Chapter 2 - DON’T PUT THE CANVAS BACK UP
“Don’t put the canvas back up.”
Henry stopped beside the bed.
For the first week of their marriage, he had hung a strip of heavy canvas from a ceiling beam each night.
One side belonged to Clara.
One side belonged to him.
The arrangement had been his idea.
Not because the cabin was large enough for privacy.
Because it wasn’t.
The canvas divided twelve feet of cramped space into two smaller pieces and allowed them to pretend marriage had not put two strangers beneath one roof.
Clara was shaking so hard now that her fingers could barely hold his coat.
“What?”
She swallowed.
“Tonight.”
Her lips were blue.
“Don’t hang it.”
Henry stared at her.
Then understood.
Not invitation.
Fear.
She had nearly frozen outside.
The cabin had filled with smoke.
The storm was still screaming hard enough to shake snow from the rafters.
She simply did not want to wake alone behind a wall she could not see through.
“All right.”
He lowered her onto the bed.
The mattress dipped under her slight weight.
Henry immediately pulled blankets over her.
Clara’s teeth continued knocking together.
He touched her cheek.
Cold.
Too cold.
“Stay awake.”
“I am awake.”
“Barely.”
“That still counts.”
He moved toward the stove.
The chimney was drawing again.
Thank God.
He added split pine, then oak.
Flames strengthened.
Clara watched through half-closed eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting heat into the room.”
“I gathered that.”
He looked back.
“You become sarcastic when half-frozen?”
“I become sarcastic when conscious.”
That nearly made him smile again.
He hated how often she was accomplishing that.
Henry heated water.
Wrapped stones in old towels.
Placed them near her feet and against her sides.
Then he hesitated beside the bed.
Clara noticed.
“If you ask permission every time you move a blanket, I may freeze before we solve this.”
“You told me once you don’t like being handled without warning.”
Her expression changed.
“I did.”
“So I’m warning you.”
He lifted the edge of the blanket.
“I need to get the wet dress away from your skin.”
For one second, Clara stopped breathing.
Henry stepped back immediately.
“I can turn around.”
“No.”
Her voice surprised both of them.
She looked toward the canvas rolled beside the wall.
Then at him.
“I trust you.”
Those three words landed harder than the storm.
Henry turned anyway while Clara struggled out of the soaked wool and into the dry flannel nightdress she had brought from Chicago.
When she whispered his name, he faced her again.
Her dark hair hung damp around her shoulders.
No soot now except one black streak beside her ear.
She looked young.
Too young for the weariness in her eyes.
Henry dragged the canvas cot nearer to the bed.
Clara frowned.
“What are you doing?”
“Sleeping here.”
“You said no canvas.”
“I heard you.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
Henry stopped.
She looked embarrassed.
Then angry at being embarrassed.
“The bed is wide enough.”
He said nothing.
Clara looked toward the storm-dark window.
“If something happens again, I don’t want to shout through half the room.”
“The cot is six feet away.”
“Henry.”
He heard something beneath the irritation.
Please.
He sat on the edge of the mattress.
“If you want me to stay, say it.”
Her jaw tightened.
He waited.
Clara had spent three weeks proving she needed nothing.
No help carrying water.
No softer chores.
No extra food.
No sympathy.
Finally she whispered:
“Stay.”
Henry removed his boots.
Nothing else.
He lay above the blanket on the far side of the bed.
Enough space between them for another person.
Clara rolled toward the stove.
Within minutes, her shaking eased.
The storm continued.
Henry watched the roof beams.
He had spent nine winters alone in that cabin.
Never feared silence.
Never needed conversation.
But now he counted Clara’s breaths.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Forty.
Then:
“Henry?”
“Yes?”
“Were you ever married before?”
His body went still.
“No.”
“Engaged?”
He stared at the ceiling.
“Once.”
Clara waited.
He expected questions.
Instead she said:
“You don’t have to tell me.”
That made him want to.
Her name had been Ruth.
He had been twenty-six.
She lived in Missoula.
Schoolteacher.
