He looked toward iron box.
“Your mother’s.”
Clara stopped.
“What?”
“She had it made here.”
“It was a work shirt she wore over dresses.”
“My father kept it.”
“And you kept it.”
“Yes.”
Clara touched fabric differently now.
Her mother had worn this.
She closed eyes.
For a moment she could almost smell lavender soap.
Impossible after thirty years.
Memory invented scent.
Still.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“You were freezing.”
“Not everything has to become revelation at once.”
Clara laughed bitterly.
“Tonight disagrees.”
Silas looked at her.
Then, unexpectedly, Clara began crying.
No elegant tears.
No controlled grief.
She covered her face.
Silas stayed where he was.
That almost made it worse.
“My entire life…”
Clara whispered.
“Everything I thought…”
She lowered hands.
“My mother told me we came from Maryland.”
“She told me my father saved her from poverty.”
“She said western life frightened her.”
Silas looked pained.
“She may have been protecting you.”
“From truth?”
“From men searching for land.”
Clara shook head.
“Everyone protects women by lying to them.”
Silas had no answer.
“Father.”
“Mother.”
“Trustees.”
“Now you.”
His eyes sharpened.
“I have not lied.”
“You withheld.”
“Yes.”
“That is a prettier lie.”
Silas accepted.
“Fair.”
Clara wiped face.
“If we survive tonight, you tell me everything.”
“I will.”
“Even if it makes your father look badly.”
“Yes.”
“Even if it makes my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Even you?”
Silas held her gaze.
“Especially me.”
Clara nodded.
“Good.”
A sound came outside.
Silas’s head turned.
Hoof.
Then another.
Clara froze.
Silas extinguished one lamp.
Then another.
He gestured.
“Down.”
Clara moved toward trapdoor.
“Silas—”
“Now.”
It was first time she used his name.
He noticed.
No time.
Clara descended quickly, moving more easily now that warmth returned.
Silas lowered the hatch after her but did not close completely.
Through a narrow gap she could see part of cabin.
Someone pounded door.
“Boone!”
Silas stood beside hearth.
No gun.
He had one hanging above mantle but did not reach.
“Who?”
“Stage company.”
Silas said nothing.
Voice outside:
“We’re looking for passenger.”
“Coach was attacked.”
Silas replied:
“Then look down the road.”
“We saw tracks.”
“Storm destroyed tracks.”