“Clara.”
She kept walking.
“What?”
Martha approached.
“You have work.”
“I know.”
“Then do it.”
Nathaniel watched.
Clara felt it.
So did everybody else.
She returned to the sheet.
The moment should have ended.
It did not.
Nathaniel walked toward her.
Boots stopped three feet away.
Clara kept scrubbing.
“You said your name was Clara.”
“Yes.”
“Clara what?”
She looked up.
“Reyes.”
Something passed over his expression.
Not recognition exactly.
“Reyes.”
“Yes.”
“Apache?”
The question would have sounded rude from many people.
From him it sounded practical.
“Part of an Apache family.”
“My mother was Mexican Apache.”
“My father was from Sonora.”
Nathaniel nodded.
“My wife’s family is White Mountain Apache.”
Clara glanced toward the children.
“That explains Ruth’s beadwork.”
Nathaniel followed her gaze.
“You recognize it?”
“My aunt makes similar patterns.”
Ruth was listening now.
Nathaniel noticed.
“Are you married?”
There it was.
The question everybody had expected.
Clara’s hand stopped inside the water.
“No.”
“Widow?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Four years.”
Nathaniel looked at the wash water rather than her face.