Jacob came back the next afternoon and found her crouched by the fire, boiling coffee in a dented pot.
He didn’t know why that detail mattered—maybe because coffee meant she still believed tomorrow existed.
Her tools were laid out neat. Hammer, nails sorted, lumber stacked with care. Everything about the place said she planned. She thought ahead. She was building a life with nothing but muscle and will.
“You do good work,” Jacob said.
Clara didn’t look up.
“Taught myself.”
She handed him a tin cup.
Jacob drank the coffee the way cowboys do—hot, bitter, no complaining.
“Town’s got a lot of widows,” he said. “Why buy land out here alone?”
Clara’s jaw tightened.
For a moment she stared into the fire like it had answers.
Then she spoke.
“A merchant in town wanted me after Thomas passed,” she said. “Said I needed a man’s protection. When I refused…”
Her voice went flat.
“Rumors started. Cursed woman. Witch who burned her own house down.”
Jacob didn’t react.
He waited.
Because waiting was a kind of respect. It meant you weren’t rushing someone into the parts they weren’t ready to hand over.
Clara swallowed and continued.
“Fire started during a fight. Lamp broke.”
She touched her scar unconsciously.
“I tried to pull him out.”
Her voice didn’t shake.
“He hit me into the flames. I got free.”
She looked up then, eyes steady.
“He didn’t.”
Jacob’s cup stopped halfway to his mouth.
Silence stretched.
Clara didn’t flinch from it.
“Town buried him a hero,” she said. “Buried me alive with gossip.”
She stared at Jacob like she was daring him to judge her too.
“So I bought this claim with everything I had left,” she finished. “Figured if I’m going to be alone, might as well be on my own terms.”
Jacob nodded slowly.
He didn’t offer pity.
He didn’t offer comfort that didn’t fit.
He just absorbed it like a man taking in weather.
Clara studied him right back.
“What about you?” she asked. “Ranch that size… you should have a wife. Sons.”
Jacob set his cup down.
“Had a wife,” he said.
Clara’s expression softened slightly.
“Sarah. Beautiful woman. Everyone loved her.”
He paused like he had to choose whether to keep talking.
“She wanted town life. Parties. Dances. People admiring her.”
His jaw tightened.
“She died two years back. Childbirth. Baby didn’t make it either.”
Clara’s breath caught.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“Don’t be,” Jacob replied.
He stood and brushed off his pants like standing was easier than sitting with that memory.
“I loved her,” he admitted. “But I didn’t like her much toward the end.”
He looked out past the cabin walls toward the mountains, eyes distant.
“She didn’t like me either.”
Clara didn’t interrupt.
Jacob exhaled.
“Town widows circle me now like buzzards,” he said. “All performance, no help. They want to be Mrs. Morgan. They don’t want to be my partner.”
Clara stood too, understanding sliding into place between them.
“So this arrangement is…”
“Practical,” Jacob finished.
“You need help before winter. I need meals and mending.”
He looked at her straight.
“Nobody needs to make it more complicated.”
Clara nodded once.
“Agreed.”
They shook hands.
Her grip matched his—calloused, firm, honest.
Jacob noticed she didn’t look away.
“We’ll start on the roof frame tomorrow,” he said as he swung back into the saddle.
Clara watched until the trees swallowed him again.
Then she turned back to the half-built cabin.
Something unfamiliar stirred in her chest.
Hope was dangerous.
But maybe, just this once, it was worth the risk.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
