My voice comes rough, raw, the truth scraped bare. “We want the time that was stolen. We want the chance to love without fear or chains. We want every day that’s left to us—together.”
Eli repeats the words soft as a benediction. Clara’s eyes lock on mine, and her tears change, no longer weighted by despair but by recognition, by the relief of finally being seen.
Grace lets out a broken sound, half sob, half laugh. She nods once, then again, her shoulders trembling. “Then that’s what you should have. After everything…that’s what you deserve.”
No one speaks after that. The silence is thick, charged, but no longer hollow. Clara leans close, her trembling hand brushing against mine.
Eli clears his throat gently, grounding us again. “I’ll see to clearing up dinner,” he says, his voice practical, though his eyes shine.
The room settles into quiet, the air still heavy with all we’ve confessed. And I say a silent prayer of thanks to a God that brought Clara back to me.
A Visit
Clara 1923
Irene humsas she moves about the sitting room, gathering papers and making a list for errands in town. I sit at the desk, pen in hand, a letter half-started to my mother, but my thoughts have long since wandered elsewhere.
To him.
The memory of Marcel’s touch lingers fervently on my skin—sweet, aching, impossible to ignore. Every time I blink, I see his eyes, I feel his touch and hear his voice.
Irene glances up and catches me staring into nothing. Her mouth quirks. “You’ve been woolgathering all morning.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I bend back over the letter. “I was just…thinking.”
She sets her papers aside and comes to lean against the desk, one brow raised. “Thinking, hm? About a ranch hand, perhaps?”
I bite my lip, the pen trembling in my hand. “Irene?—”
She pats my shoulder, her voice softer now. “Darling, you don’t have to say it aloud. I have eyes, and I’ve lived long enough to recognize the way a woman carries a secret in her chest.”
I lower my hand, giving up the pretense of writing. My voice is small when it slips out. “I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s frightening.”
Her expression softens, a glimmer of mischief sparking beneath her concern. “Love often is.”
That afternoon,Irene presses a basket into my hands, her eyes bright. “Take these preserves over to Ada Hayes,” she says. “And tell the driver not to rush you. It’s a fine day to linger.”
I know exactly what she’s doing, but I don’t protest. My heart is already racing at the thought of where I’m headed.
The drive feels both endless and far too short, every turn in the road winding me closer to him. When the ranch finally comes into view, the car stops just in front of the house. I open the door, and step out. I start for the door, but then I spot him near the barn, an axe glinting in the sunlight as he splits logs with practiced precision. Each swing is fluid, sure—the strength in his arms and shoulders gives me butterflies. The sun catches on his curls, and for a moment I forget to breathe.
He looks up and catches me staring. That boyish, crooked smile spreads across his face, and the world narrows to nothing but the distance between us.
“Afternoon, Clara.” He drags the back of his hand across his brow, leaving behind a streak of dust that makes him look even more impossibly handsome.
I lift the basket, suddenly shy despite the fluttering anticipation inside me. “I brought preserves.”
His grin deepens, eyes lingering on me longer than is proper. “Then you’ve already made this the best part of my week.”
We sit togetheron the fence rail, the basket untouched on the ground between us, the late afternoon sun slanting low across the pastures. Cicadas hum in the distance, and the horses flick their tails against flies, restless in the heat. I smooth my skirt, pretending to be composed, though my pulse tells a different story.
“You’re quiet today,” Marcel says, turning to me.
“I was thinking,” I admit, tracing the grain of the wood beneath my palm. “About how different life feels here than in Cheyenne. Simpler. Kinder. Like the air itself doesn’t care what my last name is.”
He leans his elbows on his knees, watching me with that steady, unwavering gaze. “That’s because the air doesn’t have expectations. It just…is. Out here, you can be the same.”
I glance at him, startled by the gentleness in his tone. His hair curls damp at his temple, his shirt clings to his shoulders, and I’m struck by how utterly at ease he looks in his own skin. Not performing. Not posturing. Just being.
