Then she studied me again.
I noticed her attention pause on my hands.
The townspeople noticed too.
I waited for the question.
Instead, Clara exhaled.
Her shoulders relaxed.
“Thank God,” she whispered.
I stared at her. “For what?”
She stepped closer.
Rain drummed against the depot roof.
“They told me you were an enormous man, Mr. Thorne.”
I swallowed.
“They told the truth.”
Her hazel eyes moved over me once more.
“That is not the part I am relieved about.”
I did not know what to say.
Clara glanced across the street.
“You seem to have an audience.”
“They were expecting a different ending.”
“To what?”
“To this.”
Understanding crossed her face.
For the first time, she smiled fully.
It nearly destroyed me.
Clara stepped close enough that I could smell rainwater and faint lavender.
“Then perhaps we shouldn't give them the ending they came for.”
I stared down at her.
“What ending would you prefer?”
Her cheeks colored.
She looked at my chest, then back at my eyes.
“The one where you take my trunk and bring me home.”
The laughter across the street stopped.
I carried her trunk with one hand.
Clara refused to surrender the wooden case.
We crossed the street toward my wagon beneath a single umbrella that was almost useless in the wind.
As we passed the saloon, Ezra Cole called from beneath the awning.
“Mrs. Vance, stage depot's the other direction if you change your mind.”
Clara stopped.
I felt my stomach tighten.
She turned toward Ezra.
“Is it?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Good.”
She smiled sweetly.
“I'll remember where to send Mr. Thorne if he disappoints me.”
Two men choked on their cigar smoke.
I looked away because I was dangerously close to laughing.
Clara climbed into my wagon.
The ride north took nearly two hours because the road was half mud.
I kept the horses slow.
Clara sat beside me beneath an oilcloth cover I had tied above the bench, the wooden case resting on her knees.
For the first mile, neither of us spoke.
Then she asked, “Do people always stare at you?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“You grow accustomed to it.”
“No.”
I glanced sideways.
Clara was watching the road.
“You grow accustomed to pretending it doesn't hurt,” she said. “That isn't the same thing.”
I had known the woman perhaps twenty minutes.
Already she had said something nobody in Copper Hollow had understood in thirty-five years.
I looked back at the horses.
“Mrs. Vance.”
“Clara.”
“Clara. You should know something before we reach the ranch.”
She waited.
“If you decide you have made a mistake, you don't need an excuse.”
Her brow furrowed.
“I will take you back to town whenever you ask. I will pay for your ticket east.”
“I read that in your letter.”
“I mean it.”
“I assumed so.”
“You might feel differently after a few days.”
Clara turned toward me.
“Do you always try this hard to convince prospective wives to leave?”
I tightened the reins.
“I prefer a woman leave because she chooses to rather than stay because she thinks she owes me something.”
Her expression softened.
“That may be the first sensible thing any man involved in my travel arrangements has said.”
I wanted to ask what she meant.
I did not.
The ranch appeared through the rain near noon.
My house stood on a rise above the creek, built from stone on the lower level and dark pine above. A barn sat fifty yards east. Beyond it, wet pasture rolled toward the mountains.
Clara stared.
“This is yours?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Most of what you can see.”
She looked at me.
“You described your home as a modest cattle ranch.”
“I didn't know what counted as modest in St. Louis.”
For the second time that day, she laughed.
The sound followed me all the way to the porch.
Inside, I showed Clara the guest room first.
The new blue curtains hung slightly crooked.
I had spent an hour trying to make them even.
She noticed immediately.
“You bought these for me?”
“Yes.”
“They're crooked.”
“I know.”
Clara touched the fabric.
Her eyes became suspiciously bright.
“Nobody has bought curtains for me in years.”
I did not know what answer that required.
So I pointed toward the door.
“Lock turns from inside.”
Her gaze followed my hand.
“I won't enter without knocking.”
“I understand.”
“Your room is yours.”
“Yes, Elias.”
“The kitchen is downstairs. Washroom is behind it. If you need anything—”
She turned around.
“Elias.”
I stopped.
“You have explained four times that I am safe.”
I felt heat climb my neck.
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.”
“Don't apologize.”
Her gaze traveled over my face.
“Just give me enough time to believe you.”
That afternoon, Clara opened the wooden case.
Inside were neatly arranged medical instruments, rolls of clean linen, bottles, scissors, needles, and several slim books.
“You're a nurse?”
“Midwife.”
I stared.
Clara smiled at my surprise.
“I trained for nearly five years in St. Louis. Women often prefer another woman during childbirth, especially poor women who cannot afford a physician.”
“That is why Mrs. Mercer called you educated.”
“That is one reason.”
She closed the case.
“My husband died three years ago.”
I had known she was a widow.
Hearing her say it made the fact real.
“I'm sorry.”
“His name was Thomas Vance. He was twenty-nine. Pneumonia took him in nine days.”
She looked toward the window.
“We had been married fourteen months.”
I said nothing.
“My husband's family believed a widow should become somebody's responsibility. Preferably theirs.”
Clara's mouth tightened.
“His older brother offered to manage Thomas's savings for me. When I refused, he explained that a woman with medical ambitions had obviously not understood her proper place during marriage.”
“What happened?”
“I left.”
“Just like that?”
“I packed that case, two dresses, and enough money to reach St. Louis.”
A faint smile returned.
“Apparently independence is easier when everything you own fits beneath a train seat.”
I looked at the little wooden case differently after that.
It was not luggage.
It was Clara's freedom.
That first evening I cooked stew.
I was not a talented cook, but I had fed myself for seventeen years without dying.
Clara ate two bowls.
Either hunger had lowered her standards or the stew was better than usual.
Afterward she insisted on washing dishes.
I dried.
The kitchen suddenly felt very small.
Each time Clara moved behind me, I became aware of exactly how much space I occupied.
She seemed aware too.
At one point, she reached around me for a towel.
Her shoulder brushed my arm.
I froze.
Margaret.
The washbasin.