Clara’s small brow furrowed.
“Then why did he marry you?”
The question struck Ruth with unexpected force.
She could have offered a simple answer. She could have said that her father had chosen a new wife because he wanted a family. She could have explained that love could grow and change without erasing what came before.
But Clara was watching her with the grave attention of a child who needed truth.
“Because he wanted a home with someone in it,” Ruth said. “And because he thought we might be happy together.”
“Will you be?”
Ruth looked at the little girl’s face.
“I hope we will.”
Clara moved closer and rested her small hand on Ruth’s knee.
“I want you to stay.”
The words nearly undid her.
Ruth put an arm around Clara, careful not to catch the child’s fingers in the lace.
“I want to stay, too.”
Clara leaned against her for a moment. Then she pulled back.
“Will you tell me a story?”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. Papa tells stories about horses, but he always makes the horses brave. I want a story about a girl who is brave.”
Ruth brushed a curl away from Clara’s forehead.
“Then I know just the one.”
She guided Clara to the bed and sat beside her, lifting the child onto the quilt. The little girl tucked her doll beneath one arm and listened as Ruth began a story about a girl who lived near the sea and dreamed of crossing a great distance to find a place where she could belong.
She told it softly, inventing details as she went: a silver shore, a black horse, a mountain pass, a cabin with a blue door, and a small bird that refused to be frightened by the storm.
By the time the story ended, Clara’s eyes were growing heavy.
“Does the girl find her home?” she murmured.
“She does.”
“Does she find someone who loves her?”
Ruth hesitated.
“Yes,” she said. “But first she learns that she must not give up her own heart just to be loved.”
Clara yawned.
“Does she marry him?”
“Perhaps.”
“Does he go away on their wedding night?”
Ruth’s heart twisted.
“No,” she whispered. “Not in this story.”
Clara fell asleep with her head against Ruth’s arm.
Ruth sat very still, listening to the child’s breathing. The room had grown darker, and the oil lamp cast a warm circle across the bed. She could hear the wind moving along the roof, the distant creak of a stable door, and the faint sound of Jonah’s boots crossing the yard.
She wondered whether he knew Clara had come upstairs.
She wondered whether he would return.
Most of all, she wondered whether she could bear to begin her marriage by pretending she was not hurt.
Jonah returned to the house shortly after nine.
He had checked the horses, inspected the fence, and spent nearly an hour walking the perimeter of the corral, though he knew perfectly well that no storm was coming and no section of fence had fallen.
The work had given him time to think, but it had not given him courage.
When he entered the kitchen, he found a plate of supper covered with a clean cloth. A note lay beside it, written in Ruth’s careful hand.