The moon above the canyon was a thin silver blade, and beneath it the cowboy spoke words he thought were meant for one pair of ears. She stood before him—braids catching starlight, eyes fierce yet shy—and when she asked for his promise he laid his hand on his heart and gave it, simple as signing a deed. Loyalty. Protection. A life shared. He imagined a quiet wedding, a single ring, a cabin built for two.
He rode into camp next morning ready to meet her family, maybe share bread and blessings. Instead he found the whole tribe assembled, drums murmuring like distant thunder. Three women stepped from the fire’s glow—sisters, alike as phases of the same moon. The youngest laughed like water over stones; the middle one steadied his trembling hands; the eldest measured him with eyes older than the cliffs.
The elder raised his staff. “You spoke beneath the moon. Our law says the vow binds every daughter that moon claims.” The cowboy’s heart lurched. One promise, three faces. He looked to the girl he loved—she nodded, gentle but certain. “I thought you knew,” she whispered. “We share one spirit. You marry us all, or you lose us all.”
Panic clawed his throat. Three wives? Three futures? But the middle sister’s voice was calm: “You join the bond, not the burden.” He saw then what they offered—not possession, but partnership; a life where no single back must carry every sorrow.
The tribe waited, breathing as one. He felt the weight of their expectation, the shine of their hope. He stepped forward, let the eldest lay a necklace of turquoise and bone across his chest; let the middle sister rest her palm over his heart; let the youngest twine her fingers through his, bright as morning.
“I spoke to the moon,” he said, voice steady now. “If the moon has three daughters, then I keep my word to all of them.” Drums exploded—relief, joy, victory. The sisters closed around him, a circle of hands, hearts, horizons.
Later, when the fires burned low, they walked him to the lodge they would share. Blankets woven with sunrise stripes covered the walls; the scent of sweet-grass drifted overhead. He sat between them, firelight painting four shadows that leaned together like lodge-poles.
He didn’t know how to be husband to three women, but he knew how to stand beside someone when storms came. He had learned that from cattle drives and prairie blizzards; he could learn it here.
Outside, the moon set, thin and satisfied. Inside, four hearts found the same rhythm—slow, tentative, but growing stronger with every shared breath. The cowboy closed his eyes, felt three pairs of fingers brush his in quiet thanks, and understood:
He had promised one moonlit vow.
The moon had three daughters.
And now—at last—he belonged to them all.
