florence Emerson, that you were alive and recovering from your ordeal.

What did he say? Warren’s jaw tightened. He said they had already hired a replacement teacher.

Said they could not wait indefinitely for someone who might be dead. He was glad to hear you survived, but the position has been filled.

Florence felt the news like a physical blow. The job she had come all this way for, the fresh start she had planned gone.

“I see,” she managed. “I am sorry,” Warren said, and she could hear the genuine regret in his voice.

“I know that is not what you wanted to hear.” Florence took a deep breath, trying to process this new reality.

“Well, I suppose I will have to find something else. Albuquerque is a growing town.

There must be other opportunities.” Warren was quiet for a moment, then said, “There is another option.”

“What is that?” He met her eyes, and Florence saw both hope and fear in his gaze.

“You could stay here with me.” Florence’s heart leaped, but she forced herself to think practically.

“Warren, we barely know each other, and I cannot just live here with you. People would talk.”

“We could get married,” Warren said, the words coming out in a rush. I know it is sudden, and I know I am not much of a catch.

But I care about you, Florence. These past days with you here, it has felt right in a way nothing has felt right since before the war.

And I think you feel it, too. Florence’s hands were trembling. You are proposing to me, I suppose I am, Warren said.

He took a step closer. I know it is not a fancy proposal like you probably imagined.

No ring, no getting down on one knee, but it is honest. I want you to stay.

I want to build a life with you. And if you need more time to think about it, I understand.

But know that my offer is genuine. Florence looked at this man who had saved her life, who had nursed her back to health with such patience and care, who played the harmonica by the fire and blushed when she complimented his cooking.

She thought about the kiss they had shared by the stream, the connection she felt when they talked late into the night.

She thought about the empty years stretching ahead if she walked away from this. “Yes,” she said.

Warren blinked. “Yes, yes, I will marry you,” Florence said, a smile breaking across her face.

“You are right. It is sudden and impractical and probably crazy, but it also feels right.”

So yes, Warren Gallagher, I will marry you. The smile that lit Warren’s face was like the sun breaking through clouds.

He crossed the distance between them in two strides and swept her into his arms, spinning her around.

Florence laughed, feeling lighter than she had in years. When he set her down, he cuped her face in his hands and kissed her thoroughly, deeply, without any of the restraint he had shown before.

Florence melted into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him back with all the pent up feeling of the past week.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Warren rested his forehead against hers. “We will go into town tomorrow,” he said.

“Find a preacher. Do this properly.” “Tomorrow,” Florence asked, surprised. “Unless you want to wait,” Warren said, pulling back to look at her.

Florence thought about it for about half a second. “No,” she decided. “Tomorrow is perfect.”

They rode into Albuquerque the next morning, Florence sitting in front of Warren on his horse, his arms around her keeping her steady.

The town was larger than she had expected, a bustling mix of adobe buildings and newer wooden structures, with wagons and people filling the dusty streets.

Warren guided the horse to a small church on the edge of town. The priest, Father Martinez, was an elderly man with kind eyes who agreed to marry them that very afternoon.

“You are certain about this?” Father Martinez asked Florence privately while Warren waited outside. “You have known this man less than 2 weeks.”

“I am certain,” Florence said firmly. “I know it seems hasty, but sometimes you just know.

And I know that Warren is a good man and that I want to spend my life with him.”

Father Martinez studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Then I will perform the ceremony, but I must ask, do you have a dress?

Something suitable for a wedding?” Florence looked down at her borrowed calico dress and realized she had nothing appropriate.

Before she could answer, Warren appeared in the doorway. “I thought of that,” he said.

He held up a package wrapped in brown paper. I bought this yesterday when I was in town.

Hoped I might have occasion to give it to you. Florence unwrapped the package to find a beautiful dress of deep blue cotton, simple but well-made with delicate white lace at the collar and cuffs.

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Warren, it is beautiful,” she breathed. “Hoped it would fit,” he said, looking pleased with himself.

