In the border town, there had been noise, people, the constant crush of humanity. Here, there was nothing but sage brush and gray sky. If she screamed here, the sound would simply be eaten by the wind. She looked at the man beside her. He was large, broad-shouldered.
He had not looked her in the eye since the station. Was he angry? Was he disgusted by what he had bought? She had learned to read men by the way they held their liquor and the way they used their hands. This man held the res with a gentle touch.
He did not whip the horses when they stumbled. He spoke to them. Low, soothing sounds that the wind nearly stole. That was good. Or perhaps it was a trick.
The quiet ones were sometimes the worst when the door was closed. They arrived at the homestead as the last of the daylight bled out of the sky, leaving a bruise of indigo over the western hills. The ranch house was small, a simple structure of weathered timber and stone, huddled against a rise in the land for protection from the north wind. A barn stood nearby, dark and leaning slightly. Eli pulled the wagon up to the porch.
"We are here." She climbed down before he could help her, her boots sinking into the wet earth. She followed him inside. The main room was warm. Eli had left the firebanked, and the smell of wood smoke and coffee hung in the air.
It was clean, Clara noted. The floor was swept. There were no piles of dirty clothes, no empty bottles. It was sparse, almost like a monk's cell, a table, two chairs, a stove. I put your things in there, Eli said, pointing to a door on the left.
I sleep in the loft. He was establishing distance. Clara relaxed slightly, though she kept her shoulders braced. He was not expecting to share a bed immediately. She walked to the door he indicated and pushed it open.
The room was small. There was a narrow bed with a quilt that looked handmade, a wash stand, and a small chest of drawers. On the shelf above the bed, there was a small wooden carving. Clara stepped closer. It was a horse whittleled from pine, clumsy but loving.
It looked like a toy made for a child. Beside it lay a ribbon, faded red. The silk fraying at the edges. She reached out to touch the ribbon. Do not.
Eli's voice came from the doorway, sharp and sudden. Clara jerked her hand back, spinning around. Eli stood there, his face pale, his eyes wide with a panic that looked like anger. He crossed the room in two long strides, not towards her, but to the shelf. He grabbed the ribbon and the wooden horse, his hands shaking and shoved them into the top drawer of the chest.
He slammed the drawer shut. The sound echoed in the small room. Eli breathed hard, his back to her. He looked ashamed. "I am sorry.
Those Those are old. I should have cleared them." "It is all right," Clara said, her voice steady, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "I did not mean to pry." "Supper," Eli said, the word coming out strangled.
"I will make supper," he fled the room. They ate in silence. Stew made of venison and potatoes. It was hot and filling. Clara ate methodically, scraping the bowl clean.
She did not know when the next meal would come. Survival had taught her to never leave food on a plate. Outside, the storm had passed, leaving behind a silence that was heavy and suffocating. The wind had died. The only sound was the settling of the timbers in the house and the crackle of the fire in the stove.
Night had fallen completely. The oil lamp on the table cast long, wavering shadows. Eli stood up and cleared the dishes. He washed them in a basin, his back to her. Clara watched his shoulders.
The tension in the room was rising, a physical pressure against her skin. She knew what this was. She knew the arrangement. She was a wife. A wife had duties in the saloon.
She had seen what happened to women who did not pay their debts, who did not smile when they were told to smile. She had survived by being useful, by being invisible, and by understanding the transaction. He needed a wife to keep his land. She needed a home to keep from starving, or worse, he had paid for her ticket. He had fed her.
Now the bill was due. She stood up. Her legs felt weak. She walked to the center of the room. "Mr.
Concincaid," she said. Eli turned, wiping his hands on a towel. He looked exhausted. He looked like a man who wanted to run out the door and keep running until he hit the ocean. "Eli," he said softly.
"Please call me Eli." "Eli," she repeated. She took a breath. She reached up and unbuttoned the top button of her high collar. Her fingers were trembling, but she forced them to work.
She had to show him she was willing. She had to show him she was not a bad investment. Eli went still. He dropped the towel. Clara, what are you doing?
I know what is expected, she said. Her voice was thin, brittle. I am your wife now. I want to be I want to be a good wife. She took a step closer to him.
He did not move. He stared at her, his eyes dark with an emotion she could not read. Was it hunger? I can, she started, then faltered. She felt the heat rising in her face, the deep old shame of the places she had been and the things she had heard through thin walls.
She looked at his belt buckle because she could not look at his eyes. "I am your wife. Can I?" She gestured vaguely, a halting, humiliating offer of intimacy that she thought men wanted. The words died in her throat.
She stopped, bracing herself. She waited for him to grab her, to laugh or to tell her to get on her knees. She squeezed her eyes shut. No. The word was a rough croak.
Clara flinched. She opened her eyes. Eli had backed away until he hit the edge of the stove. He was trembling. His hands were held up, palms out as if she were the one with a knife.
"No," he said again louder this time. "Do not, please. I I do not understand," Clara whispered. I thought I know where you came from, Eli said. His voice was shaking.
I know you had to survive. But you are not. You are not that here. You are not a thing I bought. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the strands tight.