Instead, the tension shifted to the town. They needed supplies, flour, coffee, nails for the fence repairs. The ride into Red Rock was stiff and silent. Eli sat high on the wagon seat, his eyes scanning the horizon. Clara sat beside him, her spine straight, her hands folded so tight her knuckles were white.
When they walked into the merkantile, the conversation died. It was a physical thing, the silence. It started at the counter and rippled outward to the back of the store where two men were inspecting a plow. Clara felt the eyes on her back. They felt like insects crawling on her skin.
As she walked to the dry goods section, picking up a sack of beans. We are out of those, the clerk said loudly. Clara looked at the sack in her hand. There are six bags here. The clerk, a young man with a thin mustache, looked over her shoulder at someone behind her, smirking.
Reserved all of them for paying customers. "My husband's money is legal tender," Clara said. Her voice was calm, pitched low. She did not sound angry. She sounded bored.
It was a tone she had perfected in the chaotic nights of the saloon. A tone that said, "You cannot touch me. We do not serve saloon trash here. " A woman's voice cut through the air. It was Mrs. Gable, the banker's wife.
She stood by the fabric bolts, holding a length of blue calico. She looked at Clara with a mixture of fascination and disgust. My husband says it is a disgrace bringing a woman like that into a decent community. Eli appeared at Clara's elbow. He did not shout.
He did not posture. He simply took the sack of beans from Clara's hand and placed it on the counter. He stared at the clerk. Eli was a big man, and in the small space between the counters, he seemed to take up all the air. "Ring it up," Eli said.
"I told her," the clerk started. "Ring it up. " Eli's voice was a low rumble, like rocks grinding together deep underground. The clerk swallowed. He rang up the beans. His hands shook as he took the coins Eli placed on the wood.
Outside, as they loaded the wagon, Clara let out a breath. She felt she had been holding for an hour. "You did not have to do that," she said. "I have been called worse things by better men. " Eli paused, his hand on the wagon wheel. He looked at her, his dark eyes troubled.
"You are my wife, Clara. They do not get to speak to you that way. They speak the truth," Eli, she said, looking away toward the saloon down the street. The piano music drifted out, tiny and hollow. I worked where men drank.
I poured the whiskey. I smiled when they wanted me to smile. That is who I was. It is not who you are, Eli said stubbornly. You do not know who I am, she snapped, the frustration finally bubbling over.
I saw a man die, Eli. In that place, I saw a man shot for spilling a drink. And I saw the sheriff arrest the boy who swept the floors because the shooter bought the law a round of drinks. I learned that truth does not matter. Only power matters.