It did fit perfectly. Florence changed in the small room behind the church, and when she emerged, Warren’s eyes widened.

“You look beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “The wedding was simple but lovely.”

“Father Martinez performed the ceremony in the small church with the housekeeper and the church sexton serving as witnesses.

Warren had no ring to give her, but he held her hands tightly as he spoke his vows, his voice steady and sure.

I, Warren Gallagher, take you, Florence Emerson, to be my wife. I promise to care for you, protect you, and cherish you for all the days of my life.

Florence’s voice shook slightly as she repeated her own vows, but her words were no less sincere.

I, Florence Emerson, take you, Warren Gallagher, to be my husband. I promise to stand by you, support you, and love you for all the days of my life.”

When Father Martinez pronounced them husband and wife, Warren kissed her tenderly, and Florence felt a joy so complete it brought tears to her eyes.

They spent their wedding night at the small hotel in town. A luxury Warren insisted on, despite Florence’s protests, that they did not need to spend the money.

The room was modest but clean, and after the simplicity of the cabin, it felt almost fancy.

Warren was gentle with her, patient, and tender, and if Florence was nervous about the marriage bed, his careful attention soon put her at ease.

They came together slowly, learning each other. And when Florence finally fell asleep in her husband’s arms, she felt more content than she could ever remember feeling.

The next morning, they bought supplies in town and headed back to the cabin. Their cabin now, Florence thought with a thrill.

Their home. The next months were a time of adjustment and discovery. Florence learned the rhythms of life in the mountains, the daily tasks of survival that Warren had long since mastered.

She learned to tend the chickens and the garden, to preserve food for winter, to recognize the tracks of different animals.

Warren taught her to shoot his old rifle, insisting she needed to know how to protect herself when he was out checking his trap lines.

In turn, Florence brought her own skills to their partnership. She organized the cabin, creating systems for storage and cleaning that made daily life easier.

She sewed curtains for the windows and cushions for the chairs, transforming the rough bachelor dwelling into a real home.

And in the evenings, she would read aloud from the few books Warren owned, her voice filling the cabin with stories and poetry.

They learned each other’s habits and quirks, the small details that make up a life together.

Florence discovered that Warren sang to himself when he worked outside old army songs and folk ballads in a surprisingly good baritone.

Warren learned that Florence liked to watch the sunrise with a cup of coffee, standing in the doorway of the cabin in her night gown, her hair loose around her shoulders.

They had their disagreements, of course. Florence thought Warren took unnecessary risks when hunting, and Warren thought Florence worked too hard in the garden.

But they learned to talk through their differences, to compromise and communicate, building the foundation of a strong marriage.

As summer turned to fall, Florence began to notice changes in her body. She was tired more easily, and certain smells that had never bothered her before now made her nauseious.

It took her a few weeks to recognize the signs. But when she finally did, she was both thrilled and terrified.

She waited until they were sitting by the fire one evening, Warren playing his harmonica softly before she told him.

Warren, I have something to tell you, she said, her hands twisting nervously in her lap.

He set down the harmonica immediately, his expression concerned. What is it? Are you all right?

I am fine, Florence assured him quickly. Better than fine, actually, Warren. I am going to have a baby.

Warren’s eyes went wide. A baby? He repeated as if he could not quite believe it.

Florence nodded, tears starting to form. Are you happy? In answer, Warren pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe.

Happy? He said, his voice rough with emotion. Florence, I am more than happy. I am blessed.

We are going to have a baby. He pulled back to look at her, his eyes shining.

We are going to be parents. Are you scared? Florence asked because she certainly was terrified.

Warren admitted, but also excited. We will figure it out together just like we have figured out everything else.

Warren became even more protective of Florence after that, insisting she rest more, refusing to let her carry heavy loads.

Florence found it both endearing and occasionally frustrating, but she understood it came from love, from his deep need to protect those he cared about.

As fall deepened into winter and the first snows began to fall, Warren made preparations.

He chopped extra firewood, stacking it high against the cabin wall. He hunted and trapped with renewed purpose, building up their stores of meat.

