That detail stayed with Clara through dinner.
The meal was venison stew, hard bread, and preserves Ethan said his nearest neighbor’s wife had prepared the previous summer.
He apologized twice for the bread.
Clara found that strange.
Her first husband had never apologized for anything.
Not even when apologies would have been cheaper than cruelty.
Especially then.
She sat across from Ethan beneath the amber lamp.
The silence grew until Clara could hear the metal stove ticking.
Finally she said, “I can cook.”
Ethan looked up.
“Sew.”
He waited.
“Preserve meat.”
Still nothing.
“Clean hides.”
His spoon stopped.
“I won’t be useless.”
His expression changed.
“Why would you think that?”
Clara’s fingers tightened around her cup.
“I came here to become your wife.”
“Yes.”
“I understand what an arrangement like this means.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“You needed a woman.”
Ethan nearly dropped the spoon.
Clara continued before embarrassment could stop her.
“Someone to cook.”
“Keep the house.”
“Help with animals.”
“Share your bed.”
The last sentence changed the air between them.
Ethan looked down.
“I didn’t ask for a servant.”
“No.”
“I asked for a wife.”
Clara watched him.
The word followed her through the rest of dinner.
Wife.
She knew what that word had meant before.
Keys she was not allowed to hold.
Letters she was not allowed to send without explanation.
Money she could not spend.
Doors that never locked from her side.
A husband who believed marriage transformed affection into obligation.
She had crossed half the continent because Ethan Blackwood’s advertisement contained five words more important than everything else.
I do not drink liquor.
Clara had read that sentence fourteen times.
She had written him because of it.
The storm strengthened after dark.
By ten, snow struck the cabin windows in white bursts.
Ethan fed the stove.
Then checked the door.
Then fed the stove again.
Then inspected the chimney.
Then rearranged wood that did not need arranging.
Clara sat at the edge of the bed in a pale blue nightdress she had made herself.
She had chosen it deliberately.
Not because it was seductive.
It was not.
Long sleeves.
High enough neckline.
Soft cotton.
Plain fabric.
But it was the first nightdress she had owned that her late husband had never seen.
That mattered.
Ethan walked into the bedroom carrying two extra blankets.
He stopped when he saw her.
His eyes widened slightly.
Then immediately shifted toward the floor.
“These are for you.”
“You said you were sleeping by the stove.”
“I am.”
“Then why do I need four blankets?”
“It gets cold.”
“There’s a stove three rooms away.”
“One room away.”
“Ethan.”
He set the blankets down.
“Yes?”
“You sharpened the same knife for twenty minutes.”
His face went still.
“You noticed.”
“It was already sharp.”
“Yes.”
“You checked the door twice.”
“Yes.”
“Fed the stove enough wood to melt Montana.”
“Possibly.”
Clara stood.
Ethan took one unconscious step backward.
That almost made her laugh.
Instead it hurt somewhere deeper.
This enormous man was afraid of her.
Not afraid she would hurt him.
Afraid he might hurt her without meaning to.
Clara crossed the room slowly.
“We’re married.”
“I know.”
“The preacher said so.”
“I was there.”
She stopped three feet from him.
“You are allowed to look at me.”