She froze.
For one terrible second, she wondered whether he knew who was searching for her.
Then he explained.
"Mrs. Porter mentioned the new teacher."
Clara exhaled.
"Yes. That's me."
He nodded.
"Caleb Hart."
She almost smiled.
"I gathered."
For the first time, his expression softened into something resembling amusement.
"That so?"
She gestured toward the street.
"People talk."
He looked toward the two ranch hands who had laughed at the dog.
Then back at her.
"Usually too much."
Clara smiled.
"Sometimes."
For a moment, they looked at one another.
Then Caleb mounted his horse.
"Good afternoon, Miss Whitmore."
She nodded.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Hart."
He rode away.
Clara stood beside the blacksmith's shop until he disappeared around the bend.
She told herself the strange feeling in her chest was curiosity.
Nothing more.
But that evening, while studying her father's maps, she found herself remembering the way Caleb had spoken to the frightened dog.
And for reasons she didn't yet understand, the memory made her feel a little less alone.
Over the next two weeks, Clara found reasons to visit places where Caleb Hart might appear.
She told herself the visits were practical.
The general store needed chalk for the schoolhouse.
The blacksmith sometimes received mail from the northern ranches.
The veterinarian occasionally brought the injured sheepdog into town, and Clara wanted to know whether its leg was healing.
None of those reasons was entirely false.
But she couldn't deny that her eyes searched the street for a broad-shouldered man in a weathered brown coat.
She saw him twice.
Once outside the feed store, loading sacks into a wagon belonging to an elderly rancher whose hands shook too badly to lift them.
The second time, beside the church, repairing a broken section of fence while the minister held the posts steady.
Both times, Caleb noticed her.
Both times, he tipped his hat.
And both times, he looked away before she could gather the courage to speak.
She began thinking the stories about him were less useful than the things she saw with her own eyes.
Then, one bitter afternoon in November, she found him near the schoolhouse carrying a stack of firewood.
Abigail Porter was standing beside the entrance, directing him toward the storage shed.
Clara stopped halfway down the steps.
"Mr. Hart?"
Caleb looked up.
His expression changed when he saw her.
"Miss Whitmore."
She glanced toward the wood.
"Are you delivering supplies?"
"Mrs. Porter said the school was running low."
Abigail folded her arms.
"He heard the children were cold and brought half his woodpile."
Caleb looked embarrassed.
"Wasn't half."
"Near enough."
Clara smiled.
The older teacher disappeared inside, leaving them together in the yard.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Clara stepped closer.
"How's the dog?"
Caleb's eyes softened.
"Healing."
"Does he have a home?"
"Does now."
She looked surprised.
"Yours?"
He nodded.
"Calls himself Trouble."
Clara laughed.