“Yes,” she said, the pink in her cheeks deepening to a red.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“About . . . children?”
She couldn’t meet his eye when she said the word, which was a good thing because he was sure he looked as scared as a newborn foal.
“No, about the house.” He stood and put his hands on his hips before dropping them to his sides. How was it so hard to figure out what to do with his hands?
“I, oh, um . . .” She smiled nervously. “I love it. The house. It will be beautiful, I can tell.”
Roman couldn’t keep the grin from his face. “Thank you.” He paused a moment. “I’m glad you like it.”
She pressed a hand to one of the wooden posts. “Are you building this yourself, Mr. Carlisle?”
“I am. Please call me Roman.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he wondered if he should have spoken them. Was it too soon? But if they were getting to know each other for a potential marriage, it seemed ridiculous to go on being so formal.
“All right,” she said quietly, her mouth turning up at the corners. “You may call me Clara.”
“Clara,” he repeated. Clara, clear as the sky. It fit her perfectly, he decided, particularly as she stood in the unfinished house with morning sunlight streaming through the wooden beams. It illuminated her hair and made her dress look as if it were made from the sky itself.
She made him forget everything he’d rather not think about, from the missing horse to whether he was even worth her attention.
When Clara smiled at him, anything seemed possible.
Chapter Eight
THE NEXT MORNING, CLARAleft the boardinghouse early, an hour before Roman was to come get her. Her excitement had gotten the best of her yesterday, and so she’d gone to the livery early before spending a pleasant day assisting the customers. Roman hadn’t seemed to mind her early arrival, but considering he told her again that he’d come escort her this morning, she figured she ought to let him.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t pay a visit to the mercantile before he arrived. Miss Darby had been so kind to her since her arrival that Clara wanted to return the favor. She hoped she might find an inexpensive little trinket or something that might convey her gratitude. She dressed, ate a quick breakfast, and then made her way outside.
Clouds threatened from beyond the mountains, lending an even starker contrast to the bright green of the aspens and cottonwoods and the dark blue of the peaks. It made for such a pretty picture that Clara had a hard time drawing her gaze away and back toward the road.
The mercantile was toward the middle of town and on the opposite side of the railroad tracks. Clara picked her way across the road and the tracks, careful to avoid the manure left behind by the horses but was grateful that it hadn’t rained. On her walk with Roman yesterday—it was still so strange to think of him as Roman—she’d noticed the beginnings of a board sidewalk near the depot and across the tracks by the mercantile itself. A sidewalk would make walking about town much easier, although it didn’t solve the problem of crossing the road after rain. And for that, Clara was thankful that her shoes were old and sturdy, and nothing she’d need fear ruining with a bit of mud.
She made her way past rough-looking men and a handful of well-dressed gentlemen. She passed only a couple of ladies, both wearing the dove-gray dresses that Roman had told her were the uniforms of the waitresses at the hotel’s restaurant. There were certainly more men in this town than women, which was somewhat disconcerting, but, she supposed, not unexpected.
