She did not open it.
She did not even try.
But carved into the lid were two letters.
E.M.
When Caleb returned, he saw the box sitting exactly where she had found it.
His face changed.
Not anger.
Pain.
“I wasn’t snooping,” Clara said.
“I know.”
“I only moved it to sweep.”
He crouched and picked it up.
For a moment his thumb traced the initials.
“Your first wife?”
Caleb nodded.
Clara waited.
When no explanation came, she turned away.
“Her name was Eleanor.”
Clara looked back.
Caleb sat down slowly.
“She died eight years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
His jaw tightened.
“I was supposed to meet her in town that day.”
Clara remained silent.
“There was a storm coming. I told her not to travel alone. She went anyway.”
“What happened?”
“Her wagon overturned at the river crossing.”
Clara’s heart sank.
“Caleb…”
“I found the wagon.”
His voice had become distant.
“Not her.”
Clara frowned.
“You never found her?”
He shook his head.
“The river was high. Everyone told me there was no chance.”
“But you searched.”
“For weeks.”
He looked toward the window.
“Then months.”
“What was in the box?”
“Her things.”
He stood.
The conversation was over.
Yet one sentence stayed with Clara long after he had left the room.
He had not said Eleanor was buried.
He had said she was never found.
Three days later, solay Silas Boon came to the ranch.
Caleb was in the far pasture.
Clara saw Silas approaching and stepped onto the porch before he could knock.
He removed his hat.
“Mrs. Mercer.”
The name sounded strange in his mouth.
“What do you want?”
Silas looked toward the barn.
“Congratulations on your marriage.”
“Thank you.”
“You work quickly.”
Clara folded her arms.
