Caleb had offered to let her remain at her own homestead, but after the barn fire and the poisoning of her horse, neither of them believed that would be wise.
“You’ll have your own room,” he had told her earlier.
She had stared at him.
“On our wedding night?”
His expression had barely changed.
“I thought you might prefer it.”
She had almost laughed.
Instead, something in her chest had tightened.
It was the first sign that perhaps Caleb Mercer understood loneliness better than anyone she had ever met.
His ranch house was larger than Clara’s cabin but far from grand. Two bedrooms stood on opposite ends of a narrow hall, with a kitchen, a sitting room, and a stone fireplace that showed years of use. Everything was orderly.
Too orderly.
Nothing seemed touched unless it served a purpose.
A pair of boots beside the door.
A rifle over the mantel.
A Bible on a small table.
Three tin cups hanging from hooks near the stove.
Clara noticed the third cup immediately.
