She laughed.
Everett sat on the grass beside her.
They remained quiet.
Finally he asked:
“Do you feel guilty?”
Clara looked at him.
“For what?”
“For me.”
The accuracy hurt.
“Yes.”
Everett nodded.
No reassurance.
No demand.
Just understanding.
Clara whispered:
“I loved him.”
“I know.”
“I still do.”
“I know.”
“You should be bothered by that.”
“Why?”
“Because if…”
She stopped.
“If what?”
“If something happened between us.”
Everett looked toward the grave.
“Daniel being dead doesn’t make what you had less real.”
Clara's eyes filled.
“And me being alive doesn’t make him competition.”
She turned toward him.
Everett continued.
“I’m not trying to replace a man you loved.”
“What are you trying to do?”
He looked at her.
“Be the man you might love next.”
Clara could not speak.
Everett did not touch her.
That was why she touched him.
Her fingers found his hand.
He looked down.
Clara expected him to close his hand immediately.
He waited.
She threaded her fingers through his.
Only then did he hold on.
That evening she wrote him a letter.
Though his ranch stood only a mile and a half away.
Everett,
I think there are things I can still only say on paper.
Today frightened me.
Not because you said anything wrong.
Because I wanted to hear it.
I buried my ring with Daniel because I thought love had become something I had survived. I told myself that wanting nobody was the closest thing to safety.
Then you spent two years arriving in envelopes.
Now you are here.
I do not know what to do with that yet.
Clara
She walked north in darkness and slipped the letter beneath his door.
His reply appeared at breakfast.
Clara,
You do not have to know yet.
I spent twelve years believing movement was freedom. It took me considerably longer than it should have to learn that sometimes movement is only fear with scenery.
I can wait.
Everett
Beneath that:
P.S. Your pear cake was better than the pie. This may damage neighborly relations.
Clara laughed.
Their courtship began the next morning.
Neither officially declared it.
Everett simply arrived for breakfast.
Clara opened the door.
“Are you courting me?”
He considered.
“I hoped so.”
“You might ask.”
“May I court you?”
She leaned against the doorway.
“How long?”
“What?”
“You told me you can wait.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
Everett looked straight at her.
“As long as waiting means you haven’t told me to stop.”
Clara smiled.
“Breakfast is getting cold.”
He stepped inside.
Winter settled over Willow Creek.
Everett courted Clara like a man trying to build something instead of conquer it.
He attended Sunday service beside her.
People stared.
He ignored them.
He accompanied her to town, but never carried things she could carry unless she asked.
He learned to knock even when the kitchen door was open.
He stopped repairing objects without permission after Clara discovered he had replaced a barn hinge and made him remove the new one purely on principle.
“That hinge was broken.”
“It was my broken hinge.”
“This is madness.”
“It is ownership.”
“Can I reinstall it?”
“Ask properly.”
Everett stared.
“Clara Bellamy, may I prevent your barn door from falling on your mule?”
She considered.
“Yes.”
Amos kicked the door while Everett worked.
Clara laughed until she cried.
Everett kissed her for the first time on December ninth.
Snow was falling.
They stood beneath Clara’s porch after supper.
Everett had been unusually quiet.
Clara noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are incapable of convincing me of that.”
“I’m deciding something.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
Everett looked at her.
“May I kiss you?”
Clara’s breath caught.
She had been expecting it for weeks.
Imagining it, though she would have denied that under oath.
Still, hearing the question changed everything.
She whispered:
“Yes.”
Everett stepped closer.
Then stopped.
Clara almost laughed.
“What?”
“You said yes.”
“I know.”
“You look terrified.”
“So do you.”
“I am.”
She smiled.
“That helps.”
He touched her cheek.
The kiss was gentle.
Too gentle.
Clara had forgotten that kissing could be awkward after grief.
Their noses nearly bumped.
Everett pulled away.
“That went poorly.”
She laughed.
“You've kissed women before.”
“I have.”
“Then what happened?”
“You were you.”
Clara stared.
Everett looked embarrassed.
“Again?”
She caught his suspenders.
“Yes.”
The second kiss was different.
Clara felt years of loneliness inside it.
Not desperation.
Recognition.
Everett held her carefully, one hand against her waist.
She had spent much of her life aware that men noticed her body.
Too large.
Too soft.
Too broad.
Daniel had loved her.
But after his death, Clara became accustomed to invisibility again.
Everett did not make her feel invisible.
When the kiss ended, his forehead rested against hers.
“You're shaking.”
“So are you.”
“I’m freezing.”
“Liar.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Good night, W.”
Everett went still.
She had never called him that aloud.
His expression softened.
“Good night, Clara.”
January brought trouble.
Not dramatic frontier violence.
Something quieter.
A letter from Margaret Callahan.
Everett’s former love.
His brother’s widow.
She had been mentioned often in Everett’s early correspondence with Clara.
After Everett's brother Samuel died, Margaret remained in Colorado with two children.
The letter asked Everett to return.
Not permanently.
The family ranch was failing.
Samuel's debts had been worse than anyone understood.
Margaret needed help.
Everett showed Clara the letter immediately.
She read it.
Then handed it back.
“You should go.”
His expression tightened.
“You want me to?”
“That is not the same question.”
Everett looked toward the stove.
“I promised I wasn't leaving.”
“You promised you weren't leaving because you were afraid.”
“This is different.”
“Yes.”
He studied her.
Clara knew what he was really asking.
Would she trust him to go and return?