Instead she noticed his heartbeat.
Fast.
Much faster than she expected.
She leaned back.
“You’re nervous.”
“No.”
She stared.
“Yes.”
“All right.”
That made her smile.
“What are you afraid of?”
Ethan considered the question seriously.
“That I’ll do something that makes you think I’m like the men you already knew.”
The smile left her face.
“You’re not.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
“Most days.”
He looked toward the photograph.
“But I also know I don’t get to decide how safe you feel just because I believe I’m safe.”
Clara stared at him.
“Where did you learn to speak like that?”
“I didn't.”
“You just did.”
“Must be the storm.”
She laughed softly.
Then he touched her cheek.
Again, he stopped before contact.
Clara leaned into his palm.
Permission given without words.
“You can kiss me,” she whispered.
Ethan did.
Gently.
No urgency.
No claim.
Only warmth.
When they parted, Clara kept her eyes closed for a moment.
The wind battered the cabin.
The fire snapped.
Somewhere inside the wall, old timber creaked beneath the storm.
Yet for the first time since her mother died, Clara did not feel alone simply because the world outside was dark.
She opened her eyes.
“Ethan?”
“Yes?”
“We’re still alone.”
His ears reddened.
Clara smiled.
“That frightens you more than armed men, doesn’t it?”
“Considerably.”
She laughed and kissed him again.
Then someone pounded on the front door.
Three violent blows.
Ethan immediately pulled away.
Clara stared toward the main room.
The knock came again.
“COLE!”
Ethan recognized the voice.
He reached for his revolver.
Clara caught his wrist.
“Who?”
“Tom from the north pasture.”
“At this hour?”
“That’s why I’m worried.”
Another pounding blow.
Ethan opened the bedroom door.
Clara followed.
He looked back.
“Stay here.”
She raised one eyebrow.
He sighed.
“Fine.”
Progress.
They reached the main room.
Ethan opened the front door.
Snow exploded through the opening.
A ranch hand stumbled inside carrying a boy.
The child was perhaps twelve.
His face was white from cold.
His coat was soaked.
Blood darkened one trouser leg.
Clara’s hesitation vanished.
“Table.”
The ranch hand looked toward her white dress.
“Ma’am—”
“Table. Now.”
The boy was lowered onto the kitchen table.
Ethan shut the door.
“What happened?”
“Horse broke through ice at north creek.”
“Boy caught his leg against old fence wire.”
Clara was already rolling up her sleeves.
“Boot.”
Ethan looked at her.
“Cut it.”
“Clara—”
“If you pull it, you’ll reopen everything.”
The ranch hand stared.
“You know wounds?”
“I worked beside machinery.”
That answered enough.
Ethan used a knife to cut the boy’s boot.
The wound ran along the lower calf.
Deep.
Ugly.