Clara’s eyes filled.
Not fear.
Anger.
“You think protecting me means deciding when I’m allowed to stay.”
“That isn’t—”
“It is.”
She pointed toward the ranch below.
“I left Chicago because I was tired of living inside other people’s decisions.”
Tomás said nothing.
“I will not begin my marriage by letting my husband make them for me.”
His anger dissolved.
Shame replaced it.
“I’m sorry.”
Clara’s breathing slowed.
“I know you’re scared.”
“Yes.”
“So am I.”
He looked at her.
“You don’t look scared.”
“That does not make it absent.”
She stepped closer.
“Ask me.”
“What?”
“If I want to leave.”
Tomás swallowed.
“Do you want to leave?”
“No.”
He almost laughed.
Relief.
Pain.
Love beginning before he was ready to name it.
Clara looked at him.
“Now ask me what I want.”
“What do you want?”
She turned toward the survey stake.
“To find out exactly how much our spring is worth.”
Our.
Tomás heard it.
So did she.
Neither corrected it.
They pulled one survey stake from the ground and carried it home.
That evening, they locked the doors.
Tomás placed the rifle beside the bed.
Clara placed one knife beneath her pillow.
He stared.
“Comforting.”
“You married Chicago.”
He laughed.
Later, in darkness, Tomás said, “Clara?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“For?”
“Not leaving.”
Silence.
Then her hand found his.
“You haven’t given me a reason yet.”
“That’s reassuring.”
She turned toward him.
“I have reasons to stay.”
His heartbeat changed.
“Such as?”
She moved closer.
Their faces were inches apart.
“One talks too much.”
“Only one?”
“For now.”
She kissed him first.
This time, no distance remained afterward.
Nothing happened they had not chosen.
No urgency demanded by marriage.
Just two people discovering they could be close without owing each other anything beyond honesty.
Outside, Wyoming remained dry.
The bank note remained unpaid.
The dead cattle remained dead.
Silas Mercer remained free.
Someone had fired a rifle from the ridge.
But inside the leaking cabin that no longer leaked quite as badly after Tomás repaired the roof, hope became something more substantial than optimism.
It became a plan.
The next morning, Clara woke before sunrise.
Tomás was already dressed.
“Where are you going?”
“Railway office.”
She sat up.
“Without me?”
He stopped.
Then smiled.
“Would you like to come?”
Clara looked pleased.
“Learning.”
“Slowly.”
They rode into Dry Creek together.
From there they purchased two seats on the stage east toward Casper, where Wyoming Territorial Rail maintained a temporary survey office.
The trip consumed almost all of one day.
The survey engineer looked annoyed when they arrived.
Then Tomás placed the metal stake on his desk.
The engineer’s expression changed.
“Where did you get this?”
“My land.”
The man removed his spectacles.
“What is your name?”
“Tomás Reed.”
Silence.
Clara noticed.
“You know the name.”
The engineer hesitated.
“Yes.”
“How?”
He looked toward the office door.
Then lowered his voice.
“Someone has been negotiating on behalf of Dry Creek Ranch.”
Tomás went cold.