Clara groaned.
“You are becoming irritating.”
“You're exhausted.”
“I am always exhausted.”
“You're also carrying a child who appears determined to arrive before Christmas.”
“That is not a reason to stop kissing me.”
“No.”
He looked at her mouth.
“Very little is.”
Clara smiled.
Then Nathaniel said:
“I love you.”
Everything stopped.
No grand performance.
Just those words inside the cabin she built herself.
Clara stared.
Nathaniel seemed suddenly less confident than she had ever seen him.
“You don't have to—”
“I love you too.”
His eyes closed briefly.
Clara smiled.
“Were you frightened?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Cruel woman.”
“Very.”
Nathaniel kissed her forehead.
Then her cheek.
Then her mouth.
That night he stayed until the fire burned low.
He did not stay in her bed.
Not yet.
Clara wanted him.
He knew.
But he also knew desire could coexist with exhaustion, grief, pregnancy, and a lifetime of being told that women owed men access once men had helped them.
Nathaniel refused to let his help become leverage.
Clara loved him for that too.
The baby arrived twelve days later.
Snow was falling.
Of course.
Clara went into labor at four in the morning.
By six she was cursing Edward, Nathaniel, Montana, reproduction, architecture, and every saint available.
Sarah Keene arrived before sunrise.
Nathaniel was ordered out.
He obeyed for eleven minutes.
Then Clara screamed his name.
He nearly tore the door from its hinges.
Sarah stopped him.
“She called me.”
“Yes.”
“That does not mean you come in.”
Clara shouted again.
Sarah sighed.
“Fine.”
Nathaniel entered.
Clara grabbed his hand.
“You did this.”
He stared.
“I did not.”
“I know.”
She groaned.
“But you are here.”
“Yes.”
“Then suffer.”
She squeezed hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
Nathaniel looked at Sarah.
“Is this medically necessary?”
“Absolutely.”
Nine hours later a girl was born.
Small.
Furious.
Perfect.
Clara cried before the baby made her first proper sound.
Nathaniel stood beside the bed.
He had seen calves born.
Foals.
Lambs.
None prepared him for this.
Sarah wrapped the child.
Placed her against Clara.
Nathaniel looked away.
Not because he disliked the sight.
Because he felt like he had entered sacred ground.
Clara noticed.
“Nathaniel.”
He turned.
“Come here.”
He approached.
The baby’s dark hair lay wet against her head.
Tiny mouth opening.
Closing.
Clara looked exhausted beyond words.
Beautiful beyond sense.
“Her name is Rose.”
Nathaniel swallowed.
“Rose.”
“My mother loved them.”
He nodded.
Clara shifted.
“Hold her.”
His face became alarmed.
“No.”
Clara laughed weakly.
“Coward.”
“She is very small.”
“So are calves.”
“Calves have structural integrity.”
Sarah laughed aloud.
Clara held Rose toward him.
Nathaniel accepted her as though taking possession of dynamite.
Rose moved.
He froze.
“She moved.”
“She does that.”
“She’s supposed to?”
Clara laughed until it hurt.
Nathaniel stared down.
Something in him changed permanently.
Rose opened one eye.
Nathaniel whispered:
“Hello.”
Clara watched.
Then knew.
Whatever happened after, this man would love her daughter without pretending she belonged less to him because another man had fathered her.
That mattered more than any deed.
Edward requested to see Rose once.
Clara agreed.
Public place.
Nathaniel did not attend.
He wanted to.
Clara said no.
He respected it.
Edward held his daughter for five minutes.
He looked uncomfortable.
Then surprisingly moved.
Perhaps people were rarely only one thing.
He returned Rose gently.
“I’m going to Denver.”
Clara nodded.
“I know.”
“Will you tell her I abandoned her?”
Clara looked at him.
“I will tell her the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That you were not ready to be a father.”
“That you and I hurt each other.”
“That I left because I could no longer live inside your decisions.”
“And if she asks whether I loved her?”
Clara thought.
“Write to her.”
Edward looked away.
Years later he did.
Not often.
But enough that Rose knew he existed.
Clara never forgave him into becoming innocent.
She simply refused to build her daughter’s identity from hatred.
Nathaniel proposed in April.
Not at sunset.
Not on horseback.
Not with flowers.
He came into Clara’s cabin carrying papers.
She stared.
“What have you done?”
“Nothing.”
“That is your paperwork face.”
“I don't have a paperwork face.”
“You absolutely do.”
He set the documents on the table.
Marriage agreement.
Clara blinked.
Nathaniel shifted.
“Your land stays yours.”
“Cross Ranch stays mine.”
“Water agreement remains separate.”
“If we have children, inheritance is written clearly.”
“Rose is included.”
Clara looked up sharply.
Nathaniel continued:
“I do not become her legal father unless you want that and the court permits it.”
“But in my estate she receives the same share as any child we have.”
Clara’s eyes filled.
Nathaniel looked nervous.
“Too much?”
She slapped his shoulder.
“What was that for?”
“You brought me a contract.”
“I thought you would appreciate it.”
“I do.”
“Then why hit me?”
“Because you are the least romantic wealthy man in Montana.”
He reached into his coat.
Then produced a small velvet box.
Clara stared.
“Ah.”
“You thought I forgot?”
“Possibly.”
Nathaniel knelt.
Clara immediately began crying.
“You aren't allowed to cry before I ask.”
“I’m pregnant again.”
Nathaniel froze.
Clara covered her mouth.
She had meant to tell him later.
He slowly stood.
“What?”
Clara laughed through tears.
“I found out yesterday.”
Nathaniel stared.
Then looked toward her stomach as though information might be visible.
“Again?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“That is generally how siblings occur.”
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
He forgot the proposal entirely and pulled her into his arms.
Clara laughed.
“Nathaniel.”