Ruth raised an eyebrow.
“Did you believe I would be helpless with a hammer?”
“I believed you might prefer books.”
“I can prefer books and still use a hammer.”
“I’m learning that.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
When the hutch was finished, Clara declared it perfect. They had no rabbit yet, but she placed a small blanket inside and named the empty space Clover.
That evening, Ruth and Jonah stood together in the doorway, watching Clara show the hutch to her doll.
“She is happy,” Ruth said.
“She is.”
Ruth slipped her hand into his.
“And you?”
Jonah turned toward her.
“I am.”
She smiled, but he did not look away.
“I’m happier than I thought I could be,” he said.
Ruth felt the words settle warmly inside her.
“Then perhaps we are doing something right.”
He drew her closer.
“Perhaps.”
She rested her cheek against his shoulder. The ranch stretched before them, still rough and demanding, still distant from the comforts of town. There would be more storms, more broken fences, more worries about cattle and money. There would be days when grief returned without warning and days when the old fear rose in Jonah’s eyes.
But they had begun to understand that marriage was not a single promise made in a church. It was a thousand smaller promises, repeated in kitchens and doorways, in arguments and reconciliations, in the steady work of choosing one another.
In April, the first wildflowers appeared along the creek.
Ruth found them while walking with Clara, who had become determined to identify every plant in the botanical book Ruth had brought from Boston. The little girl crouched beside a patch of pale yellow blossoms and declared that they were surely buttercups.
Ruth consulted the illustration.
“They might be.”
“Are they beautiful?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mama like flowers?”
“She did.”
Clara looked up.
“Do you like them?”
“I do.”
“Then maybe we can plant some near Mama’s grave.”
Ruth’s throat tightened.
“That would be a lovely idea.”
They gathered a few fallen twigs and marked a small place beside the orchard, then returned to the house to ask Jonah whether he would help prepare the soil.
He agreed without hesitation.
The following Sunday, after church, the three of them walked to the hill behind the orchard. Anne’s grave lay beneath a young cottonwood tree. The stone was simple, bearing her name and the dates of her life. Jonah carried a small spade, Ruth carried the flowers, and Clara held a basket of fresh soil.
They worked quietly.
When the flowers were planted, Clara knelt beside the grave.
“Mama,” she whispered, “Ruth is teaching me to read. She makes good stories, too. She says I can have a rabbit when the hutch is ready. I think you would like her.”