What? This table. He stared at her. Clara ran one finger across an old knife mark near the corner. Your mother bought it from my father.
You remember that? I remember many things about this house. Something in her voice made him uneasy, or hopeful. He could no longer tell the difference. Clara opened the pantry, studying the shelves.
You live on beans and beef. That explains your personality. He leaned against the doorway. You planning to insult me every day? If necessary.
Then she turned. The humor faded from her face. Ethan, there's something else. He straightened. Clara reached into her leather case and removed an old envelope.
His name was written across the front. Ethan Cole. The handwriting was young, unsteady. His eyes lifted slowly. Where did you get that?
My mother kept it. His heart began pounding. Clara held the envelope with both hands. I wrote this 17 years ago. Ethan stopped breathing.
The morning after the summer dance. He looked from the envelope to her face. My father told me you never wanted to see me again. Clara's eyes filled with something he could not read. My father told me the same thing about you.
The room became painfully still. Ethan stepped closer. Clara. My mother gave me this before she died. She found it hidden among my father's papers.
Her voice weakened for the first time. I had written to you asking you to meet me beneath the cottonwoods. Ethan stared at the unopened letter. 17 years of loneliness suddenly shifted beneath his feet. But before he could touch it, a horse screamed outside.
Ethan turned toward the window. Three riders had stopped beyond the fence. One held a rifle. Another carried a can of kerosene. And between them sat Walter Briggs.
Clara came beside Ethan. Briggs looked toward the house and smiled. Then he lifted his voice. Cole, send Miss Whitfield outside. Ethan's hand moved toward the revolver at his hip.
Briggs raised the kerosene can. Or tonight, you lose more than your pasture. Ethan stepped onto the porch before Clara could stop him. Walter Briggs sat tall in the saddle beyond the fence, dressed too clean for a man who claimed to care about ranch land. Two riders flanked him.
One holding a rifle across his lap. The other balancing the kerosene can against his thigh. Send her out, Briggs called again. Ethan's hand rested near his revolver. She's not yours to order around.
Briggs smiled. That woman came here because my wife arranged it. Clara appeared behind Ethan. No, she said. I came because I wanted to.
Briggs's smile faded. His eyes moved to her. You should be careful, Miss Whitfield. I've spent half my life being careful around men like you. Ethan glanced back at her.
She stood straight in the doorway. The old letter still in one hand. Briggs looked toward Ethan again. You've got until sundown tomorrow to sign over the southern pasture. And if I don't?
The man with the kerosene can lifted it slightly. Briggs shrugged. Ranches burn easy this time of year. Ethan's jaw tightened. You threaten my house in front of witnesses?