She handed it to him.
Nathan frowned.
“What?”
“Open it.”
Inside were twenty-three dollars.
Nathan looked up.
“No.”
Clara crossed her arms.
“What?”
“That money stays yours.”
“It’s ours if I stay.”
“No.”
“Nathan.”
“No.”
She stepped closer.
“Do you plan to argue every time I try to help?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“So do I.”
The first week tested both promises.
Clara discovered Nathan could tolerate pain better than assistance.
His burns needed salve.
He insisted they did not.
His left shoulder had been injured while pulling a calf from the barn.
He insisted that too was fine.
He had not eaten a proper meal in four days.
Apparently also fine.
By the third evening, Clara stopped asking.
She made beans, biscuits, and fried salt pork using the outdoor cookfire.
Nathan returned from fence work.
Stopped.
Looked at the pan.
Then at her.
“Hungry?”
“No.”
His stomach growled.
Clara smiled.
“Sit.”
Nathan sat.
He ate two plates.
Then a third.
Clara pretended not to notice.
Afterward, he carried water without being asked.
That became their first compromise.
Neither thanked the other.
Nathan started rebuilding with salvaged lumber.
Clara joined.
He objected.
She ignored him.
She wore her faded blue dress with the sleeves rolled above the elbows, tied a beige work apron tightly around her waist, and spent mornings pulling nails from burned boards that could still be used.
Nathan watched her wrestle one heavy timber from the debris.
“You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Clara kept pulling.
“You’ve said that four times.”
“Because you keep lifting things.”
“I’m thirty-one, not ninety.”
“You’re not built for this work.”
The timber hit the ground.
Clara turned slowly.
Nathan knew instantly he had made a mistake.
“What exactly am I built for?”
He looked at her full figure.
Then immediately looked elsewhere.
Clara noticed.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Go ahead.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
“Not the way you think.”
“What way do I think?”
Nathan rubbed the back of his neck.
Clara waited.
He hated how good she was at silence.
Finally:
“You’re strong.”
She stared.
“That’s your answer?”
“Yes.”
“Terrible recovery.”
Nathan almost smiled.
Clara looked toward the timber.
Then him.
“You think because I’m heavy I can’t work?”
“No.”
“You think because I’m a woman?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I think because I watched you nearly twist your knee.”
That took some air from the argument.
Clara glanced toward the uneven ground.
Nathan stepped closer.
“And I don’t want you injured because I was too proud to tell you how to lift the damned thing.”
Clara looked at him.
“That you can say.”
He nodded.
“Fine.”
They lifted it together.
Their attraction grew in inconvenient places.
Over fence posts.
At the creek.
Beside the cookfire.
Never when either expected.
Nathan would look up and find Clara leaning over a ledger with one curl escaping her bun.
Clara would catch him washing at the pump, shirt damp against a chest marked by older scars.
They pretended not to notice.
Both failed.
The fire had burned the left side of Nathan’s face more deeply than Clara initially realized.
At night, after the lantern went out, she sometimes heard him touch the scars.
He rarely allowed her to see him do it.
One evening she found him standing outside with his back toward the smokehouse.
“You should put salve on that.”
“I did.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Nathan looked over his shoulder.
Clara held up the small jar.
He sighed.
“I’m fine.”
She walked closer.
“You say that constantly.”
“Usually true.”
“No.”
Nathan looked away.
Clara dipped two fingers into the salve.
“Sit.”
He stared.
“Clara.”
“Sit.”
He sat on an overturned bucket.
She stood between his knees.
That arrangement immediately felt more intimate than either expected.
Clara touched his jaw carefully.
Nathan went rigid.
“Does that hurt?”
“No.”
She pressed slightly.
He inhaled sharply.
“Liar.”
“Woman.”
“Hold still.”
Her fingers moved along the healing skin.
Nathan watched her face.
Not pity.
No disgust.
Concentration.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because you need it.”
His voice dropped.
“That answer’s becoming dangerous.”
Clara paused.
“What does that mean?”
Nathan did not answer.
Her fingers moved lower toward his neck.
His hand caught her wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough.
Their eyes met.
Neither spoke.
Clara could feel his pulse beneath her fingertips.
Nathan released her.
“Done.”
She looked at him.
“No.”
He stood.
“Close enough.”
Then walked away.
Clara remained beside the bucket.
She understood.
Not rejection.
Fear.
That was worse.
Two days later, a man named Silas Crowe rode onto Cole Ranch.
Clara disliked him before he dismounted.
Silas was fifty-one, broad, silver-haired, and dressed too well for a cattleman visiting burned property.
His black coat showed no dust.
His boots did.
That told Clara someone else usually opened gates for him.
Nathan emerged from behind the house frame.
His expression changed immediately.
“Crowe.”
“Nathan.”
Silas looked toward Clara.
Then smiled.
“And who is this?”
Clara answered before Nathan.
“Clara Whitmore.”
Silas removed his hat.
“The bride.”
Nathan’s jaw tightened.
“Not yet.”
Silas looked amused.
“So she came anyway.”
Clara studied him.
“You knew about me?”
“Nathan’s correspondence isn’t exactly secret in Red Hollow.”
Nathan stepped closer.
“What do you want?”
Silas’s smile disappeared.
“Same thing I wanted last month.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard the offer.”
“I heard it before the fire.”
Clara looked between them.
Silas continued.
“Eight thousand for the entire north section.”
Nathan laughed once.
“Still no.”
“You owe the bank.”
“That’s my problem.”
“Your house is gone.”
“Also mine.”
“Your cattle are dead.”
Nathan stepped forward.
Clara touched his arm.
Not to restrain him.
To remind him she was there.
Silas noticed.
“You’re determined to become poor together?”
Clara smiled.
“I’ve been poor before.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“It lacks novelty.”
Silas looked toward her.
“Eastern women often romanticize hardship until they meet it.”
Clara’s smile stayed.
“Western men often mistake money for intelligence until they’re forced to speak.”
Nathan coughed to hide laughter.
Silas’s face cooled.
Then he looked toward Nathan.
“The bank will not extend your note.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know the bank.”
That sentence mattered.
Nathan heard it.
Clara heard it differently.
Silas mounted.
Before leaving, he said:
“Offer remains until November tenth.”
“After that, land price drops.”
Nathan stared.
“Get off my ranch.”
Silas rode away.
Clara watched until he disappeared.
Then turned.
“Why does he want the north section?”
Nathan looked toward the hills.
“Water.”
“Creek?”
“Not enough.”
“What then?”
Nathan shrugged.