She weighed close to four hundred kilograms. She could walk short distances with support and determination, but the conditions dictated what was possible.
Henry had spent the first week trying to solve every difficulty secretly.
Broader chair.
Reinforced floor.
Lower shelves.
Wider doorway.
Packed paths.
Clara appreciated those changes because he made the world fit her rather than asking her to become smaller for the world.
Now he did the same with the journey.
He built.
For two days.
A sleigh.
Wide runners.
Reinforced oak platform.
Low entry.
Heavy backrest.
Layered buffalo hides.
Additional crossbraces.
The blacksmith helped.
Clara watched from the doorway.
At sunset on the second day she inspected it.
Henry waited for approval.
She looked at him.
“It is hideous.”
He frowned.
“It will carry a bull.”
“I am not a bull.”
“I know.”
“It looks like a lumber platform.”
“It won't break.”
“That is not the same thing as attractive.”
“Nothing I build is attractive.”
She glanced toward the cabin.
“I wouldn't say that.”
Henry looked at her.
Clara realized what she had implied.
Neither spoke.
The blacksmith coughed loudly.
“I'll check the horses.”
Henry smiled.
Clara's cheeks reddened.
“You understood me.”
“Perfectly.”
“I meant the cabin.”
“Of course.”
“Henry.”
He laughed.
The sound surprised them both.
Months later Clara would remember that moment more vividly than the investigation that followed.
Because it was the first time Henry laughed without stopping himself.
The trip to Helena took almost three days.
The roads were terrible.
The cold remained brutal.
But the sky cleared.
For the first time since arriving in Montana, Clara saw the country beneath sunlight.
Mountains turned gold in late afternoon.
Snowfields stretched untouched between pine forests.
Herds of elk crossed distant ridges.
At one point Henry stopped the sleigh without explanation.
Clara looked at him.
“What?”
He pointed.
A bald eagle circled above the frozen valley.
Clara watched until it disappeared.
She wiped her eye.
Henry pretended not to see.
That night they stayed at a small stage station.
The keeper's wife stared when Clara entered.
The doorway was narrow.
Henry immediately started examining the hinges.
Clara grabbed his coat.
“No.”
“I can remove it.”
“We're here one night.”
“You barely fit.”
“I fit.”
“Barely.”
“Henry.”
He looked at her.
“Leave the poor woman's house intact.”
He reluctantly obeyed.
Later, after the station went quiet, Clara sat beside the small stove while Henry slept on a pallet across the room.
Or pretended to.
She said softly, “You would rebuild every doorway in Montana if I asked.”
Henry's eyes remained closed.
“Yes.”
Clara smiled.
“I didn't think you were awake.”
“You talk loudly.”
“I whispered.”
“You whisper loudly.”
She watched him.
“Why?”
Henry opened his eyes.
“Why what?”
“Why would you rebuild everything?”