He even made the long ride into Albuquerque to speak with a midwife, an older woman named Mrs.

Chen, who agreed to come stay with them when Florence’s time drew near. The winter was harsh that year, with heavy snows that sometimes left them snowed in for days at a time.

But inside the cabin, warmed by the fire and each other’s presence, Florence had never felt more content.

She sewed baby clothes from soft fabric War Warren had bought in town while he carved a beautiful wooden cradle, sanding it smooth so there would be no splinters to harm their child.

They talked about names, about the future, about what kind of parents they wanted to be.

Warren spoke of teaching their child to ride and hunt, to read the signs of the wilderness.

Florence talked about books and music and education. We could move to town eventually, Warren suggested one night.

When the child is old enough for school, I could find work as a guide or a freighter.

We do not have to stay out here forever. But Florence shook her head. I do not want to leave.

She said, “This is our home, and there is no reason our child cannot learn out here.

I can teach reading and writing and arithmetic. You can teach all the practical skills, and if there comes a time when more formal schooling is needed, we can figure it out.

Then, Warren pulled her close, his hand resting on her swelling belly. I love you, he said simply.

I love you, too, Florence replied, and marveled at how true it was. She had come west looking for adventure and purpose, and she had found something so much better.

She had found home. Spring arrived with a rush of melting snow and budding trees, and with it came the knowledge that their baby would arrive soon.

Warren rode to town to fetch Mrs. Chen, the midwife, who arrived with her bags of supplies and her calm, competent manner.

Florence’s labor began on a warm April afternoon in 1879, nearly a year since Warren had found her dying in the desert.

The labor was long and difficult, and there were moments when Florence thought she could not bear another minute of pain.

But Warren stayed by her side through all of it, holding her hand, wiping her forehead with cool cloths, whispering encouragement.

“You can do this,” he told her, his blue eyes steady and sure. “You are the strongest person I know.

You survived 3 days in the desert. You can survive this.” And she did. As the sun set on their anniversary of sorts, Florence gave birth to a healthy baby boy with a lusty cry and a full head of dark hair.

Warren cut the cord with trembling hands, tears streaming down his face as Mrs. Chen placed the baby in Florence’s arms.

“A son,” Florence whispered, aed by the tiny, perfect creature she held. Warren sat beside her on the bed, his arm around her shoulders, staring down at their son with an expression of wonder.

“He is beautiful,” he said. “You are beautiful. Thank you, Florence.” They named him Thomas after Warren’s father, and he became the center of their world.

Warren proved to be a devoted father, getting up for middle of the night feedings, rocking Thomas when he fussed, and watching over him with fierce protectiveness.

Florence sometimes woke in the night to find Warren standing over the cradle just watching their son sleep as if he could not quite believe Thomas was real.

As Thomas grew from infant to toddler, he filled the cabin with noise and laughter.

He was a curious child, always getting into things, always asking questions. Warren took him everywhere, carrying him in a sling when he checked the trap lines, teaching him the names of plants and animals, showing him how to read tracks in the dirt.

Florence watched her husband with their son, and fell in love with him all over again.

This gentle giant of a man who could bring down an elk with a single shot, who could survive alone in the wilderness for months at a time, became completely undone by a toddler’s laugh or a chubby hand reaching for him.

When Thomas was two, Florence discovered she was pregnant again. This pregnancy was easier than the first, perhaps because she knew what to expect, or perhaps because she was stronger now.

Toughened by years of mountain life, their second child, a daughter they named Margaret after Florence’s mother, arrived on a cold November morning.

She had Florence’s brown eyes and Warren’s stubborn chin, and from the moment she was born, she had her father wrapped around her tiny finger.

Warren, who had faced Confederate soldiers without flinching, who could stare down a bear if necessary, became putty in his daughter’s hands.

When Margaret cried, Warren immediately went to comfort her. When she reached for him with her little arms, he dropped whatever he was doing to pick her up.

“You are going to spoil that girl,” Florence told him, though she was smiling as she said it.

