Clara nearly laughed.
He lowered himself onto one knee in the frozen yard.
Snow gathered on his shoulders.
“Clara Vance.”
“Yes?”
“I had a better speech.”
“I doubt that.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“Marry me.”
She waited.
Gideon swallowed.
“Not because your roof leaks.”
“Good.”
“Not because winter is hard.”
“Good.”
“Not because you might give me children.”
Clara’s eyes filled.
“Good.”
“Marry me because I would rather argue with you every morning than have peace with anyone else.”
She laughed.
“Better.”
“Marry me because I have spent years building a ranch and only recently realized I never built a home.”
Her hand went to her mouth.
“Marry me because I love the woman you are now, not the woman I expect you to become.”
Clara nodded through tears.
“Yes.”
Gideon stared.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He stood so quickly she laughed.
Then he kissed her.
Clara had been kissed before.
Jonah had kissed her gently.
Familiar affection.
Comfort.
This was different.
Gideon touched her like he had spent months learning restraint and had finally been given permission to stop pretending he did not want her.
His arms closed around her.
Clara felt small for perhaps the first time in her adult life.
Not diminished.
Held.
When they separated, Gideon rested his forehead against hers.
“You’re certain?”
She smiled.
“No.”
He frowned.
“That is not what a man wants to hear.”
“I’m terrified.”
“So am I.”
“Good.”
“Why is my fear always comforting to you?”
“Because you’re enormous.”
He laughed.
“And everyone assumes nothing frightens you.”
“You frighten me.”
“Excellent.”
They married six weeks later.
Dry Creek came.
Of course it came.
People who had spent years mocking Clara suddenly discovered endless reasons to attend the wedding of Gideon Stone.
Clara expected whispers.
She received them.
Some women stared at the fit of her ivory dress over her wide hips.
Others wondered aloud why a man like Gideon had chosen her.
Clara heard one woman say:
“He could have had anybody.”
For the first time in her life, Clara did not pretend not to hear.
She turned.
“So could I.”
Gideon, standing beside her, nearly choked laughing.
The woman disappeared.
Stone Ridge changed after Clara arrived.
Not because she tried to replace what existed.
Because she added herself to it.
She reorganized accounts and discovered Gideon’s timber foreman had been miscalculating transportation costs for three years.
She started a kitchen garden twice the size of Mabel’s original plot.
She persuaded Gideon to sell two unproductive grazing leases and use the money to repair tenant cabins.
She argued with him about everything.
He loved nearly every minute.
Their marriage also became deeply physical in a way Clara had never expected for herself.
Not because Gideon treated her body as proof of fertility.
Because he desired her.
Openly.
Without apology.
The first time she tried to hide beneath the blanket, Gideon pulled it away.
Clara grabbed it back.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking at my wife.”
“You’ve seen women before.”
“Not this one.”
She flushed.
“Gideon.”
He kissed the scar near her cheek.
Then the shoulder she had spent years thinking too broad.
Then the soft curve of her stomach.
Clara stopped hiding.
Months passed.
Spring came.
Then summer.
No pregnancy.
Clara noticed before Gideon mentioned anything.
He never did.
By August, she finally confronted him.
“You’re not going to ask?”
“Ask what?”
“You know.”
“No.”
“Gideon.”
He understood.
“Whether you’re with child?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll tell me.”
She stared.
“That simple?”
“Yes.”
“What if it never happens?”
“Then it never happens.”
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
Clara searched his face.
He smiled.
“Would I like a child?”
“Yes.”
“Would I like you to stop staring at the calendar like it contains a verdict on your worth?”
“Also yes.”
Her eyes filled.
He kissed her forehead.
“Come help me with the north pasture.”
“That is an appalling change of subject.”
“You married a rancher.”
By October, one year after Gideon first rode onto her homestead, Clara stopped counting.
That was when something changed.
She woke one morning and the smell of coffee made her ill.
Mabel noticed.
Clara denied it.
Two days later, she nearly cried because Gideon ate the last apple.
He stared at her.
“I can get more apples.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“What is the point?”
“You knew I wanted it.”
“I did not.”
“I always want apples.”
“You ate beef for breakfast yesterday.”
“That is irrelevant.”
Gideon looked toward Mabel.
Mabel hid a smile.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Clara glared at both of them.
A week later, a midwife from Dry Creek confirmed it.
Clara sat silently on the edge of the bed.
The woman smiled.
“About two months, I’d say.”
Clara’s hands went to her stomach.
She laughed.
Then cried.
Then laughed again.
Gideon was repairing a corral gate when Clara found him.
He looked up.
Something in her face made him drop the hammer.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Clara.”
She walked toward him.
“Remember the first day we met?”
“That depends which embarrassing thing I said.”
“The worst one.”
Gideon grimaced.
“I have apologized repeatedly.”
“You said by winter I’d have your son growing inside me.”
“I was an idiot.”
“You were.”
He frowned.
Clara took his hand.
Placed it against her stomach.
Gideon stopped breathing.
His eyes lifted to hers.
“No.”
She smiled through tears.
“Yes.”
He stared at her.
“Are you sure?”
“The midwife is.”
Gideon’s knees seemed to weaken.
Clara had never seen anything like it.
The Mountain sat down directly on the fence rail.
“You should breathe.”
He did not answer.
“Gideon?”
“A baby?”
“Yes.”
“Our baby?”
Clara laughed.
“Unless you suspect the milkman.”
“We don’t have a milkman.”
“That is your concern?”
He stood.
Then hesitated.
“Can I?”
Clara opened her arms.
Gideon gathered her against him so carefully she almost laughed again.
He buried his face in her hair.
His shoulders shook.
Clara realized he was crying.
She held him.
After a long time, Gideon whispered:
“I don’t care if it’s a son.”
Clara smiled.
“I know.”
“Girl.”
“I know.”
“Healthy is enough.”
“Yes.”
“And you.”
She pulled back.
“What?”
“You first.”
His pale eyes were fierce.
“I want you safe.”
Clara touched his face.
“I know.”
The child arrived in May.
A girl.
Eight pounds.
Loud enough to frighten horses.
Gideon stared at her as though the universe had personally handed him something sacred.
Clara, exhausted but smiling, watched him hold their daughter.
“What happened to your son?”
Gideon looked offended.
“I never wanted a son.”
“You announced it in my yard.”
“I was young.”
“You were thirty-seven.”
“Very young.”
Clara laughed.
“What shall we call her?”
Gideon looked down.
They had discussed names.
Never agreed.
Then Clara said:
“Hope.”
Gideon’s eyes lifted.
Clara touched the baby’s cheek.
“Because I spent too many years thinking I wasn’t allowed any.”
Gideon swallowed.
“Hope Stone.”
Clara smiled.