For the next two weeks, they learned how to be married without behaving like husband and wife.
Caleb rose before dawn.
Clara rose shortly after.
They ate breakfast together.
They disagreed about coffee.
His was strong enough, Clara claimed, to remove paint from a wagon.
Hers, Caleb said, might be mistaken for warm water.
She reorganized the kitchen.
He moved everything back.
She reorganized it again.
The third time, he surrendered.
Little by little, the house changed.
A jar of wildflowers appeared on the table.
Fresh bread cooled on the windowsill.
Clara stitched the torn curtain Caleb had apparently failed to notice for three years.
In return, he repaired the loose boards on her homestead, installed a stronger lock, and quietly began riding the perimeter every evening.
Neither mentioned affection.
But affection entered anyway.
It was there when Caleb brought her a smooth blue stone because she had once said it reminded her of her mother’s eyes.
It was there when Clara saved the last piece of apple pie because she noticed he always pretended he did not want dessert, then looked disappointed when none remained.
It was there on the afternoon she found him asleep in a chair after three days of spring calving and draped a blanket across his shoulders.
And it was there when Caleb awakened, saw the blanket, and sat for a long time without moving.
Still, part of him remained somewhere Clara could not reach.
Every Sunday, he rode alone toward the ridge behind the north pasture.
Every Sunday, he returned quieter.
One evening, while cleaning the sitting room, Clara discovered a locked wooden box beneath a cabinet.
