“Fox tracks by creek.”
Then silence.
Finally Clara put down her spoon.
“Did you truly advertise for a wife because you missed hearing another human voice?”
“Yes.”
“Then you may have to contribute to the conversation.”
He considered.
“How?”
“Ask me something.”
“What?”
“Anything.”
He looked deeply uncomfortable.
“What did you do in Baltimore?”
“Before Frederick died?”
“Yes.”
“Sewed.”
“For money?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Dresses.”
“Good.”
Clara waited.
Elias waited.
“That was one question.”
“You said ask something.”
“I meant continue.”
He rubbed his beard.
“What kind of dresses?”
Clara laughed.
It became a lesson.
By the second week, he could survive half an hour at supper without retreating into silence.
By the third, Clara discovered something unexpected.
Elias had a dry sense of humor hidden beneath long pauses.
He rarely laughed at his own jokes.
That made them worse.
Or better.
She could not decide.
He also read.
Constantly.
Books filled one shelf.
Exploration journals.
A volume of Shakespeare missing its cover.
Three novels.
A Bible.
A medical handbook.
And, strangely, a book of poetry.
Clara found him reading it one evening.
“You read poetry?”
“No.”
“You are holding poetry.”
“I was checking for moth damage.”
“For forty minutes?”
He closed the book.
Clara smiled.
“Which poem?”
“I don't know.”
“Liar.”
He looked embarrassed.
She liked that too much.
The weeks moved toward winter.
Clara found a place in the cabin without being assigned one.
She repaired curtains because she wanted to.
Reorganized the pantry because Elias stored salt beside lamp oil, which she considered proof that survival skills did not equal common sense.
She started a ledger.
Elias watched suspiciously.
“What is that?”
“Accounts.”
“I have accounts.”
“You have scraps of paper shoved into a tobacco tin.”
“They work.”
“No.”
“They have worked for fourteen years.”
“You also thought charcoal biscuits were food.”
“That attack is getting old.”
“It remains relevant.”
Within a month, Clara knew exactly what the ranch and trapping operation earned.
More importantly, she knew what it lost.
“Your fur buyer is cheating you.”
Elias looked up.
“What?”
She pointed at figures.
“He pays three percent less every third shipment.”