He looked genuinely confused.
Clara reached for his face.
Her palms settled against his beard.
“The salve.”
“What?”
“That was when.”
Henry stared.
“What was when?”
“When I began falling in love with you.”
“Bear grease?”
“Yes.”
“Clara, that was bear grease and pine pitch.”
“I know.”
“That may be the least romantic—”
“I told you that already.”
Henry almost laughed.
She continued.
“You saw my hands bleeding.”
“Yes.”
“You didn't pity me.”
“No.”
“You didn't tell me I was incapable.”
“No.”
“You simply gave me something that would help and trusted me to continue.”
Henry's eyes softened.
“No one had done that before?”
“Not like you.”
She pulled him closer.
“And then you widened the door.”
“That was carpentry.”
“And reinforced the porch.”
“Necessary.”
“And ate my terrible food.”
“Hunger.”
“And punched the cattleman.”
“That one was personal.”
She laughed.
Henry smiled.
Clara rested her forehead against his.
“I love you too.”
He stopped breathing.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I want to hear it again.”
She looked amused.
“Now who is romantic?”
“Clara.”
“I love you.”
Henry kissed her.
Not the polite touch of a ceremonial marriage.
Not an obligation.
Not gratitude.
A real kiss.
Slow.
Uncertain at first.
Then neither was uncertain.
When they separated, Henry kept his forehead against hers.
Clara whispered, “The hotel bed is stronger than your cot.”
Henry's eyes widened.
Her cheeks reddened.
Then she laughed.
Henry did too.
Outside, Helena continued around them.
Horses passed.
Wagons rattled.
Somewhere a saloon piano played badly.
But inside the room, for the first time, there was no arrangement between them.
Only choice.
The federal investigation expanded.
Clara's uncle was arrested four days later.
Western Continental's president followed.
Bank ledgers were seized.
Several territorial officials resigned before subpoenas reached them.
A surveyor confessed to falsifying property assessments.
A clerk admitted accepting money to disclose matrimonial agency records.
That last confession bothered Henry more than everything else.
He found Clara reading the statement.
The agency clerk had sold her route.
For twenty dollars.
Twenty dollars.
Henry sat opposite her.
“People nearly died for twenty dollars.”
Clara folded the page.
“No.”
Henry frowned.
“He betrayed me for twenty dollars.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
She looked toward the window.
“People nearly died because powerful men believed everyone else existed to be used.”
Henry understood.
Money was simply how they measured permission.
Clara testified before a federal grand jury.
Her uncle's attorney tried to undermine her.
He questioned her health.
Her independence.
Her motives.
Finally, her size.
“Mrs. Mercer, would you describe yourself as physically dependent upon others?”
Clara looked at him.
“Sometimes.”
The attorney smiled as if he had won something.
“So your uncle's concern regarding your ability to manage property—”
“Was financial theft disguised as concern.”