“Not enough.”
“It’s something.”
“It proves a rancher bought poison during a rodent season.”
“He bought bulbs.”
“It proves he bought bulbs.”
Tomás clenched his jaw.
“You don’t want this to be him?”
“I want it to be whoever did it.”
“That sounds like the same thing.”
“No.”
Clara stepped closer.
“If we decide the answer before the evidence, then every fact becomes whatever we need.”
Tomás stared.
She softened.
“I believe he may have done it.”
“May?”
“Yes.”
Tomás looked toward Silas’s ranch beyond town.
“I hate that word.”
“I know.”
They returned home before dark.
Another cow became sick.
It survived.
No others showed symptoms.
Clara prepared supper.
Tomás objected.
“You worked all day.”
“So did you.”
“I can cook.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
She looked skeptical.
Tomás pointed toward the stove.
“This is my house.”
“Dangerous argument.”
He made beans.
They were terrible.
Clara ate them anyway.
After the third bite, she said, “Marriage may fail on culinary grounds.”
Tomás laughed.
That evening, they discussed money.
Every dollar.
Tomás expected shame.
Clara demanded numbers.
“Bank principal?”
“Thirty-two hundred.”
“Interest?”
“Five hundred due.”
“Feed merchant?”
“Two hundred twelve.”
“Taxes?”
“Already paid.”
“Cash?”
Tomás hesitated.
Clara waited.
“Seventy-three dollars.”
She stared.
“What?”
“I expected worse.”
Tomás almost laughed.
“You have money?”
Clara looked toward her trunk.
“Some.”
“No.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“No?”
“I won’t use your savings.”
“If we marry, what exactly do you think happens to money?”
“It remains yours.”
Clara studied him.
“That answer may save you.”
“From?”
“Me.”
He smiled.
“How much?”
“Six hundred eighty.”
Tomás stared.
“That’s more than I’ve seen in months.”
“I worked fifteen years.”
“You saved all that?”
“I saved more.”
“What happened?”
“My sister’s children got sick one winter.”
Tomás nodded.
Clara continued.
“I paid doctor bills.”
“You regret it?”
“No.”
“Then why sound angry?”
“I’m angry because good things can still cost you something.”
Tomás understood more than she knew.
“I won’t take the money.”
“I didn’t offer.”
He blinked.
Clara smiled.
“I was informing you.”
“Of?”
“My position.”
Tomás laughed.
“Terrifying.”
“Good.”
Sunday came.
The minister arrived at eleven.
So did half of Dry Creek.
Tomás had expected four witnesses.
Apparently a mail-order marriage during drought was better entertainment than church.
Clara stood inside the cabin in a dark blue dress she had brought folded beneath her work clothes.
No lace.
No veil.
Simple.
Clean.