It was light. Terrifyingly light. Was this everything she owned in the world? A whole life in a bag a child could lift. He helped her up onto the wagon seat.
His hand brushed her elbow and he felt her stiffen, her muscles locking up like a trap snapping shut. He pulled his hand back as if he had touched a hot stove. I am sorry," he mumbled. "It is fine," she said, staring straight ahead into the rain. The ride to the ranch was an ordeal of silence and mud.
The wagon lurched through ruts that were rapidly turning into small rivers. The wind howled, shaking the canvas cover Eli had rigged up, but the cold seeped through every gap. Eli sat hunched over the rains, focusing entirely on the ears of the horses. He wanted to say something. He wanted to tell her that the house was dry, that he had food, that he was sorry the town was cruel.
But the words died in his throat, choked off by the fear that anything he said would be wrong. He was a boring man, a quiet man. What could he offer a woman who had clearly seen the hard edges of the world? Clara sat with her hands folded in her lap. She watched the landscape roll by.
It was vast, empty, and terrifying. In the border town, there had been noise, people, the constant crush of humanity. Here, there was nothing but sage brush and gray sky. If she screamed here, the sound would simply be eaten by the wind. She looked at the man beside her.
He was large, broad-shouldered. He had not looked her in the eye since the station. Was he angry? Was he disgusted by what he had bought? She had learned to read men by the way they held their liquor and the way they used their hands.
This man held the res with a gentle touch. He did not whip the horses when they stumbled. He spoke to them. Low, soothing sounds that the wind nearly stole. That was good.
Or perhaps it was a trick. The quiet ones were sometimes the worst when the door was closed. They arrived at the homestead as the last of the daylight bled out of the sky, leaving a bruise of indigo over the western hills. The ranch house was small, a simple structure of weathered timber and stone, huddled against a rise in the land for protection from the north wind. A barn stood nearby, dark and leaning slightly.
Eli pulled the wagon up to the porch. "We are here. " She climbed down before he could help her, her boots sinking into the wet earth. She followed him inside. The main room was warm. Eli had left the firebanked, and the smell of wood smoke and coffee hung in the air.
It was clean, Clara noted. The floor was swept. There were no piles of dirty clothes, no empty bottles. It was sparse, almost like a monk's cell, a table, two chairs, a stove. I put your things in there, Eli said, pointing to a door on the left.
I sleep in the loft. He was establishing distance. Clara relaxed slightly, though she kept her shoulders braced. He was not expecting to share a bed immediately. She walked to the door he indicated and pushed it open.
The room was small. There was a narrow bed with a quilt that looked handmade, a wash stand, and a small chest of drawers. On the shelf above the bed, there was a small wooden carving. Clara stepped closer. It was a horse whittleled from pine, clumsy but loving.