Her expression changed.
“That means—”
“I know.”
I climbed down.
I tied a rope around my waist, secured the other end to the wagon, and tested the current.
Clara followed.
“You are not crossing that carrying me.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Elias.”
“Your patient is over there.”
She looked toward the distant cabin.
Then at the water.
Then back at me.
“How?”
I crouched slightly.
“Arms around my neck.”
Clara's cheeks flushed.
“This is hardly the time.”
“You asked.”
She muttered something beneath her breath and climbed onto my back.
Her arms circled my shoulders.
I stood.
Clara made a small startled sound.
“What?”
“You are even larger from up here.”
I nearly lost my footing from laughter before we reached the water.
The crossing took ten minutes.
Clara held me tightly.
Her cheek occasionally touched the side of my neck.
I tried very hard to think about the current.
At the Langley cabin, Clara became someone else.
Not colder.
Sharper.
Focused.
Mrs. Emily Langley had been in labor almost eighteen hours and was exhausted.
Clara washed her hands, opened the wooden case, and began giving instructions.
I stayed outside.
Four hours passed.
Then five.
Shortly after sunset, a baby's cry pierced the cabin.
Peter ran onto the porch shouting.
“A girl!”
His father, Daniel Langley, covered his face with both hands.
I had known Daniel twelve years.
I had never seen him cry.
Clara emerged an hour later.
Her hair had escaped its pins.
Her sleeves were rolled to the elbows.
She looked exhausted.
“Mother?”
“Alive.”
“Baby?”
“Loud.”
I exhaled.
Clara sat on the porch step.
I gave her my coat.
She accepted without protest.
For several minutes we listened to the newborn crying inside.
Then Clara whispered, “You want children.”
It was not a question.
I looked at her.
“How do you know?”
“The way you listened.”
I stared into the rain.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
I laughed softly.
“I've never gotten far enough to count.”
Clara pulled my coat tighter around herself.
“What would you consider too many?”
“Clara.”
“What?”
“You shouldn't ask a man questions like that when you're wearing his coat.”
She smiled.
“Why?”
“Because I might misunderstand your intentions.”
Her eyes met mine.
“What if you understand them perfectly?”
My heart stopped.
Clara looked toward the cabin.
I forced myself to breathe.
“Don't tease me.”
“I am not teasing.”
“You may feel differently tomorrow.”
Her face changed.
There it was.
The hurt I had caused.
“Do you think so little of me?”
“No.”
“Then why do you keep treating every kind thing I say as temporary?”
I had no answer.
Clara stood.
She handed me the coat.
“I am not one of the seven women who left you, Elias.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You know it with your head. Your heart apparently believes I'm borrowing their boots.”
She walked inside.
I stood alone on the porch.
For the first time, I understood that fear could become cruel even when a man meant it as protection.
We returned to the ranch after sunrise.
The creek had dropped slightly.
I carried Clara across again.
This time, when her arms closed around my neck, neither of us joked.
At home she slept until evening.
I repaired fence until my hands hurt.
When I came inside, Clara was standing beside the stove in a pale blue dress.
Her hair was loose.
Without the bonnet, it fell thick and chestnut-colored over her shoulders.
She had never looked more beautiful.
I stopped in the doorway.
Clara noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is becoming your favorite lie.”
I removed my coat.
“Did you sleep?”
“Yes.”
She approached.
The kitchen seemed to shrink around us.
“Elias, look at me.”
I did.
“Do you want me here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to marry me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you find me attractive?”
My throat closed.
Clara waited.
I had carried steers through snowstorms with less fear than I felt answering her.
“Yes.”
“How attractive?”
“Clara.”
Her lips twitched.
“That sounded suspiciously like avoidance.”
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
Her teasing disappeared.
I continued before courage failed.
“Your eyes distract me while you're speaking. I notice when you loosen your hair. I notice every time you stand too close. I have memorized the sound of your footsteps upstairs like some damn fool.”
Clara's breath caught.
I stepped backward.
“Which is precisely why I am careful.”
She followed.
“Careful of what?”
“You.”
“You think I'm made of glass.”
“No.”
“You act like it.”
“I know my strength.”
“So do I.”
“No, Clara.”
My voice came out sharper than intended.
“You know rumors.”
Silence.
I immediately regretted it.
Clara's face reddened, but she did not retreat.
“Then tell me the truth.”
I looked away.
“No.”
“Elias.”
“You do not need those details.”
“If I am considering becoming your wife, perhaps I decide what I need.”
“You think because you delivered a baby you understand—”
“I understand anatomy.”
“That isn't the same.”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“It isn't.”