That is my right as her father,” Warren replied, completely unrepentant as he rocked Margaret to sleep.

Life settled into a comfortable rhythm. Warren continued his hunting and trapping, but he also started a small horse breeding operation, having discovered a talent for working with the animals.

Florence tended her now extensive garden, preserving enough food each summer to last through the long winters.

The children grew healthy and strong, wild as the mountains themselves, but also well-mannered and respectful.

As the years passed, their family grew again. Another son, James, arrived when Margaret was three.

Then another daughter, Elizabeth, two years after that. Their cabin grew, too, with Warren adding on rooms as needed until it was a proper house rather than a simple cabin.

They made occasional trips into Albuquerque, which had grown considerably over the years. Each time, Florence was struck by how different the town felt from their quiet mountain home.

The noise, the crowds, the constant activity, all felt overwhelming after the peace of the wilderness.

“Do you ever regret it?” Warren asked her once as they drove their wagon back home after a supply trip.

Giving up the life you could have had. You could have been a proper teacher in town, married a banker or a lawyer, had an easier life.”

Florence looked at her husband, his hair now stre with gray, his face lined from years of sun and weather, and then back at their children sleeping in the wagon bed, exhausted from their day in town.

“Never,” she said firmly. “This life, this family, this is what I was meant for.

I would not change a single thing. Warren reached over and squeezed her hand, and Florence squeezed back.

The children thrived in the mountains. Thomas grew into a serious boy who loved learning, constantly asking questions and absorbing everything Warren taught him about the wilderness and everything Florence taught him from her books.

Margaret was adventurous and fearless, always climbing trees and exploring, keeping her parents on constant alert.

James was gentle and thoughtful, with a gift for music that showed itself when Warren taught him to play the harmonica.

Elizabeth was still young, but she showed signs of being as stubborn as both her parents combined.

Florence taught all the children to read and write, holding lessons in the mornings at the big table Warren had built.

She taught them arithmetic and geography, history and literature, using the books they had accumulated over the years.

Warren taught them practical skills, how to ride and shoot, how to track animals and find water, how to survive in the wilderness.

They were a family, complete and whole, carved out of the wilderness through hard work and love.

One evening, when Thomas was 10 and Elizabeth was three, the family sat around the fire after supper.

Warren played his harmonica while Florence rocked the baby. The older children played quietly, and a deep sense of peace filled the room.

“Tell us again how you met,” Margaret demanded, as she often did. It was her favorite story.

Warren and Florence exchanged a smile. “Well,” Florence began, “I was lost in the desert, about to die when your father found me.

I was tracking an elk,” Warren continued. “And I saw Buzzard circling. I went to investigate and there was your mother unconscious against a rock.”

“And you saved her,” Margaret said, her eyes shining. I took her back to the cabin and fed her slowly, Warren said.

Just tiny amounts of water and food at first because her body could not handle more.

And you stayed with her until her strength returned, Thomas added, knowing the story by heart.

I did, Warren confirmed. And somewhere along the way, I fell in love with her.

And Mama fell in love with you too, James said. I did, Florence agreed. Even though I tried not to at first, I thought I was supposed to go to Albuquerque and be a school teacher.

But your father showed me that sometimes the life we plan is not the life we are meant to live.

And then you got married, Margaret said happily. We did, Warren said. And then eventually we had all of you, the four greatest blessings of our lives.

Florence looked around at her family, at this life they had built together, and felt her heart swell with gratitude.

She thought back to that girl who had fled into the desert, terrified and alone, who had given up all hope of survival.

She could never have imagined then that she would find not just rescue, but love, purpose, and a family beyond her wildest dreams.

The years continued to pass, marked by the changing seasons and the growing children. Thomas proved to have Warren’s talent with horses, and started helping his father with the breeding operation.

Margaret shocked them all by showing an interest in medicine. After helping a neighbor deliver a baby during a visit, James’s musical ability grew, and he began composing his own songs on the harmonica.

