She moved closer.
“But I also understand fear.”
My hands curled at my sides.
Clara lifted one hand.
She stopped before touching me.
“May I?”
The question nearly broke something inside me.
I nodded.
Her fingers rested against the front of my shirt.
Such a small touch.
I felt it everywhere.
“They warned me you were too much man for any woman,” she whispered. “But I didn't cross half the country because I wanted something small or safe.”
“Don't.”
My voice was rough.
Clara's eyes lifted.
“Don't say that unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.”
“I've watched seven women run from me.”
Her fingers pressed gently against my chest.
“And I am still standing here.”
“I won't survive hearing desire in your voice if it becomes fear the moment we're alone.”
Clara's eyes glistened.
“Then stop deciding in advance what I will feel.”
Neither of us moved.
Our faces were separated by perhaps a foot.
I could hear her breathing.
Then Clara rose onto her toes.
She kissed my cheek.
One soft touch beside my beard.
Nothing more.
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them, she was smiling.
“Good night, Elias.”
She walked upstairs.
I remained in the kitchen for nearly ten minutes.
The following weeks became the happiest and most difficult of my life.
Clara established a small medical room in what had once been my storage pantry.
Women began arriving.
At first they came because Dr. Harlan remained away.
Then they continued because Clara listened.
She treated fevers, stitched cuts, delivered babies, and once removed a fishhook from Ezra Cole's thumb while he apologized three separate times for the way he had behaved when she arrived.
Copper Hollow slowly stopped calling her Bride Number Eight.
She became Mrs. Vance.
Then Miss Clara.
Then simply Clara.
People did not stop talking about me.
But they became more careful about doing it around her.
One afternoon, I entered the mercantile and found Clara standing beside Beatrice Vale.
I heard Beatrice whisper, “You know what they say.”
Clara folded a bolt of cloth.
“I know what people say about nearly everyone in this town.”
Beatrice leaned closer.
“I only mean as a woman, you should understand what marriage may require.”
Clara's expression hardened.
“What my marriage requires will be discussed by exactly two people.”
She looked directly at Beatrice.
“You are not one of them.”
I stepped outside before Clara saw me.
I stood beside the hitching rail until my breathing steadied.
A week later, a letter arrived from St. Louis.
Clara opened it after supper.
I watched her face change.
“Trouble?”
She folded the paper.
“Mrs. Mercer.”
“What does she want?”
“She heard rumors.”
My stomach turned.
“What rumors?”
“About you.”
I stood.
Clara looked up.
“Elias.”
“What did she say?”
“She offers to arrange my return fare without penalty.”
Of course.
There it was.
The moment I had been waiting for.
I walked to the bedroom and pulled Clara's trunk from beneath the bed.
When I returned downstairs, she stared.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“For whom?”
“You.”
Her expression became blank.
“The morning train leaves at eleven.”
Clara slowly placed the letter on the table.
“You think I want to go?”
“You have an opportunity.”
“I have had an opportunity every day.”
“I won't make this harder.”
“Put the trunk down.”
“Clara—”
“Put. It. Down.”
I did.
She stood.
Her entire body trembled.
Not with fear.
Anger.
“You arrogant man.”
I blinked.
“You have spent weeks telling me you respect my choices.”
“I do.”
“Then why are you making one for me?”
“I am giving you freedom.”
“No. You are throwing me away before I can leave you.”
“That is not what I'm doing.”
“It is exactly what you're doing.”
Clara snatched the letter from the table.
“You think this piece of paper has more authority over my life than I do.”
“I think you deserve a way out.”
“I know where the door is!”
Her voice cracked.
Silence filled the kitchen.
Clara's eyes shone with tears.
“I am tired of being treated as though staying with you must be a mistake I have not yet discovered.”
I stepped toward her.
She raised one hand.
I stopped.
“You want to know why I said ‘Thank God’ when I saw you at the station?”
I nodded.
“My late husband's brother wanted to marry me.”
The answer stunned me.
“After Thomas died?”
“Yes.”
Clara wiped angrily at one cheek.
“Charles Vance was handsome. Educated. Polite in public. Exactly the kind of man mothers wanted their daughters to marry.”
Her mouth twisted.
“He also believed a wife was property.”
I remained still.
“When I refused him, he began visiting anyway. He managed money without permission. Opened my correspondence. Told neighbors I was unstable after Thomas's death.”
Clara looked directly at me.
“When Mrs. Mercer described you, I asked one question.”
“What?”
“Is he cruel?”
My chest tightened.
“She said no.”
Clara stepped closer.
“I asked whether you drank.”
“No.”
“Whether you gambled away money.”
“No.”
“Whether you struck women.”
“No.”
“Whether any woman had ever accused you of forcing her.”
I barely breathed.
“What did she say?”
“No.”
Clara nodded.
“So when I stepped off that train and saw you standing there with your hat in your hand while an entire town laughed at you, I knew something before you said ten words.”
“What?”
“That the most frightening-looking man in Copper Hollow was probably the only man who had offered me a locked bedroom door before asking me to trust him.”
I could not speak.
Clara touched the trunk.
“I did not come here because I wanted protection from the world.”
Her voice softened.
“I came because your letters sounded like a man who understood what choice meant.”
Her hazel eyes held mine.
“Do not become the man who takes that choice away because you're afraid.”
That night I unpacked her trunk.
The next morning, I wrote Mrs. Mercer.
Mrs. Vance has made her decision. Please direct all future correspondence concerning her residence to Mrs. Vance herself.
Clara read the sentence twice.
Then she smiled.
“That is much better.”
Spring finally broke across the mountains.
Wildflowers appeared beside the creek.
Snow retreated from the northern slopes.
Clara began riding Juniper without assistance.