By morning, Clara's fever had climbed higher.
Nathan discovered it when he touched her forehead and immediately felt his stomach drop.
“Clara.”
She murmured but did not wake.
He replaced the damp cloth, then crossed the room and opened the curtains.
Morning sunlight poured across the rough wooden floor.
Outside, the mountains looked peaceful.
Inside, Nathan felt anything but peaceful.
He saddled his fastest horse and rode to Harland Ridge.
Dr. Bennett returned with him.
The physician listened to Clara's lungs, checked her pulse, and examined her throat.
“She needs time,” Samuel said.
Nathan's jaw tightened.
“You said she would improve.”
“I said I believed she would live. Medicine isn't carpentry, Nathan. I can't hammer the fever into submission.”
Nathan looked toward the bed.
Clara's face was flushed.
Her brown hair lay loose across the pillow.
“What do I do?”
“Keep doing what you're doing.”
“That doesn't feel like enough.”
Samuel glanced at him.
“Sometimes keeping someone alive is mostly patience.”
Nathan did not like patience.
He liked fences because they could be repaired.
Cattle could be moved.
Broken hinges could be replaced.
A fever did not care how hard a man worked.
Before leaving, Samuel handed him another packet of medicine.
“She needs small amounts of broth. Water. And don't let her convince you she's well before she is.”
Nathan frowned.
“You've met her for an hour.”
Samuel smiled faintly.
“I've met stubborn people before.”
He rode away.
Nathan returned upstairs.
Clara woke near noon.
Her eyes followed him as he entered carrying a bowl.
“You rode into town.”
“How do you know?”
“Your boots are dusty.”
Nathan looked down.
“You notice too much.”
“I was a seamstress. If you don't notice details, sleeves end up different lengths.”
He placed the bowl on the table.
“Dr. Bennett says you're stubborn.”
Her lips moved faintly.
“Did he?”
“He didn't use that exact word.”
“What did he say?”
“That you would probably pretend to recover before you actually did.”
Clara's expression became almost offended.
“I would never.”
Nathan gave her a look.
She lasted three seconds before a small smile appeared.
It was the first time he had seen her smile.
Nathan found himself staring.
Sickness had drained most of the color from her face, but the smile changed her completely.
It made her look twenty-four instead of impossibly tired.
“Broth,” he said abruptly.
Clara pushed herself upward.
Nathan moved to help.
She stiffened when his arm came behind her shoulders.
“Sorry.”
He immediately began to withdraw.
“No.”
She looked embarrassed.
“I just… I'm not accustomed to being taken care of.”
Nathan considered that.
“Get accustomed.”
He helped her sit.
She managed four spoonfuls.
Then six.
After the eighth, her hand began trembling.
Nathan took the spoon.
“I can do it.”
“I know.”
Her brow furrowed.
“Then give it back.”
“No.”
“Nathan—”
He stopped.
So did she.
It was the first time she had called him by his first name.
Clara looked down.
“I'm sorry.”
“For what now?”
“I shouldn't presume.”
Nathan sat beside the bed holding the bowl.
“You traveled fifteen hundred miles intending to marry me.”
“Approximately.”
“I think we're past Mr. Walker.”
A hint of color entered her cheeks.
“Then you should call me Clara.”
“I already do.”
“Yes, but you do it like you're issuing instructions.”
Nathan stared at her.
She gave him the smallest teasing smile.
He shook his head.
“You're difficult for someone who can barely sit up.”
“I warned you in my second letter.”
“You said independent.”
“Same thing, depending on who's complaining.”
Nathan almost laughed.
The sound surprised him.
It had been a long time.
Over the next four days, Clara's fever rose and fell.
Nathan rearranged his entire life around the upstairs bedroom.
He worked near the house.
He repaired tack on the porch.
He checked cattle only when necessary.
At night, he slept lightly.
Sometimes Clara woke frightened from dreams.
She rarely remembered them.
But Nathan learned that if he sat nearby and spoke quietly, she calmed.
On the fifth morning, Clara woke to sunlight and realized she was hungry.
Not politely hungry.
Truly hungry.
She smelled bacon downstairs.
For several minutes, she considered calling Nathan.
Then pride won.
Clara pushed the blankets aside.
The room tilted immediately.
She waited.
Tried again.
Her feet touched the floor.
She had taken two steps toward the door when Nathan appeared.
He stopped dead.
“What are you doing?”
“Walking.”
“Why?”
“Because people generally walk when they want to go downstairs.”
“Get back in bed.”
“I've been in bed for nearly a week.”
“Samuel said—”
“I know what Samuel said.”
“You call him Samuel now?”
“He told me to.”
Nathan folded his arms.
Clara attempted another step.
Her knees weakened.
Nathan caught her.
Again.
She closed her eyes in frustration.
“This is humiliating.”
“No, it's predictable.”
“I don't appreciate that.”
“I know.”
Before she could argue, Nathan lifted her.
Clara's eyes flew open.
