Almost.
“Caleb.”
She looked at him.
“If we’re married, you might as well call me Caleb.”
“All right.”
He waited.
Clara understood.
“And you may call me Clara.”
His gaze softened.
“Thank you.”
For some reason, that quiet gratitude unsettled her more than flirtation would have.
That night, Clara lay awake in the guest room listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the ranch.
The creak of timber.
The low moan of wind against the walls.
The occasional movement of cattle outside.
And once, long after midnight, the careful footsteps of Caleb walking down the hallway.
They stopped outside her door.
Clara held her breath.
He did not knock.
After several seconds, the footsteps moved away.
She heard the front door open.
Then close.
Curiosity pulled her from bed.
Through the window, Clara saw Caleb crossing the yard alone.
Moonlight silvered his shoulders.
He walked toward a rise beyond the barn and disappeared.
The next morning, she found him repairing a section of fence as though he had slept perfectly well.
She said nothing.
