Clara paused.
“Would you have answered?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know that.”
Tomás frowned.
She continued.
“Men who answer matrimonial advertisements often want a certain kind of woman.”
“What kind?”
“Soft hands. Quiet voice. Domestic skills.”
“You have domestic skills.”
“My hands are not soft.”
Tomás looked at them.
Strong.
Scarred.
One old cut crossed her left palm.
He reached for her hand.
Stopped.
She noticed.
“Go ahead.”
He took it.
Her hand was warm.
Large.
Calloused.
He turned it gently.
“I like your hands.”
Clara stared.
He looked up.
“What?”
“No man has ever said that.”
“Then men are stupid.”
A smile appeared.
Tomás kept holding her hand slightly longer than necessary.
Neither mentioned it.
That afternoon, they found something beneath the fourth hide.
A wound.
Small.
Round.
High on the rear flank.
Clara stopped.
“Tomás.”
He crouched.
“What?”
She parted the hair.
A puncture.
Not plant poisoning.
Too precise.
They checked another carcass.
Nothing.
Third.
Another puncture.
Tomás’s face went cold.
“What would cause that?”
Clara looked toward the barn.
“Needle.”
He stared.
“You think someone injected them?”
“Maybe.”
“With what?”
“I don’t know.”
“But the plants—”
“Might be real.”
Her eyes hardened.
“Or might be there to explain the bodies.”
Tomás stood.
Suddenly the dead field looked different.
Not sabotage by scattered seed alone.
A staged cause.
Someone wanted the cattle dead.
And wanted Tomás to believe drought had simply betrayed him again.
He looked toward the road.
“Mercer.”
Clara grabbed his arm.
“Evidence.”
Tomás turned.
“There are needle wounds.”
“Evidence.”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know.”
“He bought poison.”
“He bought something.”
“You keep defending him.”
“I am defending us from being wrong.”
Tomás pulled away.
Clara’s face changed.
The argument had arrived.
First real one.
Tomás paced.
“What would satisfy you?”
“Proof.”
“His confession?”
“That would help.”
“He’s not going to confess.”
“Then we find what he used.”
“And if we don’t?”
Clara’s voice remained calm.
“Then we don’t accuse a man of a hanging crime because we hate him.”
Tomás froze.
Hanging crime.
Cattle poisoning could indeed lead to severe punishment.
He exhaled.
“You’re right.”
Clara’s shoulders relaxed.
“I know.”
He almost smiled.
Then she added, “You may tell me that later after you stop being angry.”
“I already did.”
“You remain angry.”
“Yes.”
“That is allowed.”
Tomás looked at her.
Marriage was strange.