Elizabeth showed signs of being the most academic of all the children, always with her nose in a book.

As the children grew older and more independent, Warren and Florence found themselves with more time together.

They would take walks in the evenings, hand in hand, talking about everything and nothing.

They would sit on the porch they had built, watching the sun set over the mountains, comfortable in the silence that comes with years of companionship.

“We should probably add on another room,” Warren said one evening when Thomas was 15.

“The boy is getting too old to share with his brother, and Margaret and Elizabeth need their own spaces, too.”

“Already planning it out,” Florence asked, amused. “Maybe,” Warren admitted. Been thinking about it for a while.

The kids are growing up fast. Soon enough, they will start wanting lives of their own.

The thought brought a pang to Florence’s heart. Do not remind me. Thomas is already talking about starting his own horse ranch someday.

And Margaret mentioned wanting to apprentice with Mrs. Chen. They are good kids, Warren said proudly.

We raised them well. We did, Florence agreed, leaning her head on his shoulder. Warren built the addition that summer with help from Thomas and some neighbors.

The house now had separate bedrooms for each of the children, and Warren had even added a small study for Florence, lined with shelves for all the books they had collected over the years.

As autumn arrived, bringing with it the brilliant colors of changing aspens and the crisp promise of winter, the family settled into their routines.

But there was an undercurrent of change in the air. Thomas had met a girl in town, the daughter of the general store owner, and Warren and Florence could see the signs of first love in their son’s eyes.

He is too young, Florence said one night, watching Thomas daydream over his supper. He is 15, Warren pointed out.

I was not much older when I went to war, and you were only 22 when I found you.

That was different, Florence protested. Warren raised an eyebrow. How so? Florence opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again.

All right, perhaps it is not so different, but he is still my baby boy.

Warren pulled her close. He will always be our son, no matter how old he gets.

But we have to let him grow up, make his own choices. We can guide him, but we cannot protect him from everything.

Florence knew he was right, but it did not make it any easier. The years that followed brought more changes.

Thomas did indeed marry his sweetheart when he turned 18, and Warren helped him establish his own horse ranch in a valley about 10 mi away.

It was far enough for independence, but close enough for regular visits. Margaret apprenticed with Mrs.

Chen and showed real talent for healing work. She traveled around the territory learning from different healers and doctors, soaking up knowledge like a sponge.

James surprised them all by getting a job playing music at a saloon in Albuquerque, though he came home every Sunday for family dinner.

Elizabeth, now a young teenager, announced her intention to become a teacher like her mother had planned to be.

“You can teach here,” Florence suggested. But Elizabeth shook her head. “I want to teach in town, Mama.

I want to help children who do not have parents like you and Papa to teach them.

Florence felt pride and sadness in equal measure. Her children were growing up, finding their own paths, and while she was proud of the people they were becoming, she missed the days when they were small and the whole world was contained within these mountains.

But even as the children began their own lives, they remained close. Sunday dinners became a sacred tradition with everyone gathering at the house regardless of weather or circumstances.

The table Warren had built so many years ago was always full of food and laughter and often there were new faces too, friends and sweethearts and eventually grandchildren.

Thomas and his wife gave Warren and Florence their first grandchild, a boy they named William.

Warren held the baby with the same wonder he had shown holding his own children, and Florence watched her strong, capable husband reduced to tears by a tiny infant’s grip on his finger.

“We did this,” Warren said softly, looking at Florence over the baby’s head. “We created this family, this legacy.”

“We did,” Florence agreed, her own eyes misty. More grandchildren followed over the years. Margaret married a doctor she met during her apprenticeship and they had twin girls.

James eventually settled down with a singer he met in Albuquerque and they had a son.

Even Elizabeth, who had been so focused on her teaching career, found love with a fellow teacher and started her own family.

Through it all, Warren and Florence remained the center of the family, the anchor that held everyone together.

Their love had not dimmed with the years. If anything, it had grown stronger, deepened by shared experiences and weathered storms.

