You owe me nothing.
Clara read twice.
Something inside her shifted.
The bargain became something else.
Not ownership.
An offer.
Perhaps a strange one.
Still.
Choice.
Clara wrote:
Why pay if I refuse?
Elias looked toward Nathan.
Then at her.
Because debt should not decide marriage.
Clara stared at him.
The man Blackwood called a monster had understood something nobody in the saloon had.
She asked:
If I say yes, what do you expect?
Elias wrote slowly.
Share house.
Work together.
Then:
No children required.
Clara’s face warmed unexpectedly.
Elias noticed and looked away, perhaps embarrassed too.
He wrote one more line.
No touching unless wanted.
Clara read.
Her chest tightened.
No man had ever been so careful with a conversation that supposedly concerned marrying her.
Nathan whispered:
“Clara.”
She looked toward her father.
His eyes were wet.
“Don't do this for me.”
Clara believed him.
That mattered.
She looked back at Elias.
Outside, snow thickened.
His ranch was isolated.
His reputation frightening.
His life unknown.
But what exactly waited in Blackwood for Clara?
More laughter.
More pity.
More years inside a house slowly becoming smaller.
She wrote:
When?
Elias read.
His eyes widened slightly.
Then:
Saturday.
Clara nodded.
Saturday.
Her wedding morning arrived beneath a white sky.
Clara stood before the cracked bedroom mirror wearing her mother’s dress.
Ivory once.
Yellowed now.
Her mother had been smaller.
Clara altered the seams herself.
Added panels.
Reworked the bodice.
It still pulled across her chest.
She looked at her reflection.
Round face.
Brown eyes.
Long chestnut hair braided over one shoulder.
Full waist.
Heavy hips.
Body that Blackwood had discussed more often than Clara herself had.
Her father stood in the doorway.
“You look like your mother.”
Clara smiled sadly.
“No.”
“You do.”
“She was beautiful.”
Nathan’s eyes sharpened.
“So are you.”
Clara looked away.
She wanted to believe him.
That was different from believing.
The ceremony took place inside the church because snow made traveling difficult.
People came anyway.
Of course they did.
Blackwood never missed entertainment.
Walter Crowe sat in the second pew.
His smirk disappeared slightly when Elias entered.
The mountain rancher wore a clean black shirt, dark wool coat, and polished boots.
His hair had been tied back.
He looked less like a monster than an illustration from some old wilderness tale.
The preacher positioned himself carefully where Elias could read his lips.
Clara stood opposite.
Elias looked at her.
Not at her body.
Her face.
Constantly.
The vows were simple.
When the preacher asked whether Elias accepted Clara, he signed something with one hand.
Clara did not understand.
The preacher did.
“Yes.”