“Are you from out of town? I don’t remember seeing you around.”
“I’m from Cheyenne. My grandmother knew the hand, and I came here to see if there was anything I could learn about him.” Grace answers lightly.
I step out from my post in the kitchen, courage stirring in my chest like a restless tide. Each step toward the table feels impossible, Clara’s gaze following me the whole way. I lower myself into the chair beside Eli, close enough to feel the steadiness of her presence. Her hands slip to her lap, fingers curling tightly, and her eyes press shut as though holding back a flood. I know she feels it all—the pull, the ache, the impossible tangle of memory—just as fiercely as I do.
Silence drapes itself over us. This ragtag mix of souls gathered in an unknowing room. Two who might be standing at the threshold of something new, two bound by a past that sits heavy, and poor Eli caught right in the middle of it all.
He sighs, “So, Grace, how old was your grandmother when she passed?”
Grace’s features falter, her voice softening. “She was forty-two. She died of stomach cancer when my dad was eighteen. I never got to meet her. That’s why when I found her diary and the other things she left behind, I couldn’t help but dive in. It was the only way I could try to catch a glimpse of her life, of who she really was.”
The words strike like a blow. My head snaps toward Clara, and the thought of her suffering coils through me like barbed wire. The idea of her in pain, her body failing, her light dimming—it makes my insides twist violently. Beside me, her tears fall faster, silent rivers she doesn’t try to hide.
“Reading her diary felt like stepping into her world,” Grace continues, her voice catching. “For a little while, it was like I finally knew her. Then, when I found the envelope addressed to this ranch, I was curious. It was still sealed, the ranch’s address crossed out and her’s in it’s place. Returned.”
“Did you read it?” Eli asks gently.
Grace nods, clutching her hands together. “I did. And it broke my heart. I think she really loved Marcel.”
Secrets
Clara 1923
Suddenly,the ring on my finger feels like a shackle, cold and heavy. I step back, just out of his touch, and instantly regret it. The warmth of his hands fades from my skin, leaving behind a hollow chill that aches deeper than it should. My fingers find the ring without thought, twisting it in slow, nervous circles as if I could spin away the guilt rising in my chest.
His eyes follow the movement, and I see it hit him. Disappointment slides across his face like a shadow.
“Oh,” he says softly. “I didn’t realize…”
I drop my hands, too late. “I’m engaged,” I say, the words dry and bitter on my tongue.
He straightens slightly, a raw gentleness in his voice. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to cross a line. I swear I didn’t see your ring. Please, don’t be mad at me.”
How could I be mad at him? My heart is pounding so hard I can barely breathe. His voice, low and remorseful, cuts right through me. The easy smile he wore earlier is gone now.
“I couldn’t be mad at you, Cowboy,” I say. “I should’ve been honest from the start. I’m supposed to be married in August…when I go back to Cheyenne.”
He steps forward again, reclaiming the space between us, and with it, the air in my lungs. His closeness overwhelms me. The scent of pine and sun-warmed earth surrounds me like a spell I don’t want to break.
“He’s a lucky man, Clara,” he tells me, each word quiet but edged with a tenderness that steals into my chest. He’s close enough now that I can feel the heat rolling off him, my body attuned to every inch we’re not touching. And somehow, that space feels alive.
I look down at my hand, my voice shaking. “Is it horrible that I wish I hadn’t worn my ring tonight?”
I shouldn’t have said that. But the words escape my mouth before reason can stop them. My heart wants what my conscience can’t afford.
A slow smile curls the corner of his lips, dark and dangerous. “Is it horrible that I was wishing the same thing?”
My skin flushes beneath his gaze, every nerve ending alive and begging. He isn’t touching me, but I swear I can feel the promise of it ghosting across my skin, daring me to lean in. I don’t say anything. I don’t even move. The music swells again, masking the quick stutter of my heart.
He dips his head just slightly, his voice intimate, but enough to draw me back. “I’ll tell you what, Clara. If we cross paths again before you leave…let’s call it divine intervention. And I’ll ask you one more time when I can see you again.”
His words hang between us like something sacred and forbidden. My eyes flick to his mouth, drawn by a pull I’ve never felt. I should walk away. I should put distance between us and seal this temptation in silence.
But instead, my voice betrays me again. “All right,” I whisper, lips barely moving.
And in those words, I know—I’ve already fallen too far.
Voice
