The stagecoach driver tried to stop Clara Whitmore before she climbed down.
“Ma’am.”
Clara looked toward him with one gloved hand already gripping the iron rail.
The driver, a narrow-faced man named Amos Bell, glanced toward the blackened property ahead and then back at her.
“You sure this is the place?”
Clara looked across the open Texas land.
A wooden arch beside the road still carried the words COLE RANCH, though the right half had been scorched nearly black.
Beyond it stood the remains of what had once been a large farmhouse.
No roof.
Half the front wall gone.
Charred rafters pointed into the pale afternoon sky.
A barn farther back looked even worse.
Two horses grazed inside a surviving paddock while broken fence rails lay scattered near the road.
Smoke still rose faintly from a mound of burned timber.
Clara swallowed.
“Yes.”
Amos removed his hat.
“Could take you another twelve miles to Red Hollow.”
“No.”
“Town’s got a boarding house.”
“I’m expected here.”
The driver looked toward the ruin again.
“Looks like whoever expected you has had a rough week.”
Clara tightened her grip on the suitcase.
“That doesn’t change the address.”
Amos did not argue.
He climbed down, pulled her battered reddish-brown case from the roof rack, and set it carefully beside the road.
Clara paid him.
Before leaving, he said:
“Stage runs east again Thursday.”
She looked at him.
“I won’t need it.”
Amos’s eyebrows rose.
He glanced once more toward the burned ranch.
Then climbed back onto the coach.
Clara stood alone as the horses carried him away.
Dust lifted behind the wheels.
For nearly a minute she did not move.
Then a man emerged from behind the ruined farmhouse.
He was taller than she expected.
Lean.
Sun-darkened.
His brown cowboy hat sat low over dark hair, and soot marked the cream work shirt beneath his brown leather vest.
He walked slowly.
Not because of injury.
Because he seemed uncertain what he was seeing.
Clara knew him immediately.
Not from a photograph.
Nathan Cole had never sent one.
But from his letters.
Something about the careful way he approached matched the man who had spent eight months writing sentences three times before trusting them to paper.
He stopped ten feet away.
His eyes went to her suitcase.
Then her face.
Then the road where the stagecoach disappeared.
“Clara?”
She nodded.
“Nathan?”
“Yes.”
Neither smiled.
This was not how either of them had imagined the first meeting.
Clara had expected a porch.
Perhaps awkward flowers.
Nathan had once written that if he survived seeing her step from the stage, he intended to offer coffee before saying anything foolish.
There was no porch.
No coffee.
No house.
Nathan removed his hat.
That was when Clara saw the scars.
Fresh burn marks climbed from his left jaw toward his ear and disappeared beneath his collar.
The skin was red and uneven.
He noticed her looking.
His face hardened.
“You should’ve stayed on that coach.”
Clara looked toward the ruin.
“What happened?”
“Fire.”
“I can see that.”
“Then you can see why you need to go.”
She met his eyes.
“I traveled eight hundred miles.”
“I know.”
“For you.”
“I know.”
“And your first sentence is telling me to leave?”
Nathan looked away.
“My first sentence should’ve been an apology.”
“For what?”
“For everything you were promised being gone.”
Clara glanced behind him.
The ranch house had once been two stories.
She could tell from what remained of the stone chimney.
Nathan continued.
“House burned four days ago.”
“Barn caught after.”
“Lost eighteen cattle.”
“Winter hay.”
“Most tack.”
“Tool shed.”
He gestured toward the land.
“That’s what’s left.”
Clara looked at him.
“And you?”
His jaw tightened.
“What about me?”
“You’re still here.”
Nathan stared.
“Barely.”
Clara bent down.
Picked up her suitcase.
Nathan stepped forward.
“No.”
She froze.
He pointed toward the road.
“Red Hollow has a boarding house.”
“You’ll stay there tonight.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
“Thursday you take the stage east.”
Clara placed the suitcase down again.
“No.”