On their 20th wedding anniversary, Warren surprised Florence with a ring. He had traded a valuable pelt for it, a simple gold band with a small diamond.

“I know it is 20 years too late,” he said, slipping it on her finger.

“But I wanted you to have it. Wanted everyone to see that you are my wife, that you chose me.”

Florence looked at the ring through tears. “Warren Gallagher, I have never regretted choosing you.

Not for a single moment.” “Even when I track mud through the house,” Warren asked, a teasing glint in his eye.

“Even then,” Florence confirmed, laughing. They celebrated their anniversary with all four children and their growing number of grandchildren gathered around the table.

There was food and music and laughter. The kind of deep genuine joy that comes from being surrounded by people you love who love you back.

As the evening wound down and the children began gathering their families to head home, Margaret pulled Florence aside.

You and Papa are happy, are you not? She asked, a slight worry in her voice.

“Happier than I ever dreamed possible,” Florence assured her daughter. “Why do you ask?” “I just wanted to make sure,” Margaret said.

“I know it has not always been easy, raising four children in the wilderness, dealing with hard winters and sometimes harder summers.

But you and Papa always seemed so content, so complete together. I want that kind of love for myself.”

Florence hugged her daughter tight. You have found a good man in your doctor. Be patient with each other.

Communicate honestly and never take each other for granted. That is the secret, if there is one.

After everyone had left and the house was quiet again, Warren and Florence sat on the porch watching the stars come out.

20 years, Warren mused. Feels like both a lifetime and no time at all. I know what you mean, Florence said.

She was 52 now, her hair stre with gray, her hands work. Warren was 60, his long hair now more silver than dark, his face deeply lined.

But when she looked at him, she still saw the strong, capable man who had saved her life all those years ago.

“You think we will have another 20 years together?” Warren asked quietly. “I hope so,” Florence said.

But however long we have, I want to spend it right here with you. Warren took her hand, his thumb rubbing over the new ring on her finger.

I found you dying in the desert, he said softly. And you gave me a reason to live.

You gave me a family, a purpose, a home. I was just existing before you, Florence.

You taught me how to truly live. We taught each other, Florence corrected gently. I was lost in more ways than one when you found me.

You showed me what love could be, what a true partnership looked like. We built this life together, Warren.

Every piece of it, they sat in comfortable silence, listening to the night sounds of the mountains they both loved.

An owl hooted in the distance. The wind whispered through the pines, and inside the house they had built together stood solid and strong, a testament to their love and commitment.

The years continued their relentless march forward. Warren’s joints grew stiffer, making the physical work of the ranch harder.

Florence’s eyesight began to fade, making her beloved reading more difficult. But they adapted as they had always adapted, finding new ways to do old tasks, accepting help from their children and grandchildren when pride would have once made them refuse.

Thomas took over more of the horse breeding operation, though Warren still insisted on helping when he could.

Margaret checked on them regularly, her medical knowledge becoming more important as they aged. James brought them music, his visits a bright spot in their quieter days.

Elizabeth brought books, reading aloud to Florence when her eyes grew too tired. Through it all, Warren and Florence remained devoted to each other.

On difficult days, when Warren’s old war wounds achd, Florence would massage his shoulders and tell him stories to distract him from the pain.

When Florence struggled with the limitations aging brought, Warren would hold her and remind her of all the things she could still do, all the ways she was still vital and necessary.

They celebrated their 30th anniversary surrounded by children, grandchildren, and even a few great grandchildren.

The house was packed to bursting, filled with noise and laughter and love. Look at what you have created, Margaret told her parents, gesturing to the crowded room.

This whole family started with just the two of you. Best decision I ever made, Warren said, pulling Florence close.

Asking your mother to marry me. Second best, Florence corrected with a smile. The best was when you decided to check on those circling buzzards instead of continuing to track your elk.

Warren laughed. I suppose you are right about that. As they approached their 40th anniversary, Warren’s health began to decline more noticeably.

The years of hard physical labor were catching up with him, and he moved more slowly, tired more easily.

