That he sometimes worked too much.
That he didn't dance well.
And that he had burned more biscuits than any respectable man should confess.
When Clara's next letter arrived, she mentioned the biscuits.
I can make good biscuits, Mr. Morrow, though I cannot promise they will remain so if you insist on helping.
Gabriel laughed aloud.
Jasper raised his head from the rug.
The sound surprised both of them.
He hadn't laughed like that in weeks.
The letters continued.
Not many.
The distance between Missouri and Wyoming made correspondence slow.
But each envelope became an event.
Gabriel began looking forward to the mail.
He read Clara's descriptions of St. Louis.
Her childhood.
Her work.
Her love of books.
Her belief that a quiet life could be a happy one if the people sharing it were good to one another.
She said little about her recent circumstances.
He noticed that.
But he assumed she had endured hardships she wasn't ready to discuss.
He didn't press.
When he finally asked whether she would consider coming west to marry him, he expected weeks of silence.
Instead, her answer arrived sooner than he imagined.
I accept your proposal.
The words made his hands shake.
He read them while standing beside the kitchen window.
Then again while sitting at the table.
Then once more before going to bed.
For the first time in years, he imagined the house changing.
A woman's shawl hanging beside his coat.
Fresh flowers on the windowsill.
A second voice asking whether he'd eaten.
He didn't imagine perfection.
He only imagined not being alone.
And that seemed almost miraculous.
Clara Bennett wrote her acceptance letter while sitting in a rented room above a boardinghouse near the edge of St. Louis.
The room was small.
A narrow bed stood beside the wall.
A wooden washstand held a chipped basin.
And a cheap wardrobe contained nearly everything she owned.
Through the window, she could hear wagons moving along the street and men shouting near a warehouse.
It was late afternoon.
Rain struck the glass.
And Clara had been crying for so long that her head ached.
On the table lay Gabriel's latest letter.
Beside it rested another envelope.
This one was heavier.
Its paper was expensive.
And the name printed at the top made her stomach tighten.
Whitcomb & Price, Attorneys at Law.
Clara hadn't opened it yet.
She knew who had sent it.
She also knew that opening it would make the nightmare feel more real.
For several minutes, she stared at Gabriel's letter instead.
He had written about the ranch.
The spare room.
The winter stores.
The fact that he could arrange her travel expenses if she wished to come.
He didn't promise wealth.
Didn't promise romance.
Didn't even promise that their marriage would be easy.
He promised a home.
Honest work.
And respect.
Clara placed one hand over her stomach.
The movement had become instinctive.
She wasn't showing much yet.
But she knew the child was there.
Her monthly courses had stopped.
A doctor had confirmed the pregnancy.
And every morning she woke with a mixture of nausea, terror, and fierce determination.
She had never imagined becoming an unmarried mother.
She had imagined a husband.
A small home.