“That sounds about right.”
Inside, Silas waited.
He looked more frightened than Clara had ever seen him.
Even more frightened than the day his injured leg had nearly given out in the snow.
When Clara entered, his shoulders lowered.
Reverend Morgan opened the Bible.
Before he could ask the first question, Clara said:
“Wait.”
Silas’s face went white.
Everyone froze.
Clara looked around the little church.
Harlan.
Mrs. Pike.
The blacksmith.
Three neighbors.
Her father standing in the final pew, hat clutched between both hands.
Then she looked toward the open doors.
Sunlight outside.
No storm.
No trap.
She returned her gaze to Silas.
“Now.”
The reverend exhaled.
Someone laughed quietly.
Silas almost did.
The vows were ordinary.
That made them beautiful.
“Do you, Clara Whitmore—”
“I do.”
“Do you, Silas Rourke—”
“I do.”
When Silas slid the simple silver ring onto her finger, he whispered:
“Still time.”
Clara looked up.
“For what?”
“To run.”
She smiled.
“You’d catch me?”
“No.”
“Then I’m staying.”
That evening, after supper and a dance Silas performed badly enough to injure Clara’s shoes and his dignity, they returned to the mountain.
At the cabin door, he stopped.
Clara looked.
“What?”
Silas swallowed.
“You sure?”
She understood.
No priest’s blessing changed the first promise.
She stepped closer.
“I’m sure.”
He still waited.
Clara lifted his hand and placed it against her waist.
“Yes.”
Only then did he kiss her.
Their marriage began there.
Not at Harlan’s counter.
Not during the ride into snow.
Not when she first slept under his roof.
At the moment she could refuse and did not.
Winter came hard again.
The first month, they discovered being in love did not make living together easy.
Silas left knives everywhere.
Clara hated it.
Clara moved everything.
Silas hated it.
He kept meat hooks where she wanted hanging herbs.
She stored sewing supplies where he wanted ammunition.
He woke at four.
She considered dawn an offense.
He spoke very little before coffee.
She spoke enough for both.
One morning Clara came into the main room and found Silas using her good scissors to cut rawhide.
She stared.
Silas stopped.
“What?”
“Put them down.”
He looked at scissors.
“Why?”
“Those are sewing shears.”
“They cut.”
“That does not mean they cut everything.”
“They’re scissors.”
Clara walked slowly toward him.
Silas, who had faced armed men and winter storms without flinching, put the shears on the table.
“Sorry.”
“Good.”
He waited.
Clara picked them up.
Inspected blades.
“They’re ruined.”
“They’re not.”
“They are.”
“I’ll sharpen.”
“You cannot sharpen fabric shears like a skinning blade.”
Silas looked skeptical.
Clara narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You think I’m exaggerating.”
“No.”
“Silas.”
“A little.”
She refused to speak to him for two hours.
At noon, he saddled his horse.
“Where are you going?”