Mrs. Bell looked at Sam.
“You didn't tell me she was pretty.”
Sam's ears turned slightly red.
“I didn't think it was relevant.”
“It is to some men.”
Mrs. Bell climbed the wagon step.
“Come along, girl. You look half-dead.”
Clara hesitated.
Then she looked at Sam.
He nodded.
“Go.”
For the first time since leaving Boston, Clara allowed someone to help her down from a wagon without wondering whether the touch would hurt.
That night, she slept in a clean room with a locked door.
She cried before she slept.
But they were not tears of fear.
They were tears of relief.
And downstairs, in the quiet kitchen, Samuel Cross sat alone beside the dying fire and wondered what kind of man had left such bruises on a woman who apologized every time someone was kind to her.
He intended to find out.
But he would wait until Clara was ready to tell him.
He had already decided one thing.
He would not become another man she had to run from.
The Rules of Cross Creek
Clara expected the marriage ceremony to happen within days.
Instead, Sam gave her a week.
Then another.
“You said you came here to marry me,” he reminded her one morning as they sat across from each other at breakfast.
“I did.”
“And you still can.”
Clara stared at him.
“Why haven't you asked?”
“Because you haven't said yes.”
“I answered your advertisement.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
She lowered her fork.
“You are an unusual man.”
“So I've been told.”
Mrs. Bell snorted from the stove.
“Mostly by women who expected him to behave like an ordinary one.”
Sam ignored her.
Clara had begun discovering that Mrs. Bell's tongue was nearly as sharp as her kitchen knives.
She also discovered that Sam rarely raised his voice.
When angry, he became quieter.
When worried, he became quieter still.
And when Clara accidentally dropped a heavy iron skillet on her foot, he crossed the kitchen in two strides—but stopped before touching her.
“May I?”
She nodded.
He crouched beside her and examined her ankle.
“Nothing broken.”
“I know.”
“You always say that.”
“Say what?”
“Nothing's wrong.”
Clara looked away.
Sam sighed.
“I've noticed.”
She said nothing.
He stood.
“You don't have to tell me everything. But if you're hurt, tell me.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know.”
That answer surprised her.
Most men she had known treated independence in women like an insult.
Sam seemed to treat it as a fact.
Life at Cross Creek settled into a strange rhythm.
Clara learned how to milk a cow badly.
She learned that prairie wind could turn a perfectly arranged kitchen into a dust storm in minutes.
She learned that Mrs. Bell believed breakfast should be heavy enough to support a working man's soul.
She learned that Sam's horse, a black gelding named Midnight, disliked strangers and tolerated exactly three people.
Sam.
Mrs. Bell.
And, inexplicably, Clara.
The first time Clara fed Midnight an apple, the horse rested its enormous head against her shoulder.
Sam watched from the fence.
“He likes you.”
“Perhaps he has better judgment than his owner.”
Sam smiled.
“Maybe.”
She found herself smiling back.
That frightened her.
She had come to Cross Creek expecting a transaction.
Instead, she was beginning to enjoy herself.
That felt dangerous.
One evening, Sam found her sitting on the porch.
The sun was setting.
“You're thinking too loudly,” he said.
Clara glanced at him.
“I didn't know thinking could be loud.”
“Yours can.”
She smiled.
“Then perhaps you should stop listening.”
He sat beside her, leaving a careful space between them.
“Boston?”
She nodded.
“You miss it?”
“No.”
He didn't ask anything else.
Clara appreciated that.
The truth was, she did miss parts of Boston.
Libraries.
Music.
Rain on cobblestones.
Her mother's old piano.
But she did not miss Edwin.
She did not miss the house.
She did not miss living in fear.
“You said your father left debts,” Sam said after a while.
“Yes.”
“And your cousin?”
Clara stiffened.
Sam immediately noticed.
“I don't have to know.”
“He was supposed to manage Father's estate.”
“What happened?”
“He decided managing meant owning.”
Sam's jaw tightened.
“Did he hurt you?”
The prairie seemed suddenly very quiet.
Clara's hands trembled.
“He did.”
Sam stared toward the horizon.
He said nothing.
That silence gave her courage.
“He said I had nowhere to go.”
Sam's voice was low.
“You do now.”
Clara looked at him.
He finally met her eyes.
“You do.”
Something inside her cracked.
She looked away before he could see the tears.
But he had already seen them.
He did not touch her.
That was what made her cry harder.
Three days later, trouble arrived.
A black carriage appeared on the ranch road.
Sam saw it first.
He stood from the porch.
Clara followed his gaze.
“Who is that?”
Sam's expression changed.
“Someone I hoped wouldn't come.”
The carriage stopped.
A tall man stepped down.
His coat was expensive.
His boots were polished.
His smile was not kind.
Clara stopped breathing.
“Edwin.”
Sam looked at her.
“You know him?”
“My cousin.”
Edwin Whitmore removed his gloves.
“Clara.”
She stepped backward.
Sam moved slightly in front of her.