When Caleb placed the ring on Clara’s finger, she whispered, “I hope neither of us regrets this.”
His hand remained around hers for half a second longer than necessary.
“So do I,” he said.
The preacher smiled as though he had witnessed a declaration of love.
Clara knew better.
This was an arrangement.
A practical solution to a practical danger.
At least, that was what she kept telling herself.
By sunset, they were riding toward Caleb’s ranch beneath a sky streaked with copper and pale violet. The Wyoming wind moved across the grass in long waves, bending the dry stalks until the whole prairie seemed to breathe.
Clara rode beside him in silence.
Caleb had offered to let her remain at her own homestead, but after the barn fire and the poisoning of her horse, neither of them believed that would be wise.
“You’ll have your own room,” he had told her earlier.
She had stared at him.
“On our wedding night?”
His expression had barely changed.
“I thought you might prefer it.”
She had almost laughed.
Instead, something in her chest had tightened.
It was the first sign that perhaps Caleb Mercer understood loneliness better than anyone she had ever met.
His ranch house was larger than Clara’s cabin but far from grand. Two bedrooms stood on opposite ends of a narrow hall, with a kitchen, a sitting room, and a stone fireplace that showed years of use. Everything was orderly.
Too orderly.
Nothing seemed touched unless it served a purpose.
A pair of boots beside the door.
A rifle over the mantel.
A Bible on a small table.
Three tin cups hanging from hooks near the stove.
Clara noticed the third cup immediately.
Caleb saw her looking at it.
He reached past her and took it down.
“Forgot that was there.”
He placed it inside a cupboard.
Clara did not ask.
Not then.
She removed her gloves.
“What should I do?”
Caleb looked genuinely puzzled.
“Do?”
“I assume the house doesn’t run itself.”
“It mostly has.”
“That explains the state of your curtains.”
He glanced toward the windows.
“There’s something wrong with them?”
Clara smiled for the first time all day.
“You’re a brave man, Mr. Mercer.”
His mouth almost moved.
Almost.
“Caleb.”
She looked at him.
“If we’re married, you might as well call me Caleb.”
“All right.”
He waited.
Clara understood.
“And you may call me Clara.”
His gaze softened.
“Thank you.”
For some reason, that quiet gratitude unsettled her more than flirtation would have.
That night, Clara lay awake in the guest room listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the ranch.
The creak of timber.
The low moan of wind against the walls.
The occasional movement of cattle outside.
And once, long after midnight, the careful footsteps of Caleb walking down the hallway.
They stopped outside her door.
Clara held her breath.
He did not knock.
After several seconds, the footsteps moved away.
She heard the front door open.
Then close.
Curiosity pulled her from bed.
Through the window, Clara saw Caleb crossing the yard alone.
Moonlight silvered his shoulders.
He walked toward a rise beyond the barn and disappeared.
The next morning, she found him repairing a section of fence as though he had slept perfectly well.
She said nothing.
For the next two weeks, they learned how to be married without behaving like husband and wife.
Caleb rose before dawn.
Clara rose shortly after.
They ate breakfast together.
They disagreed about coffee.
His was strong enough, Clara claimed, to remove paint from a wagon.
Hers, Caleb said, might be mistaken for warm water.
She reorganized the kitchen.
He moved everything back.
She reorganized it again.
The third time, he surrendered.
Little by little, the house changed.
A jar of wildflowers appeared on the table.
Fresh bread cooled on the windowsill.
Clara stitched the torn curtain Caleb had apparently failed to notice for three years.
In return, he repaired the loose boards on her homestead, installed a stronger lock, and quietly began riding the perimeter every evening.
Neither mentioned affection.
But affection entered anyway.
It was there when Caleb brought her a smooth blue stone because she had once said it reminded her of her mother’s eyes.
It was there when Clara saved the last piece of apple pie because she noticed he always pretended he did not want dessert, then looked disappointed when none remained.
It was there on the afternoon she found him asleep in a chair after three days of spring calving and draped a blanket across his shoulders.
And it was there when Caleb awakened, saw the blanket, and sat for a long time without moving.
Still, part of him remained somewhere Clara could not reach.
Every Sunday, he rode alone toward the ridge behind the north pasture.
Every Sunday, he returned quieter.
One evening, while cleaning the sitting room, Clara discovered a locked wooden box beneath a cabinet.
