Then:
I am not looking for an employee. I can cook badly by myself.
That sentence was why Clara answered.
Other men advertised for wives while describing the labor they wanted done.
Must milk.
Must sew.
Must bear children.
Must be cheerful.
One widower in Kansas listed the ages of his five sons before mentioning his own.
Elias had written something different.
Winter is lonely here.
That sentence stayed with her.
Clara understood loneliness.
A library could be full of people while making a woman feel entirely alone.
She asked him what he wanted from marriage.
His reply took three weeks.
Conversation at supper would be nice.
She laughed aloud when she read it.
Their letters grew longer after that.
He asked about books.
She asked about mountains.
He admitted he owned only twelve books.
She told him that was practically criminal.
He replied that perhaps she should come west and correct the offense personally.
Then Clara made the mistake of believing she might actually matter to him.
That frightened her more than loneliness.
So she warned him.
Before we discuss marriage further, there is something you should know. I am not pretty.
She expected silence.
Instead his answer came beneath the library lamp.
Miss Whitmore, I did not write westward looking for something pretty to hang on my wall.
Clara had covered her mouth to keep from laughing.
You tell me you can repair a pump. Mine freezes every January.
You say you can keep accounts. Mine are presently kept on scraps of paper inside a coffee tin.
Then:
You warned me you are not pretty. I should warn you that I am not particularly handsome.
She had stared at that line for a long time.
The photograph now sitting in the pocket of his coat proved he had lied.
Elias was not handsome in the polished eastern way.
He was something worse.
The sort of man who looked as though civilization had failed to completely claim him.
Clara found it inconvenient.
Especially now, sitting two feet away from him in a narrow wagon.
Elias finally spoke.
“Cold?”
“No.”
“You're shaking.”
Clara looked at her hands.
They were trembling.
“Travel.”
He studied her.
Then removed his coat.
Before she could object, he placed it over her knees.
Warmth remained in the wool.
So did his scent—pine smoke, leather, cold air.
Clara swallowed.
“You'll freeze.”
“I won't.”
“How reassuring.”
One corner of his mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
It disappeared quickly.
Clara looked toward the mountains so he would not see her own.
The cabin surprised her.
She had imagined something rough.
She had not imagined beautiful.
It stood in a clearing beside a line of pines, built from thick timber with a stone chimney and a porch facing the mountains. A barn sat beyond it. Fenced meadow stretched toward a frozen creek.
Smoke curled from the chimney.
“You left the stove burning?”
“Banked low.”
“That seems dangerous.”
“I've managed not to burn the place down for seven years.”
“So far.”
Elias looked at her.
“You always this encouraging?”
“I haven't decided.”
That time he definitely smiled.
Inside, the cabin was larger than expected.
One main room contained a stone hearth, cast-iron stove, heavy table, two chairs, bookshelves, and a workbench beneath the window.
A second room stood behind a wooden partition.
Clara guessed immediately what it contained.
One bed.
Her heartbeat accelerated.
Elias noticed where she was looking.
He cleared his throat.
“I'll put your trunk in there.”
Clara watched him carry it toward the bedroom.
“You said this was my home.”
He stopped.
“It is.”
“Then where will you sleep?”