She stepped away.
“You should find someone else.”
His face hardened.
“No.”
“You are not thinking.”
“I am.”
“Your family line matters to you.”
“You matter to me.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it remains true.”
Clara shook her head.
“Then you’re a fool.”
“Probably.”
“Do not throw away what you want because you pity me.”
Something fierce entered Gideon’s expression.
“I do not pity you.”
“You should.”
“No.”
“I’m thirty-one, widowed, almost three hundred pounds, running a failing homestead, and perhaps barren.”
Gideon crossed the room.
Clara backed against the doorframe.
Not because she feared him.
Because the intensity in his face frightened something deeper.
“Do not repeat other people’s cruelty and call it your own voice.”
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came.
Gideon lowered himself slightly so they were closer eye to eye.
“You think I rode fourteen miles through snow every week because I’m shopping for a womb?”
Clara flinched.
He regretted the harshness immediately.
His voice softened.
“I wanted children before I met you.”
“Yes.”
“I want you now.”
“And if there are no children?”
Gideon went silent.
Clara saw the hesitation.
It hurt.
She nodded.
“That is your answer.”
“No.”
“It is.”
She turned.
He caught her hand gently.
“Clara.”
“Let me go.”
He did immediately.
That made it worse.
She walked from Stone Ridge without finishing the visit.
Gideon did not follow.
Clara rode home alone.
Snow began halfway down the mountain.
By the time she reached the Vance homestead, she was crying hard enough that she could barely see.
She had known better.
Hope was expensive.
She had stopped buying it years ago.
For twelve days, Gideon did not visit.
Clara told herself she was relieved.
She repaired tack.
Fed livestock.
Chopped wood.
Cleaned the cabin.
Avoided looking north.
Every hoofbeat made her heart jump.
None belonged to him.
Christmas passed.
Then New Year’s.
On January third, a wagon arrived from Dry Creek.
Not Gideon.
It belonged to Reverend Samuel Price.
The minister climbed down holding a wooden box.
“Mrs. Vance.”
“Reverend.”
“I found something.”
She frowned.
“In the church storage room.”
He handed her the box.
“Jonah left this with me during his final illness.”
Clara stopped breathing.
“What?”
“He asked that I give it to you after his death.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Samuel looked ashamed.
“I forgot.”
Anger flashed through her.
“You forgot?”
“My wife died the following week.”
Clara’s anger collapsed.
Samuel continued.
“I found it yesterday while clearing the vestry.”
Clara took the box.
Inside were three letters.
One addressed to her.
One to a physician in Minnesota.
One already opened.
The handwriting was Jonah’s.
Clara sat at the kitchen table.
Her hands shook.
The first letter began:
Clara,
There is a cowardice I have carried longer than any illness.
She continued.
Jonah wrote about the years without children.
About Clara blaming herself.
About the doctor.
Then came the sentence that changed her entire understanding of her marriage.
The doctor never told me the problem was certainly yours. He told me privately that an illness I suffered as a boy may have left me unable to father children.
Clara stopped.
Read it again.
Then again.
Her vision blurred.
Jonah continued.
I let you believe otherwise because I was ashamed.
Clara covered her mouth.
The room seemed to tilt.
Every time someone looked at you with pity, I knew I should speak. Every time you cried because you believed your body had failed us, I knew I should tell you. I did not. Pride made me cruel without ever raising my hand.
Clara began sobbing.
She read the remaining lines through tears.
If I recover, I will tell you myself. If I do not, then you deserve the truth even if it makes you hate me.
You were never the reason our house had no children.
I was.
I am sorry.
Jonah.
Clara sat alone for nearly an hour.
Grief returned in a different form.
She had loved Jonah.
That remained true.
But love did not erase what he had done.
For years, she had hated her own body because a frightened man had allowed her to carry his shame.
She remembered standing before mirrors.
Avoiding women with babies.
Pretending she did not care.
Believing her size was one more defect in a body already useless for motherhood.
It had all been built on silence.
Clara folded the letter.
Then looked north.
Toward Stone Ridge.
Gideon arrived before she decided whether to go.
Hoofbeats approached near dusk.
Clara stepped outside.
He wore a heavy black coat and looked exhausted.
He stopped beside the chopping block.
Neither spoke.
Finally:
“I owe you an apology.”
Clara stared.
“For what?”
“What I said.”
“Which part?”
“The first day.”
She almost smiled.
“You said many foolish things.”
“The son.”
Her expression softened.
Gideon removed his hat.
“I came here thinking I could offer land, money, protection, and the promise of a family as if marriage were a cattle contract.”
Clara said nothing.
“I wanted children so badly that I treated the wanting like a right.”
His voice lowered.
“It isn’t.”
Clara’s throat tightened.
Gideon continued.
“I spent twelve days trying to decide whether losing the possibility of children changed what I wanted.”
She looked away.
“I know that sounds cruel.”
“It sounds honest.”
“I kept thinking about Stone Ridge without children.”
He paused.
“Then I thought about Stone Ridge without you.”
Clara looked back.
Gideon’s pale eyes were wet.
“I know which emptiness frightened me more.”
Her breath caught.
He stepped closer.
“I still want a family.”
“So do I.”
“But if you marry me and we never have a child, I will still have married the woman I wanted.”
Clara began crying.
Gideon looked alarmed.
“I’m doing poorly.”
“No.”
“I can leave.”
“No.”
She laughed through tears.
“Stop talking.”
Gideon obeyed.
Clara reached into her apron pocket.
Pulled out Jonah’s letter.
Handed it to him.
He read silently.
His jaw tightened halfway through.
When he finished, he looked at her.
“Clara.”
“I spent years believing it was me.”
He folded the letter carefully.
“He let you?”
“Yes.”
Gideon’s anger appeared instantly.
Then he saw her face.
And controlled it.
“You loved him.”
“Yes.”
“You can love someone and still be angry at them.”
Clara’s mouth trembled.
“I am.”
“You should be.”
“I hate that I’m relieved.”
“Why?”
“Because he is dead.”
“That doesn’t mean his choices stop mattering.”
Clara looked down.
“So we don’t know.”
“No.”
“We never did.”
“No.”
She laughed weakly.
“All these years.”
Gideon stepped closer.
“Does knowing change what you want?”
Clara looked up.
He was only inches away.
“Yes.”
His breath caught.
“How?”
“For the first time, I think I might be allowed to want it.”
“A child?”
“A life.”
Gideon touched her cheek.
Clara did not pull away.
She whispered:
“And you.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“Careful.”
She smiled through tears.
“You keep warning me.”
“I’m trying very hard to behave.”
“Perhaps I’m tired of you behaving.”
Gideon stared.
Clara placed both hands against his chest.
Even through the coat she felt the strength beneath it.
“You said marriage.”
“Yes.”
“You said partnership.”
“Yes.”
“You said you wanted me.”
His voice roughened.
“I do.”
“Then ask again.”
The Mountain suddenly looked terrified.