Clara blinked.
Caleb realized what he had said.
His ears reddened.
She smiled.
“My hips specifically?”
“I should split wood.”
He stood.
Clara caught his sleeve.
Caleb froze.
Her hand remained against his forearm.
The muscle beneath the wool hardened immediately.
Not rejection.
Reaction.
Clara felt it.
So did he.
She whispered, “You do stare.”
Caleb looked down at her.
For the first time he did not deny it.
“Yes.”
Something low and unfamiliar moved through Clara’s chest.
“Why?”
He swallowed.
“You know why.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
Her name in his voice did something worse.
She tightened her fingers around his sleeve.
“I spent half my life having people explain what a woman like me should expect.”
Caleb’s expression changed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t assume.”
He looked at her for several seconds.
Then quietly:
“I think you’re beautiful.”
Clara stopped breathing.
Not pretty despite.
Not beautiful if.
No qualification.
She laughed nervously.
“That’s kind.”
“It wasn't kindness.”
He looked almost irritated.
“That’s the problem.”
“What problem?”
Caleb turned toward mountains.
His voice dropped.
“I’m trying very hard to be decent.”
Clara’s pulse quickened.
“And?”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“I can’t control myself when you look at me like that.”
The sentence should have frightened her.
From another man, it would have.
Nathan once used similar words as excuses.
You make me angry.
You know what happens when you speak that way.
A man cannot control himself when his wife provokes him.
Clara’s body remembered before her mind did.
Her fingers withdrew.
Caleb saw the change instantly.
“No.”
She looked up.
He crouched so they were closer to eye level but did not touch her.
“That came out wrong.”
Clara said nothing.
Caleb’s expression held real alarm.
“Not my hands.”
He opened them.
“Those I control.”
“Always.”
Clara stared.
He continued carefully.
“I meant wanting to kiss you.”
Her breath caught.
Caleb looked away, embarrassed again.
“I can control that too.”
“I will.”
“I’m just doing a poor job wanting not to.”
Clara’s fear loosened.
Something warmer replaced it.
She leaned toward him.
“Then maybe stop fighting the part I’m asking for.”
Caleb’s eyes returned to hers.
“You’re asking?”
“Yes.”
“Clara.”
“I know my own mind.”
He stayed where he was.
“Your ribs.”
“Bruised.”
“Your ankle.”
“Attached.”
“You nearly died four days ago.”
“And apparently death improved my judgment.”
Caleb laughed softly.
Then became serious.
“May I kiss you?”
The question undid her.