“I’m looking for three cattle.”
“I haven't seen them.”
“Cross brand.”
“I know the brand.”
His gaze sharpened.
“You do?”
“Everybody does.”
“Fair.”
He looked at the construction again.
“You're finishing this before winter?”
“Yes.”
“The weather turns early here.”
“I know.”
“Roof needs another week.”
“Four days.”
Nathaniel studied the exposed rafters.
“Six if you're lucky.”
Clara picked up her hammer.
“Thank you for the optimism.”
He looked at her hands.
The bruised knuckles.
Small cuts.
One reopened.
“You should wrap that.”
“I should finish this floor.”
“Blood doesn't strengthen pine.”
Clara looked up.
“Do wealthy ranchers generally wander onto strangers’ property offering medical advice?”
“Only when looking for missing cattle.”
“Then find your cattle.”
Nathaniel’s mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
He dismounted.
Clara immediately lifted the rifle.
“Stay there.”
Nathaniel stopped.
Not reluctantly.
Not with offended masculinity.
He simply stopped.
“Fine.”
The response surprised her enough that she almost lowered the weapon.
Most men negotiated boundaries.
Nathaniel seemed to hear them.
He looked at the northern sky.
“Storm in three days.”
Clara glanced upward.
Clear.
“You carry weather in your saddlebag?”
“I've lived here twenty-two years.”
“It’s September.”
“Yes.”
“Snow?”
“Probably.”
Clara looked toward the unfinished roof.
Nathaniel saw.
“If it's not sealed, leave.”
“This is my home.”
“A home is a poor coffin.”
Her expression hardened.
“I don't need rescuing, Mr. Cross.”
Something changed in his face.
Not offense.
Recognition.
“I didn't offer.”
He mounted.
Then looked back.
“But if the storm comes as hard as I think, stubbornness won't keep you dry.”
Clara rested the rifle against her leg.
“Neither will conversation.”
Nathaniel laughed softly.
Then rode away.
Clara watched him disappear.
She hated that she kept listening after the hoofbeats faded.
Three days later snow came sideways.
Nathaniel had been right.
Clara hated him for approximately twelve seconds.
Then she became too busy.
The north wind hit before dawn.
By eight, the canvas over the unfinished roof section was snapping hard enough to tear the rope eyelets.
Clara climbed the ladder.
The sensible part of her knew she should descend.
The part that had spent eleven weeks listening to Harland Creek predict her failure kept tying knots.
Wind tore one loose.
Clara reached.
The child moved violently inside her.
A cramp tightened low across her abdomen.
Clara froze.
“No.”
The pain passed.
She waited.
Nothing.
“Braxton Hicks.”
She had read about them.
Probably.
Maybe.
She climbed down one rung.
Her boot slipped.
For one sickening second, the world disappeared beneath her.
Clara fell approximately five feet.
She hit packed earth on her left side.
Air vanished from her lungs.
The hammer landed nearby.
Snow struck her face.
She could not breathe.
Then pain.
Not unbearable.
Deep.
Clara pressed both hands to her belly.
“Please.”
The baby moved.
Clara began crying immediately.
Relief.
Then another cramp.
Stronger.
She looked down.
A dark spot spread across the lower edge of her dress.
Her heart began pounding.
“No.”
She tried standing.
Her legs refused.
Through the wind came hoofbeats.
Several.
Clara looked toward the trees.
Nathaniel Cross emerged first.
Behind him rode two ranch hands and a packhorse carrying canvas, lumber, rope, food, and blankets.
He saw Clara on the ground.
Everything about him changed.
He was off the horse before it completely stopped.
“Clara.”
She tried standing again.
He reached her.
“I’m fine.”
“You're bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
Nathaniel crouched.
“Can you move?”
“Yes.”
“Do not prove it.”
His coat came off.
He wrapped it around her.
Clara clenched her jaw.
“I told you I don't need rescuing.”
Nathaniel slid one arm behind her back.
“No.”
His eyes met hers.
“You need a neighbor.”
For the first time since she left Edward, Clara had no prepared answer.
Nathaniel lifted her carefully.
The movement made her grip his vest.
His chest was warm beneath the fabric.
His arm supported her without squeezing the child.
“Put me down.”
“When we're inside.”
“I can walk.”
“Then you can complain while I carry you.”
“Nathaniel.”
“You used my first name.”
“Put me down.”
“No.”
She should have been furious.
Instead her forehead briefly fell against his shoulder.
He carried her beneath the unfinished roof.
One of the ranch hands, Tom Beckett, spread blankets.
The other, Levi Moore, immediately began securing canvas against the roof opening without waiting for instruction.
Nathaniel lowered Clara carefully.
“Pain?”
“Yes.”
“Regular?”
“I don't know.”
“Baby moving?”
“Yes.”
Nathaniel exhaled.
Then he saw the tin box.
Clara had kept it near the sleeping pallet, ready if weather forced her to leave.
The fall had apparently knocked it from the shelf.
The lid stood open.
Documents scattered across the dirt floor.
Wind pushed through the unfinished wall.
One paper lifted.
Nathaniel caught it beneath his boot.
He bent.
Picked it up.
Clara saw the signature.
Every trace of color left her face.
“Give me that.”
Nathaniel looked at the bottom.
His expression changed.
Gideon Cross.
His father.
He looked at Clara.
“Why is my father’s signature on your deed?”
“Give it back.”
Nathaniel immediately extended the paper.
No argument.
Clara took it.
That mattered.
Even now.
He did not demand.
Did not grab.
Did not decide his surname entitled him to her papers.
She stuffed the deed back inside the box.
Nathaniel said:
“We'll discuss it later.”
“If there is a later.”
His face hardened.
“There will be.”
Another pain folded Clara forward.
Nathaniel caught her shoulders.
“Tom!”
The ranch hand looked down from the roof.
“Ride for Sarah Keene.”
“The midwife?”
“Now.”
Clara grabbed Nathaniel’s sleeve.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“She’ll tell the town.”
“I don't care.”