The anger hung between them, sharp and electric. I know you are not glass, Eli said, his voice dropping to a whisper. But I want I want you to be soft. I want you to have peace. I hate that you have to be hard to survive me.
Clara looked at his face lined with dust and worry. She saw the love beneath the fear. He wasn't trying to control her. He was trying to shield her and he was failing and it was breaking his heart. She reached up and took his face in her hands.
His skin was rough, unshaven. "I am not surviving you, Eli," she said softly. "I am choosing you. " She pulled his head down. This time she did not ask permission. She did not ask, "Can I? " She simply kissed him.
It was tentative at first. A question asked with lips instead of words. Eli stood frozen for a heartbeat, his arms rigid at his sides. Then a groan ripped from his throat. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against him.
Lifting her off her feet, he kissed her back with a desperate, starving intensity. It was not the kiss of a polite stranger. It was the kiss of a man who had been lonely for 30 years. He carried her into the house, kicking the door shut behind them. The room was dark, lit only by the embers in the stove.
He set her down by the bed. His hands were shaking again, but not from fear of violence. He touched her face, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. "Clara," he breathed. "Are you sure? " "I am sure," she said.
She began to unbutton his shirt. "I am your wife, and I am tired of being afraid. " He lowered his head to her neck. He was gentle. So incredibly gentle, as if she were made of something precious that could shatter. But there was heat there, too.
A fire that warmed the cold places inside her. They came together in the dark, shedding the layers of wool and defense they had both worn for so long. It was not a performance. There was no need to smile, no need to pretend. There was only skin and breath in the shocking, terrifying realization that they belonged to each other.
Later, as the moon rose high and white over the plains, Clara lay awake. Eli was asleep beside her, one arm thrown heavily over her waist, anchoring her to the bed. She felt different. She felt seen. She slipped out from under his arm and padded across the cold floor to her trunk.
She knelt and opened the false bottom she had constructed years ago. Inside lay a small bundle of papers. She pulled out a letter. The ink was faded, the paper brittle. It was from Sarah, the girl who had been like a sister to her in the border town.
Sarah, who had found a ledger. Sarah, who had tried to do the right thing. Clara read the name in the second paragraph. Haron Pike. Sarah had written that Pike was moving stolen cattle through the border, rebranding them, and using a network of corrupt officials to hide the money.