He looked toward the stove.
Clara stared.
“Elias.”
“What?”
“We’re getting married tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“You intend to sleep beside the stove?”
“Tonight.”
“And tomorrow?”
He hesitated.
Clara felt heat rise into her cheeks.
His expression became careful.
“We’ll figure tomorrow out tomorrow.”
That was not what she expected.
A man had paid part of her travel expenses, agreed to marriage, and brought her into an isolated cabin.
Every warning Clara had received in Ohio predicted exactly one kind of expectation.
Elias was behaving as though he feared standing too near her.
She could not decide whether she was relieved or insulted.
He opened the bedroom door.
“You can change. Supper in twenty minutes.”
Then he left her alone.
Clara stood in the center of the room.
She looked at the bed.
Then at the closed door.
“Interesting,” she whispered.
They married the next morning in a tiny church outside Laramie.
No flowers.
No family.
The minister’s wife served as witness.
Clara wore her best blue dress.
Elias wore a black coat that pulled too tightly across his shoulders.
When the minister told him to take Clara’s hand, Elias did so carefully.
His thumb brushed her knuckles.
Clara almost forgot the next line of the ceremony.
“Do you, Elias Mercer, take this woman—”
“I do.”
Too quickly.
The minister stopped.
His wife hid a smile.
Clara looked at Elias.
His ears had turned red.
For the first time since arriving, she felt something inside her soften completely.
This enormous mountain man was nervous.
Because of her.
The realization followed Clara all the way home.
That evening she cooked.
Not because Elias expected it.
Because she needed something to do with her hands.
Stew simmered while snow began outside.
Elias repaired a harness near the stove.
Clara set two bowls on the table.
They ate quietly.
Then she began listing her abilities.
“I can preserve meat if you have enough salt.”
Elias looked up.
“I know.”
“I've made soap.”
“I remember.”
“I can sew winter shirts.”
“Useful.”
“I can keep the household accounts.”
“Please.”
“I know basic medicine.”
His spoon stopped.
“Clara.”
“Yes?”
“You can eat without proving how useful you are.”
She froze.
He returned to his stew.
The words struck harder than criticism.
Clara looked at her bowl.
“I wasn't proving anything.”
“Yes, you were.”
Her face warmed.
“You barely know me.”
“I've read forty-three letters.”
“Forty-two.”
“Forty-three.”
Clara frowned.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I counted.”
“So did I.”
Their eyes met.
Neither moved.
Elias finally said:
“You told me enough.”
“About what?”
“That you think usefulness buys your place.”
Clara stared.
“That is unfair.”