“Lock it if you want.”
“Thank you.”
“I won't enter without permission.”
Her gaze softened slightly.
“That matters.”
He left before she could ask why.
Supper was quiet.
Boon cooked beef and potatoes.
Cala ate without complaint.
Afterward, she washed dishes.
He dried.
Their shoulders nearly touched twice.
Boon moved away both times.
Cala noticed.
Of course she did.
Night settled over the ranch.
Wind pressed against the windows.
Boon expected Cala to retire immediately.
Instead, she remained downstairs while he checked the door latches.
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
“I will.”
“Will you?”
He stopped.
Cala stood beside the table.
The directness in her gaze annoyed him because it made lying feel childish.
“Yes.”
She said nothing.
Boon went upstairs.
His bedroom occupied the end of the hall.
He closed the door.
Removed his boots.
Sat on the bed.
Then reached toward the bedside drawer.
Inside lay a small pouch of dried leaves and roots.
He put some into a cup.
Added hot water from the kettle he kept near the stove.
He drank.
Then waited.
The herbs never produced proper sleep.
They created something adjacent to unconsciousness.
Heavy.
Restless.
Filled with dreams.
But dreams were sometimes preferable to memory.
An hour passed.
Then footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Boon sat upright.
A knock.
“Boon?”
He stared at the door.
“What?”
“May I come in?”
He hesitated.
“No.”
Silence.
Then Cala said, “That was honest.”
Boon almost laughed despite himself.
“What do you want?”
“To speak to you.”
“Tomorrow.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Cala.”
“We have been married eight hours.”
“Yes.”
“I have already counted twelve whiskey bottles, discovered that you keep sleep herbs in your bedroom, watched your hand shake twice, and listened to you wake from sleep you insist you haven't attempted.”
Boon stood.
His pulse began to hammer.
“How do you know about the herbs?”
“You smell like valerian.”
He opened the door.
Cala stood outside.
Her dark hair had been released.
It fell thick and loose past her shoulders.
She wore an ivory nightgown.
Boon forgot what he intended to say.
The dress was modest by any sensible standard.
Long sleeves.
Ankle length.
Lace edging.
Yet after seeing Cala all day buttoned into traveling clothes, the softness of the nightgown felt dangerously intimate.
Her figure was lush.
Full breasts beneath gathered fabric.
Wide hips.
Soft waist.
Boon forced his eyes upward.
Cala noticed.
A faint blush moved across her cheeks.
Good.
At least something affected her.
She carried a cloth bundle.
“What is that?”
“Later.”
“You should go to bed.”
“Yes.”
She walked past him.
Boon turned.
“Cala.”
She looked into his room.
“Your bed is larger.”
“What?”
“For what I need.”
Boon stared.
She approached the mattress.
“It is time for bed.”
He almost choked.
Cala turned.
“We should go upstairs.”
“We are upstairs.”
“Then we're making progress.”
He stared.
Cala's mouth twitched.
Boon realized she was teasing him.
“You should use your room.”
She looked toward the hallway.
“That is not how marriage works.”
Boon went still.
“Our arrangement includes separate rooms.”
“Your arrangement.”
“You agreed.”
“I agreed because you needed it.”
His stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Cala moved closer.
“You wanted innocence.”
Boon stared.
“Mrs. Monroe told you?”
“She told me what you requested.”
Heat climbed his neck.
Cala did not look offended.
“You wanted a woman untouched by difficult things.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That is my concern.”
“No.”
Boon's eyes hardened.
Cala's expression did not change.
“It became mine when you married me.”
“I did not marry you to interrogate me.”
“And I didn't marry you to watch you quietly destroy yourself.”
The room seemed to narrow.
Boon's voice fell low.
“You know nothing about me.”
Cala stepped closer.
“Give me your hand.”
“No.”
“Boon.”
“No.”
She held out hers.
He stared at it.
Small compared with his.
Soft-looking.
Yet stained beneath the nails.
Finally he put his hand into hers.
Cala turned his palm upward.
Her thumb moved across the base of his fingers.
Then she examined his knuckles.
The old scars.
Thin pale ridges crossed two fingers.
One deeper scar curved over the right hand.
Her expression changed.
“Those aren't from ranch work.”
Boon pulled slightly.
Cala held him.
Not strongly.
Simply enough that leaving required a decision.
“These are from striking something hard.”
His eyes snapped toward hers.
“Stop.”
“Not another person.”
He froze.
Cala looked at his knuckles again.
“A wall.”
His blood went cold.
“How?”
“My father.”
“What about him?”
“He did the same thing.”
Cala gently traced one scar.
“My father spent two years trying to outrun grief. Whiskey. Sleeplessness. Anger.”
Her gaze lifted.
“He never struck me.”
Boon said nothing.
“He struck doors. Walls. Once a fence post.”
She released his hand.
“Everyone called him difficult.”
Boon looked away.
“I called him hurt.”
Silence.
Cala's voice softened.
“Your hurt comes from inside too.”
Boon crossed the room.
“You are mistaken.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
She pointed toward the nightstand.
“What is in the cup?”
“Tea.”
“Which plants?”
He did not answer.
Cala picked up the dried mixture.
Smelled it.
Her expression hardened.
“Where did you get these?”
“Trader.”
“Which trader?”
“Fellow outside Billings.”
“When?”
“Spring.”
She separated a fragment.
“This is wormwood.”
“So?”
“This much can make your stomach miserable.”
She pulled another piece free.
“And this is wild lettuce.”
Boon frowned.
“You know plants?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Cala looked at him.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The version of me you invented.”
Boon said nothing.
“You expected a woman who knew bread, sewing, perhaps scripture.”
“Mrs. Monroe said—”
“She said I was unmarried.”
“Yes.”
“She said I lived quietly.”
“Yes.”
“She did not say I was stupid.”
“I never said that.”
“You expected ignorance.”
Boon looked away.
Cala untied the cloth bundle.
Fresh herbs spilled into her palms.
Mint.
Chamomile.
Lemon balm.
A handful of dried flowers.
Boon stared.
Cala met his gaze.
“I worked with a midwife for nine years.”