Clara opened it.
Six knives.
Different lengths.
Well maintained.
Tomás looked at her.
“You brought slaughterhouse knives to meet your husband?”
“Future husband.”
“That distinction suddenly feels important.”
She smiled.
“I used them for work.”
“Why bring them?”
“Tools are expensive.”
Tomás nodded slowly.
“Fair.”
Clara removed a smaller case.
Inside were needles, heavy thread, leather punches, sharpening stones, and two tools he did not recognize.
“You weren’t coming here to sit on a porch.”
“I’ve never been good at sitting.”
Tomás looked around the cabin.
There were things he had not told her.
The table had one repaired leg.
The stove smoked sometimes.
The bedroom window did not close properly.
A crack crossed the wall near the pantry.
He had been ashamed of all of it.
Clara looked around too.
Then said, “You need another shelf.”
Tomás blinked.
“That’s your conclusion?”
“For tonight.”
He laughed again.
She did something dangerous to him.
She made disaster feel temporary.
Tomás spread blankets on the floor.
Clara stood beside the bed.
“You don’t have to sleep down there.”
He stopped.
She looked suddenly uncertain.
Not flirtatious now.
Practicality had carried them through the day.
Night changed things.
Tomás cleared his throat.
“We’re not married.”
“I know.”
“I want to do this properly.”
Clara studied him.
“You answered a matrimonial advertisement.”
“Yes.”
“You invited a stranger west.”
“Yes.”
“And now propriety concerns you.”
“Very much.”
That made her smile.
“Good night, Tomás.”
“Good night, Clara.”
He lay awake listening to her breathing.
The cattle stirred outside.
Somewhere in the wall, a mouse scratched.
Tomás thought of debt.
Poison plants.
Silas Mercer.
Clara standing in dead grass with blood on her hands and determination in her eyes.
He had expected a wife.
What had arrived instead felt more dangerous.
A partner.
He did not know whether he deserved one.
Morning came hot.
Clara was already outside when Tomás woke.
He found her near the poisoned field.
She had tied her brown dress higher above her boots and was walking the fence line carrying a canvas sack.
“What are you doing?”
“Collecting the plant.”
“You should have waited.”
“For?”
“Me.”
“Why?”
He had no answer that did not sound foolish.
Clara tossed another poisonous stalk into the sack.
“Look here.”
Tomás joined her.
The soil along the fence had been disturbed.
Not recently enough to show clear footprints.
But enough.
Narrow shallow cuts.
Repeated every few feet.
Clara pointed.
“Somebody didn’t plant one at a time.”
Tomás crouched.
“What did they do?”
“Scattered seed.”
“How do you know?”
“In stockyards, feed contamination happens.”
“Why?”
“Fraud.”
She stood.
“Men buy cheap spoiled grain, mix it with good, sell the lot.”
Tomás looked at the thin line of disturbed soil.
“You’re sure?”
“No.”
He almost smiled.
“I appreciate that you occasionally admit uncertainty.”
“I am uncertain constantly.”
“You hide it well.”
“Useful skill.”
Tomás looked toward the distant eastern ridge.
Silas Mercer’s property lay beyond it.
“If he did this…”
Clara watched him.
“What?”
Tomás’s jaw tightened.
“I’ll kill him.”
“No.”