Page 29 of Mail-Order Lady

She did look up then.

The faint moonlight wasn’t enough to read her face by, but he could see the outline of her cheek and the small movement of her throat as she swallowed.

“I haven’t really thanked you,” she said quietly. “Not properly. Not since the fever.”

The tightness in his chest moved to his throat.

She didn’t owe him thanks. Whatever he’d done, he’d done because he wanted to. He’d done it because she mattered to him.

He couldn’t say that though. Could he?

“You don’t owe me thanks.” He chose the words carefully. “I’d have done it for any of the family.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted them back. The family?

As though she were just the same as Rose or Kate or Mandie. As though the last months of his life, he’d not been fighting to keep from falling further and further in love with Clara McKinney.

She nodded once. Looked back down at the plate. Resumed her slow, careful drying, though surely not a drop remained anywhere on the tin.

“Of course.” Her voice was even. “I know.”

He’d done it again. How was he so clumsy with words around this woman? She had reached toward him with the only thing she had to offer, plain gratitude, and he had taken it neatly and folded it back into the practical arrangement they had both agreed to.

He scooped up the pot and rinsed it again, though he didn’t need to.

“Clara.” He kept his eyes on the water.

“Yes?”

“That came out wrong.”

She didn’t answer.

He dumped the water out of the pot and set it on the bank. Wiped his hands on his trousers. Made himself look at her.

“You’re not any of the family.” His voice sounded steadier than he felt. “You’re⁠—”

He almost said my wife.

The statement sat in his mouth and refused to move past his teeth, because, while their agreement allowed him to say it, he had no right to say those words the way he wanted.

He swallowed it back and tried for something else. He needed to be honest with her. Not fully honest, but at least let her know that she mattered to him.

He ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth to gather moisture. “You’re…different. You’re…important to me.”

She went still, the cloth resting against the plate without moving. But with the shadows covering her eyes, he couldn’t even tell if she was looking at him, much less read her expression.

Had he said too much? Not enough? If he’d somehow insulted her again, would he even know?

“Thank you.” Her words came so soft, he almost missed them. And did she mean she understood what he was trying to say? Or simply that she wanted to end the conversation?

Maybe he should accomplish the latter. Stop before he insulted or confused her any further.

He gathered the pot and the plates and stood.

Clara rose beside him, and they walked back up the bank without speaking. The fire had burned lower, down to a steady orange that threw more heat than light now. He added two sticks from the pile, and the flames caught and brightened.

“I’ll say goodnight then.” Clara’s voice had gone back to that careful register—the pleasant tone that gave nothing away. “Thank you for—” She stopped. The corner of her mouth lifted, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “For helping clean the dishes.”