Twenty-nine days of hope.
Clara noticed.
Her hand stopped.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
“Nothing.”
She studied me.
I tried to resume drying the plate.
Clara placed both hands on the table.
“Was it one of the others?”
The plate almost slipped from my fingers.
I looked at her.
She waited.
“People told you?”
“Mrs. Mercer told me there had been previous arrangements.”
“How much else?”
“Very little.”
I laughed once without humor.
“That will change the first time you enter town.”
“Then tell me before they do.”
I set down the plate.
“Clara.”
“I would rather hear an uncomfortable truth from you than an entertaining lie from Ezra Cole.”
I almost asked how she had remembered Ezra's name.
Then I realized she noticed people the way I noticed weather.
Carefully.
I sat opposite her.
“The women were afraid of me.”
“Your height?”
“Some.”
“And the others?”
I looked at the stove.
Clara did not rescue me from the silence.
Finally I said, “There are rumors concerning... private matters.”
Understanding entered her eyes.
She did not laugh.
She did not look embarrassed.
She simply waited.
“The first woman spoke to someone,” I continued. “Then more stories appeared. Some true. Most exaggerated. Men enjoy making legends out of another man's humiliation.”
Clara's cheeks colored slightly.
“And these rumors frightened the women?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever force yourself on any of them?”
My head snapped up.
“No.”
“Did you touch anyone after she asked you not to?”
“Never.”
“Did you threaten them?”
“No.”
“Did you prevent them from leaving?”
“No.”
She nodded.
“Then we have identified the part that matters.”
I stared at her.
“You cannot possibly think it is that simple.”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“I think marriage is rarely simple.”
She looked directly into my eyes.
“But your body is not a moral failing, Elias.”
No one had ever said those words to me.
I looked away first.
For the next week, Clara learned the ranch.
She rose before I expected her to.
She fed chickens, complained about the stubborn pump beside the barn, and insisted on learning which horses tolerated inexperienced riders.
On her fourth morning, I found her standing inside a stall beside a mare named Juniper.
Juniper had a reputation for biting anyone she disliked.
Clara was stroking her nose.
“She likes you,” I said.
Clara smiled.
“I brought an apple.”
“Bribery.”
“Medicine.”
“She isn't sick.”
“Preventive medicine.”
I laughed.
Clara looked at me as though she had just discovered something important.
“You should do that more often.”
“What?”
“Laugh.”
I immediately stopped.
She rolled her eyes.
Two days later, we went into town for supplies.
The moment Clara stepped down from the wagon, Copper Hollow awakened.
Faces appeared.
Doors opened.
People invented errands.
Mrs. Beatrice Vale from the boardinghouse intercepted Clara before we reached the mercantile.
Beatrice was fifty, narrow as a fence rail, and capable of turning concern into cruelty without changing her tone.
“My dear, you're still here.”
Clara smiled.
“I noticed.”
Beatrice lowered her voice.
“If you require assistance, you only need to say so.”
“With what?”
Beatrice glanced at me.
Clara followed her gaze.
“Oh.”
She leaned closer.
“Mrs. Vale, if I ever need assistance escaping Mr. Thorne, I promise I will choose someone capable of lifting my trunk.”
Beatrice's mouth opened.
Clara walked into the mercantile.
I followed, trying not to smile.
Inside, Ezra Cole leaned against the counter.
“How's married life?”
“We aren't married yet,” I said.
Ezra looked at Clara.
“Still time, then.”
Clara placed flour, coffee, and lamp oil on the counter.
“Mr. Cole, are you always this interested in other people's bedrooms?”
His face reddened.
“I didn't say anything about—”
“No?”
She smiled pleasantly.
“Then we have nothing to discuss.”
For the first time in years, I watched Ezra become speechless.
That night I told Clara she did not need to defend me.
We were standing on the porch watching the rainclouds finally break over the western mountains.
“I wasn't defending you,” she said.
“No?”
“I was defending my right not to have strangers treat my future marriage like public theater.”
Future marriage.
The words struck harder than they should have.
“You still intend to marry me?”
Clara turned.
“Have I said otherwise?”
“No.”
“Then stop looking surprised.”
I leaned against the porch post.
“You haven't known me two weeks.”
“That is true.”
“You might learn things you dislike.”
“I expect to.”
That answer bothered me.
“You expect to dislike me?”
“I expect to discover that you're human.”
She folded her arms.
“You probably leave wet boots somewhere irritating. Perhaps you snore. You may have terrible political opinions. You might dislike the way I organize kitchen shelves.”
“I don't care how you organize shelves.”
“Give it time.”
I smiled despite myself.
Clara stepped nearer.
Our shoulders almost touched.
“You see?” she whispered. “Terrifying.”
Something changed between us that evening.
Nothing happened.
That was exactly why I remembered it.
We simply stood beside each other while the last rainwater slipped from the roof.
Yet for the first time since Clara arrived, the distance between us felt deliberate rather than accidental.
Three days later, Clara received her first patient.
A ranch boy named Peter Langley arrived on horseback saying his mother had gone into labor nearly a month early.
Dr. Robert Harlan was seventy miles south treating an outbreak of fever.
Clara's medical case was packed before Peter finished explaining.
“I'll take the wagon,” I said.
“The road near Langley's crossing is flooded.”
“I know.”
“Then how?”
“I'll get you there.”
Clara did not argue.
The creek had risen beyond anything I had seen that spring.
Half a mile from the Langley cabin, the wagon could go no farther.
Water covered the road.
Clara stared at the current.
“How deep?”
“Too deep for you.”
She gave me a look.
“That was not my question.”
“Waist deep on me.”