“What else?”
She looked toward Margaret.
“Curiosity.”
Ethan’s mouth twitched.
“About?”
“What kind of man rejects seven wealthy women.”
Charlotte whispered:
“Eight.”
Ethan looked at her.
Charlotte immediately became interested in the floor.
Clara smiled despite herself.
Ethan looked back.
“And what conclusion have you reached?”
“You've been here thirty seconds.”
“I’m impatient.”
Clara studied him.
“I haven't decided.”
Then Ethan smiled.
Not polite.
Real.
He looked toward Margaret.
“So this is the woman my sisters thought I'd be foolish enough to refuse.”
Margaret’s face changed.
“Ethan.”
He ignored her.
Clara remained still.
Ethan’s eyes dropped briefly toward her hands again.
“Where did those come from?”
She looked down.
“Work.”
“What kind?”
“Anything that paid.”
“Farm?”
“Sometimes.”
“Cooking?”
“Yes.”
“Books?”
“Accounting?”
“I kept my father's mercantile accounts before it failed.”
Ethan nodded.
“Sew?”
“Yes.”
“Ride?”
“Poorly.”
“Shoot?”
“Worse.”
“Cattle?”
“Know which end eats.”
He laughed.
Clara’s tension eased.
Ethan stepped closer.
“Miss Bennett.”
“Yes?”
“I should tell you something before my sisters turn this into another contract.”
Margaret crossed her arms.
Ethan continued:
“You're not obligated to marry me.”
“I know.”
“You're not obligated to remain here.”
“I know.”
“If you stay tonight and leave tomorrow, the Blackwoods will pay every dollar promised in that letter.”
Margaret snapped:
“Ethan.”
He turned.
“You signed it?”
She hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Then honor it.”
“It was contingent on—”
“Her coming.”
“She came.”
Margaret stared.
Ethan turned back.
“Your father's debt is finished.”
Clara’s breath caught.
Just like that?
Four thousand six hundred dollars.
Years of fear.
Gone because this man said it.
She did not trust miracles.
“What do you want in return?”
Ethan’s expression softened.
“Nothing.”
“Nobody pays four thousand dollars for nothing.”
“My sisters created the debt obligation, not me.”
“That doesn't answer.”
He considered.
“Then supper.”
Clara frowned.
“What?”
“Stay for supper.”
“You want four thousand dollars worth of stew?”
“Mrs. Nolan will be offended if you call what she serves stew.”
From behind them:
“I heard that.”
Ethan smiled.
Clara did too.
“Fine.”
“Supper.”
Margaret walked out.
Charlotte followed.
Ethan removed his hat.
Mrs. Nolan handed him a towel.
He wiped dust from his face.
Clara watched.
He caught her.
“What?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“That's usually something.”
“I expected worse.”
“From my face?”
“From you.”
He nodded.
“Give me time.”
The first supper changed nothing officially.
Clara sat beside Ethan.
Margaret and Charlotte opposite.
Two ranch managers joined.
Conversation remained careful.
Then Charlotte asked Clara about Red Creek.
Margaret asked nothing.
Ethan asked practical questions.
Not about accomplishments.
About what Clara liked.
Books.
Weather.
Food.
She found that stranger than discussing dowries.
After supper, Ethan showed her a guest room.
Not a servant room.
A large upstairs bedroom overlooking the west pasture.
Clara stared at the bed.
“You expect me to sleep here?”
“Yes.”
“The sheets probably cost more than my dress.”
“Probably.”
She looked at him.
“Was that rude?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Sorry.”
Clara touched the bedspread.
“Your sisters placed me in the kitchen.”
“I heard.”
“From whom?”
“Mrs. Nolan.”
“Fast woman.”
“Terrifying woman.”
Clara smiled.
Ethan leaned against the doorframe.
“Stay a week.”
She looked at him.
“For what?”
“To decide whether you like me.”
Clara laughed.
“You assume marriage remains possible?”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“I assume knowing each other remains possible.”
“What if I hate you?”
“Then leave.”
“What if you hate me?”
“Same.”
“And the debt?”
“Paid.”
Clara stared.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep looking like you expect the floor to disappear.”
She did.
He noticed.
That was dangerous.
Clara asked:
“Why did you reject the others?”
Ethan’s smile faded.
“That answer takes longer than tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
He turned to leave.
Then stopped.
“Clara.”
It was the first time he used her first name.
She noticed.
“Yes?”
Ethan looked at her patched dress.
Not disdainfully.
Thoughtfully.
“My sisters believe wealth reveals value.”
Clara’s jaw tightened.
He continued:
“They're wrong.”
She waited.
He looked at her hands.
“Hands like yours usually reveal more.”
Then he left.
Clara barely slept.
The following morning, she woke before sunrise.
Habit.
The ranch house was quiet.
Clara dressed.
Went downstairs.
Mrs. Nolan was already in the kitchen.
“You're early.”
“So are you.”
“I’m paid.”
Clara smiled.
“Can I help?”
Mrs. Nolan stared.
“With what?”
“Breakfast.”
“You're a guest.”
“I’m awake.”
“Those are different things.”
Clara picked up a knife.
“What needs cutting?”
Mrs. Nolan tried to argue.
Lost.
By six, biscuits were baking.
Bacon cooking.
Coffee strong enough to frighten the dead.
Ranch hands entered through the mudroom.
Several stopped when they saw Clara.
Rumors traveled.
She recognized curiosity.
Not cruelty.
Mostly.
Then Ethan entered.
Hair damp.
Clean shirt.
He stopped.
“You're cooking.”
Clara looked at the pan.
“Apparently.”
“You don't have to.”
“I know.”
That became the first pattern between them.
Ethan saying she did not have to.
Clara doing things anyway because she chose to.
After breakfast, Ethan rode out.
Clara explored.
Not snooping.
Learning.
The ranch fascinated her.
Accounting office.
Feed records.
Supply ledgers.
Horse pedigrees.
Cattle tallies.
Payroll.
Invoices stacked carelessly.
Clara saw one immediately.
“Who keeps your books?”
A voice behind her:
“Me.”
She turned.
Ethan.
“You're terrible.”
He laughed.
“Good morning to you too.”
“This freight invoice was entered twice.”
His smile faded.
“What?”