“Nothing there.”
Clara’s pulse quickened.
“You could pretend.”
Thomas lifted his hand slowly.
He gave her every opportunity to step away.
She did not.
His fingertips brushed her cheek.
The touch was barely anything.
Clara forgot how to breathe.
Thomas’s thumb moved once.
Then he pulled away.
“Poor memory?”
She whispered.
“Getting worse.”
Clara laughed softly.
Thomas looked at her mouth.
Neither moved closer.
Not yet.
There were some distances people crossed slowly because the crossing mattered.
Willow Creek had noticed them by November.
Small communities survived on weather, livestock, and other people’s private affairs.
Mrs. Delaney at the general store smiled too knowingly when Thomas and Clara entered within five minutes of each other.
Reverend Pike invited Thomas to Sunday supper after asking whether “a certain widow” might attend.
Clara ignored most of it.
Then she heard two women outside the mercantile.
They did not realize she stood around the corner.
“Thomas Rourke could have nearly any unmarried woman in the county.”
“I know.”
“Strange choice.”
A pause.
“You mean Clara?”
“Have you seen the size of her?”
Soft laughter.
Clara froze.
She hated herself for freezing.
She had heard variations of the same observation since girlhood.
Too broad.
Too heavy.
A pretty face wasted on that figure.
Samuel had loved her openly enough that people eventually stopped saying such things where he could hear.
Widowhood apparently restored public permission.
The other woman said:
“Maybe he wants her land.”
Clara walked away before hearing more.
She told herself it did not matter.
By the time she reached home, she almost believed it.
Thomas arrived that afternoon carrying lumber.
Clara met him in the yard.
“I don't need that.”
He looked at the warped chicken-house beam.
“Yes, you do.”
“I can buy my own.”
Thomas frowned.
“You did buy it.”
“What?”
“You paid me for the gate with eleven minutes of sewing.”
“I am using the balance.”
Usually she would laugh.
She did not.
Thomas lowered the boards.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Clara.”
“I said nothing.”
He studied her.
That was the problem with being known through letters.
Thomas recognized versions of her silence most people missed.
He leaned the lumber against the fence.
“Did I do something?”
“No.”
“Then somebody else did.”
Clara exhaled.
“You cannot repair every unpleasant thing with a hammer.”
“I own other tools.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
Thomas waited.
Finally she said:
“People are talking.”
“People have always talked.”
“About us.”
“I assumed.”
“You don't care?”
“Should I?”
Clara looked toward the house.
“They think you want the land.”
Thomas blinked.