"Pretty thing, too pretty for a dirt farmer like him." Clara did not scream. She went still. It was the possum response, a survival trick she had learned at 12. If you scream, they hit you.
If you fight, they get angry. If you go still, they get confused. Let go, she said evenly. Just want to see if the rumors are true. He laughed, pulling her closer.
If you know how to treat a man. Clara's free hand moved to her skirt pocket where she kept a small folding knife. She was calculating the angle to his ribs when a shadow fell over them. Let her go. It wasn't a shout.
It was a command spoken with the finality of a closing coffin lid. The cowboy turned. Eli stood at the mouth of the alley. He was not wearing his gun belt. He stood with his arms loose at his sides, but his whole body was coiled.
"This ain't your business, Plowboy." The cowboy sneered. "She is my wife," Eli said. He took one step forward. "And you are touching her?"
The cowboy laughed and shoved Clara back against the wall. He reached for his hip, but he was drunk and slow. Eli moved with a speed that defied his size. He stepped in, blocked the cowboy's arm, and drove a fist into the man's solar plexus. The sound was a wet thud.
The cowboy folded in half, gasping for air. Eli grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him against the brick wall. He held him there, feet dangling inches off the ground. Eli's face was inches from the man's nose. Eli was shaking, vibrating with a rage so intense the air around him seemed to crackle.
"If you ever," Eli whispered. "Ever look at her again. I will not stop at your stomach. Do you understand?" The cowboy nodded frantically, his face purple.
Eli dropped him. The man scrambled away on hands and knees, wretching in the dirt. Eli turned to Clara. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving. He looked at her and the rage in his eyes vanished, replaced by a horror that chilled her.
He looked at his own hands, then at her. Did he hurt you? Eli asked. "No," Clara said. She stepped away from the wall.
"I," Eli started, then stopped. He turned and walked rapidly toward the wagon. The ride home was fast. Eli drove the horses hard. When they reached the ranch, he jumped down and began unhitching them with frantic, jerky movements.
"Eli," Clara said, coming up behind him. "I almost killed him," Eli said, not turning around. "I wanted to I wanted to snap his neck, but you did not," Clara said. "You stopped. I am dangerous," he said, turning to face her.
"You should not be here. Clara, you should not be with a man like me. I cannot protect you the right way. I'm just like my father. Stop it, Clara shouted.
It was the first time she had raised her voice at him. Stop pitying yourself. You are nothing like him. You protected me. I should not have to.
Eli roared back. You should be safe. You should be in a house where men do not grab you in alleys. I brought you here to this this war. I am using you to keep my land, and it is going to get you hurt.
I can handle ugliness, Clara yelled, stepping into his space. I have handled worse than a drunk cowboy. I am not glass, Eli. I am not some porcelain doll you put on a shelf. I am here.
I am your partner. They stood chest to chest, breathing heavy in the cold twilight. The anger hung between them, sharp and electric. I know you are not glass, Eli said, his voice dropping to a whisper. But I want I want you to be soft.
I want you to have peace. I hate that you have to be hard to survive me. Clara looked at his face lined with dust and worry. She saw the love beneath the fear. He wasn't trying to control her.
He was trying to shield her and he was failing and it was breaking his heart. She reached up and took his face in her hands. His skin was rough, unshaven. "I am not surviving you, Eli," she said softly. "I am choosing you."
She pulled his head down. This time she did not ask permission. She did not ask, "Can I?" She simply kissed him. It was tentative at first.
A question asked with lips instead of words. Eli stood frozen for a heartbeat, his arms rigid at his sides. Then a groan ripped from his throat. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. Lifting her off her feet, he kissed her back with a desperate, starving intensity.
It was not the kiss of a polite stranger. It was the kiss of a man who had been lonely for 30 years. He carried her into the house, kicking the door shut behind them. The room was dark, lit only by the embers in the stove. He set her down by the bed.
His hands were shaking again, but not from fear of violence. He touched her face, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. "Clara," he breathed. "Are you sure?" "I am sure," she said.
She began to unbutton his shirt. "I am your wife, and I am tired of being afraid." He lowered his head to her neck. He was gentle. So incredibly gentle, as if she were made of something precious that could shatter.
But there was heat there, too. a fire that warmed the cold places inside her. They came together in the dark, shedding the layers of wool and defense they had both worn for so long. It was not a performance. There was no need to smile, no need to pretend. There was only skin and breath in the shocking, terrifying realization that they belonged to each other.
Later, as the moon rose high and white over the plains, Clara lay awake. Eli was asleep beside her, one arm thrown heavily over her waist, anchoring her to the bed. She felt different. She felt seen. She slipped out from under his arm and padded across the cold floor to her trunk.
She knelt and opened the false bottom she had constructed years ago. Inside lay a small bundle of papers. She pulled out a letter. The ink was faded, the paper brittle. It was from Sarah, the girl who had been like a sister to her in the border town.
Sarah, who had found a ledger. Sarah, who had tried to do the right thing. Clara read the name in the second paragraph. Haron Pike. Sarah had written that Pike was moving stolen cattle through the border, rebranding them, and using a network of corrupt officials to hide the money.