He answered quietly.
“William.”
The room disappeared.
Clara heard the stove.
Wind against the shutters.
Her own breathing.
Nothing else.
“You.”
Everett nodded.
Clara stared.
“You’re W.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the wooden box.
Then back at him.
“How many?”
He knew what she meant.
“All of them.”
“How many?”
“Forty-seven.”
Clara's hand went to the back of the chair.
Everett continued carefully.
“I kept every one.”
She laughed once.
It did not sound happy.
“You knew.”
“Not until you handed me the note.”
“You knew my name.”
“Yes.”
“You knew where I lived.”
“Yes.”
“You bought the ranch north of me.”
“Yes.”
Clara’s face changed.
Everett saw the problem immediately.
“Clara.”
“You bought this ranch knowing I lived next door.”
“Yes.”
“And you did not tell me who you were.”
“I arrived four days ago.”
“You could have ridden south.”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
Everett hesitated.
Wrong answer.
Clara stepped away from the table.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
She laughed sharply.
“Convenient.”
“I swear.”
“You have spent two years reading things I have never told another living person.”
“I know.”
“I told you about Daniel.”
“Yes.”
“My debts.”
“Yes.”
“My sister.”
“Yes.”
“The dance.”
Everett’s eyes softened.
“Yes.”
Clara's humiliation rose.
That letter.
The one she had regretted mailing.
Some see a widow. Some see a woman too large to be graceful. Some see somebody they should feel sorry for.
She had confessed that to a faceless stranger because a faceless stranger could not look at her afterward.
Now that stranger stood three feet away.
Handsome.
Broad.
Real.
And he had moved next door.
“You read all of that.”
“Yes.”
“And then you came here.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Everett had spent months imagining that question.
Every answer he had prepared disappeared.
He looked at her.
“Because of you.”
Clara’s expression hardened.
“That is not romantic right now.”
“I know.”
“You followed me.”
“No.”
“You purchased land beside my home.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds remarkably like following.”
“I came to Willow Creek because I wanted to stop wandering.”
“Why Willow Creek?”
“Because you were here.”
“There.”
Clara grabbed her shawl.
“That is exactly what I mean.”
Everett moved toward her and stopped before entering her space.
“I never intended to frighten you.”
“You should have thought about that before buying a ranch within walking distance of my bedroom.”
His face tightened.
“You're right.”
The immediate agreement surprised her.
Clara had prepared herself to fight.
Everett did not give her one.
“I should have written.”
“Yes.”
“I should have told you I was considering coming.”
“Yes.”
“I was afraid you’d tell me not to.”
Clara stared.
“That does not improve your case.”
“I know.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because it’s true.”
She hated that answer.
It sounded exactly like W.
The man in the letters rarely polished his worst truths.
Everett had once written:
I have spent too much of my life leaving places before anyone could ask me to stay. Cowardice looks respectable when a man owns a good horse.
Clara remembered reading that beneath lamplight and thinking she knew him.
Now she did.
Perhaps too well.
She walked toward the door.
Everett did not stop her.
Her hand reached the latch.
Then:
“The pie smells exactly how I imagined your kitchen.”
Clara froze.
She turned slowly.
Everett looked immediately regretful.
“You imagined my kitchen?”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“That sounded worse aloud.”
“Much worse.”
“You wrote about baking.”
“That does not justify imagining my kitchen.”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
He looked at the floor.
Clara narrowed her eyes.
“Everett.”
“I wondered what your laugh sounded like.”
She stopped.
“What?”
“In the letters.”
His voice became quieter.
“You would write something funny, then ruin it by explaining it wasn’t meant to be funny.”
Clara stared.
“I wondered whether you laughed while writing it.”
Something in her anger weakened.
She fought it.
Everett continued.
“I wondered whether your hair was light or dark.”
She touched it unconsciously.
“Whether you drank coffee as strong as you claimed.”
“It is not too strong.”
“It removes paint.”
Despite herself, Clara almost smiled.
She caught it.
Everett did too.
Neither mentioned it.
Then he said:
“I wondered if I would recognize you.”
Clara looked toward the note.
“You recognized my handwriting.”
“Yes.”
“Not me.”
“No.”
The answer hurt more than it should.
Everett understood immediately.
“Clara.”
She opened the door.
“Enjoy the pie.”
Then she left.
Everett stood in the doorway watching her cross the field toward the south road.
He did not follow.
That was the first correct decision he made.
Clara walked home furious.
Then confused.
Then furious because she was confused.
By the time she reached her gate, she had reconstructed two years of letters in her mind.
W had never lied exactly.
That made things more complicated.
She had asked his name once.
He wrote:
Names travel farther than people. For now, let me remain W. If that makes you uncomfortable, I’ll understand if you stop writing.
She had chosen to continue.
She had asked where he intended to settle.
He wrote:
I don’t know yet. Some places feel like somewhere a man sleeps. I’m waiting to find somewhere that feels like a place he might wake up.
She had not known he meant Willow Creek.
Had he known then?
Clara reached her kitchen.
On the shelf above the stove sat her own box.
Forty-seven letters.
She pulled it down.
Opened the lid.
The first letter lay on top.
Dear Miss Bellamy,
I suppose you're the only person I can thank, so thank you.
She read until midnight.
By morning, anger had changed shape.
It did not disappear.
But another truth had joined it.
The man she met yesterday had sounded exactly like W.
Awkward.