His expression became serious.
“A wife.”
“A housekeeper?”
“I have one.”
“A cook?”
“I employ two.”
“Someone to warm your bed?”
Gideon’s gaze held hers.
Clara immediately regretted the question.
Then refused to show it.
He stepped slightly closer.
“I’m hoping.”
Heat climbed into her face.
“But only if she wants to be there.”
Clara swallowed.
“And children.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“As many as we’re blessed with.”
The old pain entered before she could stop it.
Clara turned away.
Gideon noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
“I said no to marriage.”
“You said no before hearing me.”
“I’ve heard enough.”
“Clara.”
She spun toward him.
“Don’t use my name like we know each other.”
His expression softened.
“Then let me.”
“Let you what?”
“Know you.”
The wind moved between them.
Clara stared at this enormous stranger who had somehow discovered exactly where her defenses were weakest.
She whispered:
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Then tell me.”
“I don’t owe you explanations.”
“No.”
He put his hat back on.
“But the offer stands.”
“For how long?”
“Until you tell me never to return.”
“I just did.”
“You said no to marriage.”
“That seems clear.”
“You didn’t tell me never to return.”
Clara opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Gideon mounted the stallion.
He looked down at her.
“I’ll come tomorrow.”
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Why?”
“Your roof.”
“I can repair it.”
“Not before the snow.”
“I don’t need you rescuing me.”
His face became serious.
“I know.”
That answer silenced her.
Gideon gathered the reins.
“I’m not offering rescue.”
“What are you offering?”
His pale eyes held hers.
“A partnership.”
Then he looked at her bandaged palm.
“And perhaps fewer opportunities for you to bleed onto firewood.”
He rode away.
Clara stood beside the chopping block until the stallion disappeared beyond the cottonwoods.
Only then did she realize she was smiling.
She stopped immediately.
The following morning, Gideon returned with lumber.
Clara walked onto the porch wearing the same cream dress beneath a brown wool shawl.
Three men followed him with a wagon.
“What is this?”
“Roof.”
“I didn’t agree.”
“You said you needed it fixed.”
“I said strength doesn’t fix a leaking roof.”
“I remembered.”
“That wasn’t an invitation.”
Gideon looked toward the clouds.
“Snow tonight.”
Clara stared at the wagon.
“How much?”
“For what?”
“The lumber.”
“Nothing.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
“No.”
He sighed.
“What will you accept?”
She considered.
“I cook supper.”
“For me?”
“For all four of you.”
“Done.”
“And I pay for nails.”
“Fine.”
“At cost.”
“Fine.”
“And you stop behaving like you own the place.”
Gideon looked around.
“I’m standing on your porch.”
“Exactly.”
He stepped down.
“Better?”
“Marginally.”
The ranch hands attempted not to laugh.
They failed.
By dusk, the worst section of the roof was repaired.
Clara made beef stew, biscuits, and apple preserves.
The men ate at her table.
Gideon sat across from her.
She caught him watching her twice.
The third time, she put down her spoon.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
He considered lying.
Did not.
“I like watching you.”
The ranch hands suddenly became fascinated by their bowls.
Clara felt her face burn.
“You should practice subtlety.”
“I’ve never been accused of having any.”
“I noticed.”
After supper, the three hands went outside to secure the wagon.
Gideon remained.
Clara stacked dishes at the wash basin.
“You don’t need children that badly.”
His expression changed.
“Meaning?”
“You could have married years ago.”
“I almost did.”
Clara turned.
Gideon looked toward the window.
“Her name was Anne Mercer.”
“What happened?”
“She wanted Denver.”
“You wanted Dakota.”
“Yes.”
“You loved her?”
“I thought so.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Clara rinsed a plate.
“Why didn’t you follow her?”
“Because Stone Ridge was my father’s.”
“That sounds like pride.”
“Probably.”
“And now?”
“Now I know I wanted the idea of her more than the woman.”
Clara dried her hands.
“What does that mean?”
“She was beautiful.”
Clara’s expression hardened slightly.
Gideon noticed.
“That isn’t where I’m going.”
“Continue.”
“She wore fine dresses. Played piano. Spoke French. My mother adored her.”
“And?”
“We had nothing to say when nobody else was in the room.”
Clara looked at him.
Gideon continued.
“She wanted to marry the man people thought I was.”
“The Mountain?”
“That name came later.”
“The rich rancher?”
“Yes.”
“Then what do you think I want?”
His gaze moved around Clara’s failing kitchen.
“Clearly not my money.”
She laughed despite herself.
Gideon smiled.
Clara became serious again.
“You keep talking about family.”
“Yes.”
“What if a wife couldn’t give you one?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Why couldn’t she?”
Clara turned toward the stove.
“Just answer.”
Gideon thought.
“I don’t know.”
“That is not comforting.”
“I’m not going to lie because you prefer a polished answer.”
Clara wrapped both arms around herself.
“I want children.”
He spoke carefully.
“I always have.”
“Then you should marry a young woman who has already proven she can bear them.”
“That sounds romantic.”
“It sounds sensible.”
“I didn’t ride here looking for sensible.”
She faced him.
“What did you ride here looking for?”
“You.”
The word landed softly.
Clara immediately looked down.
Gideon walked toward her.
Stopped several feet away.
“Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”
“No.”
“Clara.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Fine.”
He picked up his coat.
“I’ll stop asking.”
She looked surprised.
“You will?”
“You told me no.”
“That usually doesn’t stop you.”
“It should.”
He put on his hat.
“Good night.”
Clara watched him leave.
The secret pressed harder against her chest than it had in years.
She had never told anyone what Jonah had said during their fifth year of marriage.
They had tried for children.
Month after month.
Year after year.
Nothing.
At first, Jonah had been kind.
Then frustrated.
Then quiet.
Dry Creek noticed.
Women offered advice disguised as sympathy.
Herbs.
Prayers.
Special teas.
One particularly cruel woman told Clara perhaps God understood that a woman her size already took up enough room in the world.
Clara went home and cried in the barn so Jonah would not hear.
Eventually, a traveling doctor examined her.
He asked questions.
He offered no certainty.
But Jonah heard only what he already feared.
Something was wrong.
With her.
At least that was what he allowed Clara to believe.
They stopped talking about children.
Then Jonah became ill two years later and died after a long winter fever.