Chapter 3
There were cattle beyond the north fence, horses in the near pasture, and a vegetable garden struggling against the heat.
Clara stared at the house.
“You live here?”
“I do.”
“Alone?”
“Most of the time.”
She looked toward the glowing kitchen window.
“It’s a beautiful place.”
Mason almost told her that it hadn’t felt beautiful in three years.
Instead, he helped her down from the wagon without touching her unnecessarily.
Inside, she stopped just beyond the doorway.
Her eyes traveled across the polished floorboards, the iron stove, the worn kitchen table, and a framed photograph standing on the mantel.
A woman smiled from the picture.
She had gentle eyes and dark hair pinned beneath a modest hat.
Clara stared longer than Mason expected.
“That your wife?” she asked.
Mason followed her gaze.
“Evelyn.”
“Where is she?”
“Buried beneath the cottonwood behind the house.”
Clara’s expression changed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Fever took her three years ago.”
He spoke the words with the practiced steadiness of someone who had repeated them until they no longer sounded real.
Clara looked back at the photograph.
“She looks kind.”
“She was.”
For a moment, Mason thought Clara might say something else.
Instead, she lowered her eyes.
He showed her the spare bedroom at the end of the hallway.
The bed had clean blankets, a small washstand, and a window overlooking the oak tree. An old quilt Evelyn had sewn lay folded across the footboard.
“You can stay here.”
Clara remained in the doorway.
“Whose room is this?”
“Guest room.”
“What do you expect from me?”
“Tonight? A good night’s sleep.”
Her mouth tightened.
“You know what I mean.”
Mason met her gaze.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“But you paid money.”
“To get you away from Rusk.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow you can eat breakfast, stay here, or decide where you’d rather go.”
Her eyes filled with suspicion.
“What if I leave?”
Mason stepped aside.
“Then you leave.”
She stared past him into the hallway.
For reasons he couldn’t understand, freedom seemed to frighten her almost as much as captivity.
That night, he heard furniture scraping across her bedroom floor.
She had pushed a chair beneath the doorknob.
Mason stood in the hallway for a moment, listening.
Then he returned to his room without saying a word.
The following morning, he found Clara sweeping the porch before sunrise.
Her feet were wrapped in strips of clean cloth, and she had washed her torn dress as best she could.