Chapter 8 - THE HOUSE THEY BUILT TOGETHER
Spring came late.
Then all at once.
Snow retreated from the south slopes.
Creeks exploded with meltwater.
Pines stood dark and wet beneath clear skies.
Henry returned to the ridge on April fourth.
Clara rode beside him.
Their cabin was mostly blackened logs.
The chimney remained.
Crooked.
Defiant.
Clara dismounted.
Looked around.
Then laughed.
Henry stared.
“What?”
“The chimney survived.”
He looked.
“Damn thing caused the first disaster.”
“And survived the second.”
“Bad character.”
“I relate.”
They rebuilt.
Not alone.
That part surprised Henry.
Thomas Carter came.
His sons.
Dr. Walsh.
Deputy Trent on days off.
Even men from the logging camp after Voss’s arrest.
Voss had been convicted of fraud.
Arson charges still pending.
Daniel had been extradited to Chicago.
Clara received one letter from him.
She burned it unopened.
Henry did not ask what it said.
That freedom mattered more than curiosity.
The new cabin was larger.
Two rooms.
Then Clara changed the plan.
“Three.”
Henry looked at the drawing.
“You just added fifteen percent.”
“You have timber.”
“I also have mathematics.”
“Three rooms.”
“Why?”
“One bedroom.”
“Yes.”
“One kitchen room.”
“Yes.”
“One spare.”
Henry stared.
“Children?”
Clara pretended interest in the floor plan.
“Or guests.”
His smile widened.
“Clara.”
“Do not become unbearable.”
He kissed her forehead.
They built three rooms.
Summer settled over the Bitterroots.
Clara planted beans.
Most died.
She blamed altitude.
Henry blamed planting depth.
The surviving six plants became a matter of household pride.
He expanded trap lines less.
Worked closer to home.
Not because Clara demanded it.
Because he wanted evenings with her.
That realization still surprised him.
He had once measured a good day by pelts, cords of wood, weather.
Now sometimes success meant Clara sitting on the porch with flour on her cheek.
One June afternoon, a wagon climbed the trail.
Henry reached instinctively for his rifle.
Clara came outside.
The driver was a woman.
Late forties.
Gray traveling dress.
Agency badge.
“Mrs. Mercer?”
Clara frowned.
“Yes?”
“I’m Agnes Whitmore. Chicago Matrimonial Placement.”
Henry’s body tightened.
Agnes noticed.
“I’m not here to collect anything.”
Clara almost smiled.
“Good.”
Agnes carried a leather case.
“I came to apologize.”
Clara’s expression hardened.
“For selling my address?”
“For failing to protect it.”
She explained.
Edwin Phelps, the agency clerk, had sold at least seventeen women’s placements to relatives, creditors, and former employers.
Clara’s case exposed him.
He was arrested.
The agency changed procedures.
Agnes looked ashamed.
“We treated addresses like paperwork.”
Clara said quietly:
“They were escape routes.”
Agnes nodded.
“Yes.”
Then she opened the case.
Inside were letters.
“From women who heard what happened.”
Clara stared.
“What?”
“Women placed west. Some afraid of husbands. Some afraid of families back east.”
She handed Clara one.
“You gave them language.”
Clara’s eyes filled.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You survived publicly.”
“That wasn’t a choice.”
“No.”
Agnes softened.
“But what you did after was.”
That evening Clara read three letters.
Then stopped.
Too much.
Henry sat beside her on the porch.
“You don’t have to answer.”
“I know.”
“What do they want?”
“Nothing.”
She looked at the letters.
“That’s what makes it harder.”
After a while:
“I want to help.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Henry waited.
Maybe that was the greatest change in him.
He no longer solved every unfinished sentence.
Clara eventually said:
“Women arrive in Montana with nowhere to go if the match is bad.”
“Yes.”
“Agency contracts put them far from towns.”
“Yes.”
“What if there was a place?”
Henry looked at her.
“Here?”
“Not our cabin.”
“Good.”
She elbowed him.
“In Hamilton.”
“A boardinghouse?”
“Temporary rooms. Work contacts. Legal help.”
Henry thought.
“Cost money.”
“I have twelve hundred dollars.”
He shook his head.
“That’s yours.”
“Yes.”
“And I choose what to do with it.”
He smiled.
“Fair.”
Henry contributed lumber.
Carter donated labor.
Agnes convinced the agency to fund rent for the first year.
Eleanor Carter agreed to help manage it.
They called it Mercer House.
Clara hated the name.
Henry loved it.
“Sounds respectable.”
“Sounds like we think highly of ourselves.”
“We do now.”
The house opened in September.
First resident arrived twelve days later.
Nineteen years old.
Bride from Ohio.
Husband had taken her wages and threatened her when she tried to visit town.
Clara met her at the station.
Did not tell her what decision to make.
Only:
“You have a room.”
The girl cried.
Henry heard about it that evening.
He looked across the dinner table at Clara.
“What?”
“You changed Montana.”
She laughed.
“One boardinghouse?”
“Start somewhere.”
She stared.
“You changed too.”
“How?”
“You have curtains.”
Henry looked around.
Clara had hung blue curtains.
“Against my judgment.”
“You chose the fabric.”
“Under duress.”
She smiled.
Then her expression changed.
Her hand moved to her stomach.
Henry noticed immediately.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Clara.”
She looked pale.
He stood.
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Then?”
She began laughing.
Then crying.
Henry became alarmed.
“Why are you doing both?”
“I’m late.”
He frowned.
“For what?”
Clara laughed harder.
Then stared at him.
Understanding arrived slowly.
Henry stopped moving.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re…”
“Probably.”
He sat down.
Hard.
Clara started crying for real.
Henry’s hands trembled.
“Are you afraid?”
“Yes.”
“So am I.”
“Good.”
He laughed.
Then moved around the table.
Stopped before touching.
Even now.
“Can I?”
Clara nodded.
He put one hand over hers.
Flat against her abdomen.
Nothing there yet.
Nothing he could feel.
Everything he could imagine.
His eyes filled.
“Spring?”
“Maybe April.”
Henry laughed.
“Our worst weather.”
“Excellent planning.”
He kissed her.
Then rested his forehead against hers.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
May you like
“Arrogant.”
“I’m learning Montana.”
