Clara touching his shoulder when passing.
Long evenings by fire.
Neither moved further.
Clara began to wonder whether the kiss she imagined had only happened in her head.
Then came the summer thunderstorm.
Lightning struck a pine near upper fence.
Fire jumped dry needles.
Silas and ranch hands fought it for hours.
Clara organized water wagons below.
At midnight, Silas returned black with soot.
His sleeve burned.
Clara stood when she saw.
“You're hurt.”
“Nothing.”
She grabbed his arm.
The fabric had scorched his forearm.
Not severe.
Still angry red.
“Sit.”
“Clara—”
“Sit.”
He sat.
She cleaned the burn with cool water.
Silas hissed.
“Do not be dramatic.”
“That hurts.”
“You said nothing.”
“It did then too.”
She smiled despite fear.
Then noticed a cut near his ribs.
“Shirt.”
“What?”
“Take it off.”
Silas froze.
Now Clara laughed.
“The mountain man who dragged me through snow is shy?”
“No.”
“Shirt.”
He removed it.
Clara forgot what she was doing.
Silas was enormous.
Not sculpted like a statue.
Built by labor.
Scars across shoulders.
Old burn near collarbone.
Muscles thick.
Clara’s hands suddenly seemed very warm.
Silas noticed.
His voice lowered.
“Clara.”
She looked at him.
“Yes?”
He was very close.
For months, she had feared he did not want her.
Now there was no uncertainty in his face.
Only restraint.
Clara’s breath caught.
“Why haven't you kissed me again?”
Silas stared.
“Again?”
“In my mind.”
He almost smiled.
“That seems unfair.”
“Answer.”
“Because you have had every man in your life trying to take something.”
“I didn't want to become another.”
“And if I want you to take something?”
Silas swallowed.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“What you mean.”
Clara’s courage wavered.
She looked down.
“I mean…”
Silas waited.
No rescue.
No finishing sentence for her.
She forced herself.
“I want you to kiss me.”
He did not move.
“Clara.”
“Yes.”
“Are you asking because I nearly got burned?”
She stared.
“What?”
“People make promises after fear.”
“I am not promising.”
“I’m asking.”
Silas considered.
Then:
“Ask tomorrow.”
Her mouth fell open.
“Excuse me?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You arrogant—”
“If you still want it when fire is cold, ask.”
Clara wanted to throw basin.