“If I ask you to stay, you must believe me.”
I closed my eyes.
Clara touched my cheek.
“Look at me.”
I did.
There was no fear in her face.
Only tenderness.
Desire.
And something even more difficult for me to accept.
Trust.
“I love you,” she whispered.
I kissed her.
Slowly.
When my hands eventually settled at her waist, I paused.
Clara covered one of them with hers.
She kept it there.
“That is where I want you.”
The words went through me like lightning.
I rested my forehead against hers.
“Still certain?”
She smiled.
“Ask me again tomorrow.”
Then Clara rose on her toes and kissed me until questions became unnecessary.
What happened afterward belonged to us.
Not Copper Hollow.
Not Ezra Cole.
Not Beatrice Vale.
Not seven frightened women.
Us.
That privacy mattered.
The next morning, Clara came downstairs wearing my shirt over her nightdress because she claimed she could not locate her robe.
The shirt reached almost to her knees.
I stared.
She raised one eyebrow.
“Coffee?”
I nearly poured it onto the stove.
Clara laughed.
I had never loved any sound more.
When we entered town three days later, people stared.
Of course they stared.
Ezra opened his mouth.
Clara looked at him.
He closed it.
Smartest decision the man ever made.
Our marriage was not magically easy.
Clara reorganized my pantry so completely I could not find salt for a week.
I left muddy boots exactly where she predicted I would.
She had the maddening habit of reading while I was speaking and still remembering every word better than I did.
I snored.
Apparently loudly.
She kicked me.
Apparently accurately.
We argued.
The first serious argument came when I accepted a dangerous timber job without discussing it.
Clara stood in the kitchen with both hands on her hips.
“You are married now.”
“I know.”
“Then behave like a man whose death would inconvenience someone.”
“I've cut timber for twenty years.”
“And for nineteen of those years, nobody was waiting for you.”
I tried to argue.
She began crying.
I canceled the job.
Not because Clara ordered me.
Because she was right.
Marriage meant my life no longer belonged entirely to me.
The same lesson worked both directions.
When Clara rode alone through a snowstorm to reach a woman in labor, I nearly lost my mind.
She returned after midnight with ice in her hair.
I met her at the barn.
“You could have died.”
“She could have died if I hadn't gone.”
“You should have waited for me.”
“You were six miles north.”
“You could have sent Peter.”
“There wasn't time.”
I was furious.
Clara was furious.
We shouted.
Then I said something terrible.
“You are my wife.”
She went completely still.
I heard what I had implied.
I closed my eyes.
“No.”
My anger vanished.
“Clara, that was wrong.”
She waited.
“You are my wife,” I said more carefully, “which means I am terrified when you are in danger. It does not mean I own your decisions.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly.
“I should have left a message.”
“Yes.”
“I will next time.”
“There will be a next time?”
“I am a midwife, Elias.”
I groaned.
She kissed my cheek.
“Welcome to marriage.”
Copper Hollow changed slowly.
Not because everyone suddenly became kind.
People rarely change that cleanly.
They changed because familiarity made cruelty less entertaining.
Clara and I became ordinary.
We bought flour.
Attended church.
Argued over fence repairs.
Helped neighbors.
Delivered babies.
Raised cattle.
The Devil of Copper Hollow became Elias again.
Not to everyone.
Enough.
A year after our wedding, Clara woke me before sunrise.
She was sitting upright beside me.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You're crying.”
“I know.”
I reached for the lamp.
Clara grabbed my wrist.
“Wait.”
My heart began racing.
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
She took my hand.
For several seconds, she did not speak.
Then she guided it gently against her abdomen.
Understanding did not come immediately.
When it did, I stopped breathing.
“Clara?”
She nodded.
“You're sure?”
“As sure as a midwife can be.”
I stared at her.
Then at my hand.
Then back at her.
“You're pregnant?”
“Yes.”
I left the bed.
Clara blinked.
“Where are you going?”
I walked to the window.
I had spent years imagining this moment.
In every version, I had behaved like a man.
Instead, I put both hands over my face and began sobbing.
Clara came behind me.
Her arms could not reach completely around my waist.
She held me anyway.
“I thought I would never have this.”
“I know.”
“I stopped allowing myself to think about it.”
“I know.”
“What if something happens?”
“Then we face it.”
“What if—”
Clara stepped around me.
“Elias.”
I looked down.
“We are not borrowing fear from tomorrow.”
That became our rule.
Our daughter was born the following autumn.
Clara insisted another midwife attend.
Apparently even experienced women disliked delivering their own children.
Her name was Hannah Thorne.
She weighed seven pounds and screamed louder than any creature I had ever heard.
The first time Clara placed Hannah in my arms, I panicked.
“She is too small.”