Brown hair.
Laugh that carried across a room.
They were supposed to marry in June.
In February, Ruth and her younger brother attempted to cross a frozen creek after a warm spell.
The ice broke.
Her brother survived.
Ruth didn’t.
Henry reached her body three miles downstream.
He had not laughed much afterward.
Not because he made some vow.
Because laughter simply stopped arriving.
“I’m sorry,” Clara whispered.
“So am I.”
He expected that to end it.
Then she asked:
“Is that why you married through an agency?”
“Yes.”
“Safer?”
“No.”
He turned his head.
“Less dishonest.”
She frowned.
“I didn’t want to pretend I was looking for love.”
Clara stared at him.
“And what were you looking for?”
“Someone practical.”
She smiled faintly.
“You got a woman who nearly killed herself holding a ladder.”
“That was not practical.”
“It worked.”
“It was reckless.”
“You’d be dead if I let go.”
“I could have found another way.”
“You didn’t have another way.”
Henry turned toward her.
“You came outside without a coat.”
“You were already on the ladder.”
“You could have put one on.”
“I panicked.”
There.
Honesty.
She looked annoyed at herself for admitting it.
Henry softened.
“Why?”
Clara’s gaze dropped.
“My father died when I was fourteen.”
Henry listened.
“Boiler accident in a factory. My mother lasted another six years. Lungs.”
“Factory too?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
“A brother.”
Henry waited.
Clara’s expression hardened.
“Daniel.”
Something in the way she said the name told Henry not to ask carelessly.
“He alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Chicago.”
She turned away.
End of subject.
Henry let it end.
Hours passed.
The wind eased sometime before dawn.
Henry woke because Clara’s hand was wrapped around his sleeve.
Not his arm.
His sleeve.
As though even asleep she had chosen the smallest possible claim on him.
He stared at her fingers.
Then at her face.
Her skin looked flushed.
Too flushed.
Henry touched her forehead.
Heat.
“Clara.”
She groaned.
“Wake up.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
Her eyes opened.
“What?”
“You’re burning.”
“I’m cold.”
That scared him.
He sat up.
Her breathing had changed too.
Shallow.
Fast.
The cold had done damage.
Maybe smoke.
Maybe both.
Henry knew enough mountain medicine to recognize when mountain medicine was not enough.
The nearest doctor lived eighteen miles below the ridge.
The road was buried.
The storm had dropped almost three feet.
His mare could not make the descent safely.
Clara coughed.
Deep.
Wet.
Henry’s stomach tightened.
“Stay here.”
“Where else would I go?”
He dressed.
By first light, the storm had weakened to thick snow.
Henry stepped outside.
The world had disappeared.
Fence gone.
Trail gone.
Trees bowed under white weight.
He walked toward the shed.
Something dark caught his eye near the woodpile.
Footprints.
Not his.
Not Clara’s.
Boot prints.
Fresh enough that the storm had not filled them completely.
They led from the trees to the cabin wall.
Then around toward the rear window.
Henry crouched.
Someone had been outside during the storm.
Watching.
He followed the tracks.
They disappeared toward the lower trail.
Beside the window lay a small square of paper pinned beneath a stone.
Henry picked it up.
Three words had been written in black pencil.
WINTER IS LONG.
No name.
No signature.
He stared toward the forest.
Then remembered Clara’s brother.
Daniel.
The way her face changed.
Henry went back inside.
Clara was asleep.
Her carpetbag sat beneath the table.
He had never opened it.
Would not now.
But one corner of an envelope protruded from the side pocket.
His name was written across it.
HENRY MERCER.
Not Clara’s handwriting.
Henry pulled the envelope out.
It had already been opened.
Inside was a letter from the matrimonial agency.
Mr. Mercer,
We regret to inform you that information regarding Miss Clara Shaw’s circumstances may have been materially incomplete at the time of your arrangement…
Henry stopped.
Clara Mercer had not come west simply because she needed a husband.
May you like
Someone in Chicago had been looking for her.
And judging by the tracks outside his cabin, someone had followed.
