“Careful.”
She stepped backward.
His hand stopped.
Clara stared at the letters.
Then at him.
“Thomas?”
He did not answer immediately.
That was answer enough.
Her heart struck once hard against her ribs.
“Thomas?”
He nodded slowly.
“Clara.”
Hearing her name in that voice was somehow worse.
Or better.
She could not decide.
For almost a year, the man who knew things she had never told another living person had existed only on paper.
Now he stood barefoot on a porch board six feet away, shirt half-open over a body Clara very much wished she had not noticed.
She looked at the ranch.
Then the creek.
Then him again.
“You live here?”
“I do now.”
“Across from me.”
“As of Tuesday.”
Clara laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
“You bought the Rourke place?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn't think perhaps your letters should mention that?”
Thomas rubbed one hand over the back of his neck.
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“That is a suspiciously flexible word.”
“I know.”
She looked at the tied bundle again.
“You knew it was me?”
“Not when I bought the place.”
“When?”
Thomas hesitated.
“Yesterday.”
Clara stared.
“How?”
“You wrote once that you could see the broken windmill from your kitchen window.”
She looked toward the old windmill behind his barn.
Thomas continued.
“You mentioned Willow Creek.”
“There are several Willow Creeks in Wyoming.”
“Yes.”
“You mentioned the cottonwood bridge Samuel rebuilt after the flood.”
Clara went still.
“I never said where.”
“No.”
“But yesterday, when I rode into town for nails, Mrs. Delaney asked whether I had met Widow Whitmore across the creek.”
His mouth tightened.
“I nearly fell off Bishop standing still.”
Despite herself, Clara almost smiled.
Thomas continued.
“I came back intending to cross over.”
“Then I lost my nerve.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“The man who once wrote me four pages about wrestling a steer alone lost his nerve over a bridge?”
“The steer did not know my handwriting.”
That broke something.
Clara laughed.
A real laugh.
Thomas stared.
She saw him hear it.
The realization made her stop.
He smiled slowly.
“You lied.”
“About what?”
“Your laugh.”
Clara’s cheeks warmed.
Thomas looked pleased.
“You said it was terrible.”
“Perhaps your standards are poor.”
“Possible.”
The air changed.
Quieter.
Warmer.
Clara looked toward the pie.
“I suppose this is absurd now.”
“No.”
Thomas stepped closer.
She did not retreat.
“I have read about your apple pie for eleven months.”
“You have?”