“Maybe.”
He broke bread.
“But you're doing it.”
She wanted to argue.
Instead she remembered her aunt in Ohio.
You could marry if you made yourself indispensable.
Her former head librarian:
At least Clara is dependable.
The men at church who asked whether she could cook before asking what books she liked.
Elias pushed the bread toward her.
“You don't need to earn supper.”
Something painful tightened behind her ribs.
She hated him a little for seeing it.
Which, Clara realized, was considerably safer than admitting she was beginning to like him.
The first month established a strange rhythm.
They worked together easily.
Living together was harder.
Clara attacked the coffee tin on the second day.
She emptied it onto the table.
Receipts.
Feed bills.
Timber invoices.
Tax notes.
A handwritten IOU.
One scrap of paper simply said:
MILO — $17
Clara held it up.
“What is this?”
Elias looked over her shoulder.
“Milo owes me seventeen dollars.”
“For what?”
“Ox.”
“You sold him an ox?”
“No. Pulled his wagon out of a ravine.”
“And you charged seventeen dollars?”
“He had seventeen dollars.”
Clara stared.
Elias returned to sharpening a blade.
“Your accounting system is barbaric.”
“You said that in letter nineteen.”
“I underestimated.”
Within two weeks, Clara had three ledgers.
Household.
Timber.
Livestock.
She discovered Elias was not poor.
He was simply incapable of organizing evidence of money.
He owned land outright, had timber contracts, and sold breeding stock in spring.
“You could have mentioned this.”
“Mentioned what?”
“That you're doing well.”
He shrugged.
“Roof doesn't leak.”
“That is your measure of prosperity?”
“Mostly.”
Clara shook her head.
The frozen pump was less amusing.
It failed during the first serious cold snap.
Elias was outside splitting wood when Clara noticed pressure dropping.
She wrapped herself in his heavy coat and went to inspect it.
The mechanism was old.
Iron.
Poorly insulated.
Exactly as he had described.
By the time Elias found her kneeling in snow with tools, she had removed half the housing.
“What are you doing?”
“Repairing your crime against engineering.”
“You'll freeze.”
“I’m wearing your coat.”
“I noticed.”
He crouched beside her.
“Need help?”
Clara looked at his hands.
“Yes.”
No argument.
No wounded pride.
He simply followed instructions.
Hold this.
Turn that.
Warm the housing.
Bring cloth.
When water finally surged through the pipe again, Clara sat back in the snow laughing.
Elias stared at the pump.
Then at her.
“You actually did it.”
She frowned.
“I told you I could.”
“I believed you.”
“You look surprised.”
“I’m impressed.”
Something about the distinction warmed her more than the coat.