“Do you have an answer now?”
Clara looked toward the dark water below.
“I don't know.”
Thomas nodded.
No pressure.
No disappointment shown deliberately.
That kindness made it harder.
Clara touched the bridge rail.
“I loved Samuel.”
“I know.”
“I still do.”
“I know that too.”
She looked at him.
“And that doesn't bother you?”
Thomas thought.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if loving me required you to stop loving everything that made you who you are, I would be asking for a smaller woman than the one I wrote to.”
Clara’s eyes burned.
Thomas seemed to realize he had gone too far emotionally.
He stepped backward.
“I should let you get home.”
“Yes.”
She crossed the bridge.
Halfway down the other side, she turned.
Thomas remained where she had left him.
Watching.
Clara raised one hand.
He did the same.
That night, she found a letter beneath her front door.
It was only four lines.
Clara,
Your laugh sounds better than I imagined.
The pie did too.
I am relieved only one of those facts matters very much.
Thomas
Clara read it three times.
Then slept with it beneath the book beside her bed.
The next weeks developed a rhythm neither had planned.
Thomas repaired his ranch.
Clara pretended not to notice how often those repairs required him to cross Willow Creek.
He needed advice about winter vegetables.
She knew exactly which turnips survived mountain frost.
He needed to borrow a pie tin.
He owned three but discovered this only after Clara found them.
Clara’s chicken coop gate broke.
Thomas fixed it before breakfast.
A roof board came loose.
He replaced it.
When Clara offered payment, he looked offended.
When Thomas tore his coat, Clara repaired it without asking.
When she returned it, he discovered she had also reinforced both elbows.
“Payment.”
She said.
“For what?”
“The gate.”
“That was twelve minutes of work.”
“The coat took eleven.”
“Then I owe one minute.”
Clara looked at him.
“I'll keep an account.”
“I fear that.”
They continued writing letters.
Sometimes they handed them directly to each other.
Sometimes Thomas left one beneath Clara’s flour jar.
Sometimes Clara tucked one beneath Bishop’s saddle when Thomas was working in the barn.
The letters changed because the distance had changed.
I watched you arguing with your rooster this morning.
Thomas wrote.
For the record, I believe the rooster won.
Clara replied:
The rooster is being sold. Choose your allies carefully.
Thomas:
I withdraw all previous statements. You displayed admirable leadership.
They wrote things they had been too embarrassed to say aloud.
One evening Clara found a letter waiting beside her lantern.
Today you stood in the yard with sunlight behind you and flour on your cheek.
I wanted to wipe it away.
I did not because I feared my hand would forget to stop there.
Clara sat at her kitchen table for nearly an hour.
Then wrote:
Next time, perhaps you should risk poor memory.
The following morning Thomas arrived before eight.
Clara opened the door.
He looked at her cheek.
No flour.
Then into her eyes.