“You cannot carry me every time I want to move.”
“Apparently I can.”
“Nathan.”
“Clara.”
She looked directly at him.
He was infuriating.
And careful.
That combination unsettled her.
He carried her downstairs.
Instead of returning her to bed, he placed her in a chair near the open kitchen window.
“Compromise.”
Clara blinked.
“You compromise?”
“Don't tell anyone.”
For the first time since arriving in Montana, she laughed.
The sound traveled through the house.
Nathan turned toward the stove.
But Clara saw his expression.
He liked hearing it.
That discovery warmed her more than the sunlight.
After breakfast, Clara studied the room.
The house was solidly built but neglected.
Not dirty.
Nathan kept everything clean.
But there were no flowers.
No curtains except plain linen panels.
No photographs on the walls.
No decorative plates.
No evidence that anybody had ever lived there simply because they enjoyed being alive.
“You really have been alone a long time,” she said.
Nathan's shoulders became still.
Clara regretted the words immediately.
“I'm sorry.”
He poured coffee.
“Four years.”
She waited.
He offered nothing else.
Something told her not to ask.
Instead she looked toward a basket near the fireplace.
A shirt lay across the top.
One sleeve was torn.
“May I?”
Nathan followed her gaze.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you're supposed to rest.”
“I can sew sitting down.”
“You can also breathe sitting down. Let's focus on that.”
Clara frowned.
Nathan carried the basket into another room.
She stared after him.
“You are an extremely stubborn man.”
From the hallway came his voice.
“So I've been told.”
Clara smiled.
By the end of the second week, she was stronger.
She could walk downstairs without assistance.
Nathan still followed two steps behind her.
She pretended not to notice.
One afternoon, a wagon approached.
Gerald Holt arrived with his wife Margaret and two other women from town.
Nathan stepped onto the porch.
“What do you need?”
Margaret smiled.
“We thought we'd visit Miss Whitmore.”
Clara appeared behind Nathan.
Margaret's eyes moved over her.
“Well. You look better.”
“Thank you.”
Gerald cleared his throat.
“Folks were concerned.”
Nathan doubted that.
Margaret sat in the parlor and spent fifteen minutes pretending she had not come to inspect the sick mail-order bride everyone was discussing.
Then she asked the question she had clearly been waiting to ask.
“So when are you going back east?”
Silence filled the room.
Clara's fingers tightened around her teacup.
Nathan stood near the doorway.
“She isn't.”
Margaret looked at him.
“I only meant if the mountain air proves too much.”
“It won't.”
Gerald shifted.
“You can't know that.”
Nathan's eyes hardened.
Gerald immediately remembered the station.
Clara spoke quietly.
“Mr. Holt, I understand your concern.”
Holt looked relieved.
“But Nathan invited me here,” she continued, “and I came intending to build a life. Being sick for a few weeks hasn't changed that.”
Margaret gave her a sympathetic look that somehow felt insulting.
“My dear, ranch life is difficult even for a healthy woman.”
Clara set down her cup.
“I spent seven years working twelve-hour days in a dress shop where the owner locked the doors until every order was complete. I think I can learn to feed chickens.”
Nathan looked down to hide a smile.
Margaret flushed.
Twenty minutes later, the visitors left.
Nathan stood on the porch watching their wagon disappear.
Clara joined him.
“You enjoyed that.”
“What?”
“Watching me argue with Mrs. Holt.”
“Wouldn't call it arguing.”
“What would you call it?”
Nathan considered.
“A public execution conducted with a teacup.”
Clara stared at him.
Then she laughed so hard she had to hold the porch railing.
Nathan laughed too.
The mountains echoed with it.
For a moment, Clara forgot she had arrived sick.
Forgot St. Louis.
Forgot fear.
Then dizziness struck.
Nathan caught her elbow.
“Inside.”
“I'm fine.”
“Inside.”
“Nathan—”
He looked at her.
Clara sighed.
“You ruin every victory.”
“I keep you alive long enough to enjoy the next one.”
That evening, Nathan found her asleep near the fireplace with the torn shirt in her lap.
She had secretly repaired it.
The stitches were nearly invisible.
Nathan lifted the shirt.
Then looked at Clara.
She had wanted to contribute.
Not because he demanded it.
Because she needed to feel that she belonged.
He placed the shirt carefully over the back of a chair.
Then he covered her with a blanket.
Clara stirred.
“Don't send me away,” she whispered sleepily.
Nathan sat beside her.
“Not happening.”
Her eyes opened.
“You keep saying that.”
“I'll keep saying it until you believe me.”
Clara stared at him.
The room became very quiet.
Something passed between them.
Something neither had agreed to.
Something more dangerous than obligation.
Nathan stood first.
“Good night, Clara.”
“Good night.”
He walked upstairs.
Clara watched him go.
For the first time in years, she wanted desperately to believe a promise.
And upstairs, Nathan Walker realized the woman he had invited west as a practical arrangement was becoming anything but practical.
---