It looked like a toy made for a child. Beside it lay a ribbon, faded red. The silk fraying at the edges. She reached out to touch the ribbon. Do not.
Eli's voice came from the doorway, sharp and sudden. Clara jerked her hand back, spinning around. Eli stood there, his face pale, his eyes wide with a panic that looked like anger. He crossed the room in two long strides, not towards her, but to the shelf. He grabbed the ribbon and the wooden horse, his hands shaking and shoved them into the top drawer of the chest.
He slammed the drawer shut. The sound echoed in the small room. Eli breathed hard, his back to her. He looked ashamed. "I am sorry.
Those Those are old. I should have cleared them. " "It is all right," Clara said, her voice steady, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "I did not mean to pry. " "Supper," Eli said, the word coming out strangled. "I will make supper," he fled the room. They ate in silence.
Stew made of venison and potatoes. It was hot and filling. Clara ate methodically, scraping the bowl clean. She did not know when the next meal would come. Survival had taught her to never leave food on a plate.
Outside, the storm had passed, leaving behind a silence that was heavy and suffocating. The wind had died. The only sound was the settling of the timbers in the house and the crackle of the fire in the stove. Night had fallen completely. The oil lamp on the table cast long, wavering shadows.
Eli stood up and cleared the dishes. He washed them in a basin, his back to her. Clara watched his shoulders. The tension in the room was rising, a physical pressure against her skin. She knew what this was.
She knew the arrangement. She was a wife. A wife had duties in the saloon. She had seen what happened to women who did not pay their debts, who did not smile when they were told to smile. She had survived by being useful, by being invisible, and by understanding the transaction.
He needed a wife to keep his land. She needed a home to keep from starving, or worse, he had paid for her ticket. He had fed her. Now the bill was due. She stood up.
Her legs felt weak. She walked to the center of the room. "Mr. Concincaid," she said. Eli turned, wiping his hands on a towel.
He looked exhausted. He looked like a man who wanted to run out the door and keep running until he hit the ocean. "Eli," he said softly. "Please call me Eli. " "Eli," she repeated. She took a breath.
She reached up and unbuttoned the top button of her high collar. Her fingers were trembling, but she forced them to work. She had to show him she was willing. She had to show him she was not a bad investment. Eli went still.