Her Father Sold Her While She Was Pregnant—Then the Mountain Cowboy Burned the Contract
Clara set a hand on the bedpost. “What do you expect of me?”
“Cooking, if you’re able. Mending, if you know how. Watching the girls sometimes. Nothing heavy. Not until after the baby.”
She studied him, searching for cruelty or possession. She found none of it.
That frightened her more than cruelty would have. She did not trust men who looked kind. The world had already taught her how expensive kindness could be.
“Supper’s in an hour,” Nathaniel said. “Eat if you want. Sleep if you need.”
He left.
Clara sat on the narrow bed and stared at the wall. For three weeks after Daniel died she had cried until her throat hurt. She had cried over his empty chair, his folded shirts, the cup he would never drink from again.
But that evening, she did not cry.
Her father had taken even that from her.
In the morning, two small voices whispered outside her door.
“She’s in there.”
“I know she’s in there.”
“Papa said not to bother her.”
“You’re bothering her by whispering.”
Clara opened the door.
Two girls stood in the hall — identical at first glance, dark braids, gray eyes, solemn mouths. One held her shoulders with cautious defiance. The other stood half a step behind.
“You’re the lady Papa brought home,” the bold one said.
“I’m Clara.”
“We know.”
The quieter one looked at Clara’s belly, then quickly away.
“And you are?” Clara asked.
“Rose,” said the bold one.
The other murmured, “Lily.”
Rose leaned forward. “Is there really a baby in there?”
“Yes.”
“Does it hear us?”
“I think so.”
Rose considered this. “Then it should know we don’t have extra dolls.”
Despite everything, Clara almost smiled.
Lily pulled her sister by the sleeve. They fled.
Clara found the kitchen by following the smell of coffee. Through the window, she saw Nathaniel crossing the yard toward the barn. At the table, three bowls had been set out.
Not four.
She understood. She served herself from the pot and sat at the far end without complaint. Rose watched her. Lily watched her bowl.
No one spoke.
After breakfast she washed the dishes, swept the floor, put fresh wood in the stove. Work was easier than helplessness. It gave her hands something to do besides tremble.
Nathaniel came in at midday and stopped when he saw the kitchen.
“You did all this?”
“I can manage a kitchen.”
“I didn’t ask if you could. I asked if you did.”
“Yes.”
He looked at the swept floor, the clean basin, the bread dough rising near the stove. “You don’t need to prove yourself into exhaustion.”
Her pride bristled. “I was not brought here to sit pretty.”
His eyes sharpened. “No. You were brought here because your father is a coward.”
The words landed between them like a dropped blade.
Clara could not speak.
He seemed to regret the bluntness, though not the truth. He removed his hat. “Eat more at supper. You took half a portion this morning.”