Nathan looked at her.
“Clara.”
“No.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand exactly what you said.”
“I’m releasing you from the arrangement.”
She almost laughed.
“Releasing me?”
“Yes.”
“You sound like I’m a horse you bought.”
Nathan flinched.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Then choose better words.”
He ran one hand down his face.
The movement pulled against the burns near his jaw.
Clara noticed him wince.
Nathan continued.
“You answered an advertisement from a rancher with a house, cattle, land, and enough income for a wife.”
“I answered letters from Nathan Cole.”
“The ranch was part of those letters.”
“The ranch is still here.”
“Look around.”
Clara did.
“I am.”
Nathan’s voice hardened.
“I have no home to bring you into.”
“Where are you sleeping?”
“Smokehouse.”
“Then it has a roof.”
“Barely.”
“Good.”
He stared at her.
Clara lifted her suitcase again.
“Show me.”
Nathan did not move.
“Clara.”
She stepped closer.
“I didn’t spend eight months reading your letters because your barn sounded attractive.”
Something changed in his face.
She continued.
“You told me you hated dancing.”
“You told me your mother taught you to make biscuits and you’re terrible at it.”
“You told me you sleep better when it rains.”
“You told me you named a horse after a preacher you disliked.”
Nathan almost smiled.
Clara stepped closer.
“You told me your wife died nine years ago and that you didn’t know whether asking another woman to come west made you brave or selfish.”
Nathan’s eyes dropped.
Clara softened.
“You told me the truth.”
“So I came.”
He looked toward the burned house.
“That truth changed.”
“No.”
“The buildings changed.”
Nathan looked at her again.
The wind pushed one loose strand of chestnut hair across Clara’s cheek.
She tucked it beneath her straw hat.
Then she lifted her suitcase.
“Show me the smokehouse.”
Nathan stood still for another moment.
Finally he reached for the case.
Clara did not give it to him.
“I can carry it.”
His eyebrow rose.
“I can see that.”
“Good.”
They walked toward the ruins together.
The smokehouse was twelve feet by fourteen feet and smelled permanently of cedar, old salt, and something Nathan insisted had been venison six months earlier.
Clara doubted it.
There was one narrow bed.
One chair.
A small iron stove.
Nathan had nailed a blanket across the only window because the glass had cracked from the heat.
He stood in the doorway while Clara looked around.
“This is terrible.”
Nathan gave a humorless laugh.
“I tried to explain.”
She set down her suitcase.
“I’ve slept in worse.”
“Where?”
“Chicago train station.”
Nathan stared.
“You slept in a train station?”
“One night.”
“Why?”
“Long story.”
“I have time.”
“No.”
She removed her gloves.
Nathan watched her.
“You really intend to stay.”
“Yes.”
“Where am I supposed to sleep?”
Clara looked at the bed.
Then him.
“The floor appears available.”
His expression changed.
For the first time, she saw real amusement.
“Eight months of letters and this is what marriage gets me?”
“We aren’t married yet.”
“That sounds worse.”
Clara smiled.
The moment lasted only seconds.
Then Nathan remembered reality.
He looked toward the ruins.
“Clara, this isn’t stubbornness I can admire.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“The bank note comes due in six weeks.”
“I have almost no cash.”
“Winter is coming.”
“Half my cattle are gone.”
“The house was insured for less than the mortgage.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
“I know enough.”
She stepped toward him.
“You wrote about the note.”
“Not this.”
“No.”
“But fire doesn’t create debt from nothing.”
Nathan’s face hardened.
“You studied my letters like contracts?”
“I was going to marry you.”
“Seemed wise.”
That silenced him.
Clara opened her suitcase.
Nathan turned away immediately when he saw clothing.
She almost laughed.
“You can look.”
“I’m trying to be respectful.”
“You told me to leave five minutes after meeting me.”
“Respect is already struggling.”
Clara pulled out a folded apron.
Then a smaller leather pouch.