Florence watched her strong, capable husband growing frail, and her heart achd even as she understood this was the natural progression of life.

But Warren’s spirit remained strong. He still told stories to his great grandchildren, still played his harmonica by the fire, still looked at Florence with the same love and devotion he had shown since the beginning.

One spring morning, Warren woke with an unusual amount of energy. “Let us go for a walk,” he suggested to Florence.

“Down to the stream where I washed your dress all those years ago.” Florence, who was 72 now, but still relatively spry, agreed readily.

They walked slowly, arm in arm, down the familiar path to the stream. The water ran clear and cold, just as it always had.

“This is where you kissed me for the first time,” Warren said, standing on the bank.

“You remember,” Florence said pleased. “I remember everything about you,” Warren said. Every moment we have shared, every conversation, every touch, you have been the great blessing of my life, Florence.

And you have been mine, Florence replied, feeling tears prick at her eyes. I love you, Warren Gallagher.

I have loved you from that first week when you fed me slowly and stayed until my strength returned.

I will love you until my last breath. Warren pulled her close and they stood there by the stream holding each other remembering and cherishing all the years they had shared.

Warren passed away peacefully in his sleep 2 months later just 2 weeks after their 40th anniversary.

Florence woke to find him lying beside her, his face peaceful, his hand still holding hers.

The pain of loss was sharp and immediate, a physical ache in her chest. But even through the grief, Florence felt gratitude for the 40 years they had shared, for the family they had built, for the love that had sustained them both.

The funeral was held at the house with Father Martinez, now ancient himself, presiding. It seemed like half the territory showed up to pay respects to Warren Gallagher, the mountain man who had been a good neighbor, a devoted husband, a loving father and grandfather.

They buried him on the hill behind the house, overlooking the valley he had loved.

In the days and weeks that followed, Florence found herself lost in grief. The house felt empty without Warren’s presence, without his humming while he worked, without his arms around her at night.

Her children were wonderful, checking on her constantly, never leaving her alone for long. But there was a Warrensized hole in her life that nothing could fill.

One evening, about a month after Warren’s death, Florence walked down to the stream. She stood where they had shared their first kiss, where Warren had stood just weeks before telling her he remembered everything.

“I miss you,” she said aloud to the empty air. “Every moment of every day, I miss you.”

The wind rustled through the trees, and Florence imagined it was Warren answering her, telling her it was all right to grieve, but also to keep living.

And so she did. Florence stayed in the house they had built together, surrounded by memories and family.

She watched her grandchildren grow and her great grandchildren be born. She told stories about Warren to anyone who would listen, keeping his memory alive through her words.

She lived another 5 years, years filled with family and love, though she never stopped missing the man who had saved her life and then made that life worth living.

When she finally passed away, quietly in her sleep, just as Warren had, her children found her with a smile on her face and Warren’s old harmonica clutched in her hands.

They buried her next to Warren on the hill. And at the funeral, Margaret spoke of her parents’ love story.

“My mother was lost and dying when my father found her,” Margaret told the gathered crowd.

“He fed her slowly and stayed until her strength returned, but the truth is they saved each other.

My father was lost, too, in his own way, and my mother helped him find his way home.

They built a life together out of nothing but determination and love. And from that life came all of us, this whole family.

They taught us what love looks like, what commitment means, what it is to build something lasting.

Years later, the house still stood on the mountain, now home to Thomas’s grandson and his family.

The story of Warren and Florence had become family legend, passed down through the generations.

Great great grandchildren who had never known them still heard the tale of how mountain man Warren Gallagher found Florence Emerson starving after three days lost in the desert.

How he fed her slowly and stayed until her strength returned. And how that act of compassion had blossomed into a love that created a legacy of family and devotion.

The ring Warren had given Florence for their 20th anniversary became a family heirloom passed down through the daughters.

Each one wearing it on her wedding day in honor of the great love story that had started their family.

Warren’s harmonica was treasured too, kept in a place of honor in the house, occasionally played by those who had inherited his musical gift.