The ride home was fast. Eli drove the horses hard. When they reached the ranch, he jumped down and began unhitching them with frantic, jerky movements. "Eli," Clara said, coming up behind him. "I almost killed him," Eli said, not turning around.
"I wanted to I wanted to snap his neck, but you did not," Clara said. "You stopped. I am dangerous," he said, turning to face her. "You should not be here. Clara, you should not be with a man like me.
I cannot protect you the right way. I'm just like my father. Stop it, Clara shouted. It was the first time she had raised her voice at him. Stop pitying yourself.
You are nothing like him. You protected me. I should not have to. Eli roared back. You should be safe.
You should be in a house where men do not grab you in alleys. I brought you here to this this war. I am using you to keep my land, and it is going to get you hurt. I can handle ugliness, Clara yelled, stepping into his space. I have handled worse than a drunk cowboy.
I am not glass, Eli. I am not some porcelain doll you put on a shelf. I am here. I am your partner. They stood chest to chest, breathing heavy in the cold twilight.
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.