“I may have misjudged relevance.”
“You think?”
Ethan looked back at the notice.
“Ruth’s creek frontage would matter.”
“For what?”
“Water.”
Clara moved closer.
“Who else owns creek land?”
“I do.”
“Anyone in town?”
“Three families.”
“Has anyone tried buying?”
Ethan hesitated.
Clara stared.
He looked guilty.
“Ethan.”
“A cattle buyer offered me money.”
“When?”
“Before you came.”
“How much?”
“Eight hundred dollars.”
“For how many acres?”
“All western pasture.”
Clara stared at him.
“Why didn’t you sell?”
“Too low.”
“You’re smarter than your ledgers suggest.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t entirely praise.”
He smiled faintly.
Clara looked at Billy sleeping near the fire.
“Did Ruth receive an offer?”
“I don’t know.”
She folded the notice.
“We ask.”
Morning brought a weaker storm.
The road remained terrible, but Ruth Palmer arrived just after daylight, bundled beneath blankets in the ranch wagon after Ethan and his hand returned with her.
She rushed to her son.
Cried.
Held him.
Thanked Clara repeatedly.
Then Clara showed her the tax notice.
Ruth’s face changed.
“I was going to take care of that.”
“How?”
“I don't know.”
The honesty was painful.
Clara sat opposite her.
“When did it arrive?”
“Monday.”
“Did anyone offer to buy the land?”
Ruth looked up sharply.
“How did you know?”
Ethan stood beside the stove.
Clara remained seated.
“Who?”
“Mr. Vane.”
The cattle buyer.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred dollars.”
Ethan swore.
Ruth looked toward him.
“I know it’s low.”
Clara asked:
“What happened after you refused?”
“Nothing.”
“And then the tax notice.”
Ruth’s hands tightened.
“Yes.”
“Did they hold a hearing before changing the land classification?”
“What hearing?”
Clara looked toward Ethan.
He looked back.
There it was.
Not proof of corruption.
A question.
Questions were enough to begin.
By afternoon, Clara had started a new ledger.
Ethan saw it.
“No.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“Not another ledger.”
“Your accounts are finally readable.”
“My house now contains more books than furniture.”
“Books don't break under me.”
The moment the sentence left her mouth, both went still.
Old habit.
Self-directed cruelty.
Clara looked away.
Ethan stepped toward her.
“You don’t have to do that here.”
She frowned.
“Do what?”
“Say the cruel thing before someone else can.”
The words struck hard.
Clara swallowed.
“I was joking.”
“I know.”
“That’s how I joke.”
“I know.”
He pulled out the reinforced chair.
“Sit.”
She looked toward it.
Then at him.
He tapped the back.
“This chair is strong.”
“So are you.”
“You don't have to remind either one of us every time you use it.”
Clara slowly sat.
Ethan leaned over.
Kissed the top of her head.