She Wrote Letters for Every Lonely Man in Town—Then a Rancher Asked for One Addressed to Her
Chapter 12
The journey east took eleven days.
They traveled by wagon where roads allowed and horseback where they did not.
At night they stayed in inns or slept beneath trees.
For the first time, Clara saw Thomas away from Bellmere.
He talked more.
Not much.
But enough.
He told her about his mother.
About his first horse.
About the winter his father nearly lost the ranch.
About the night he decided he would never marry.
Clara laughed.
“You seem to have broken that promise.”
“I met you.”
“That was unfortunate.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
One evening, beneath a sky filled with stars, Clara asked, “What did you imagine marriage would be?”
Thomas stirred the fire.
“Quiet.”
“Only quiet?”
“And honest.”
She looked at him.
“Would you want children?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
He considered.
“Three.”
“Three?”
“Yes.”
“Why three?”
“My mother had three children.”
Clara smiled.
“And if they are girls?”
“All three.”
“If boys?”
“All three.”
She laughed.
“You have no preference?”
“I have one.”
“What?”
“That they become nothing like me.”
She laughed harder.
Thomas smiled.
Then his expression became serious.
“What about you?”
Clara looked into the fire.
“I never imagined marriage.”
“Why?”
“Because I watched my mother disappear into my father’s worries.”
Thomas listened.
“I thought love meant becoming smaller so someone else could remain large.”
He reached across the fire.
“That isn’t what I want.”
“I know.”
He took her hand.
“You don’t have to become smaller.”
Clara squeezed his fingers.
“And you don’t have to become louder.”
He smiled.
“I’ll try.”
That night, she fell asleep beside him.
For the first time in years, she dreamed without fear.
