“I heard you praying.”
Clara looked toward the ground.
Then toward the mountains.
Then anywhere except him.
“Oh God.”
Samuel almost smiled.
“That was included.”
Her eyes snapped toward him.
“You heard everything?”
“Yes.”
Her cheeks reddened.
Even in the cold.
“Every word?”
“Most.”
“Samuel Carter.”
He raised one hand.
“Before you decide whether to kill me, understand I was trying not to embarrass you.”
“You were awake while I sat beside you?”
“Yes.”
“While I held your hand?”
Samuel hesitated.
“Yes.”
Clara covered her face.
He could not help it.
He laughed softly.
Her hands dropped.
“You find this amusing?”
“No.”
“You are smiling.”
“That’s different.”
“It isn’t.”
Samuel stepped closer.
His expression became serious.
“Clara.”
She looked at him.
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“Good.”
“I’ve heard crueler things than anything you said.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
He took another step.
The distance between them narrowed.
Clara became aware of his height.
His body.
His unbuttoned coat.
The bandage showing beneath the open collar.
Samuel’s voice softened.
“No one has said anything like that about me in a long time.”
Clara swallowed.
“I was talking to God.”
“I know.”
“You were not invited.”
“I know.”
“You should have said something.”
Samuel nodded.
“Probably.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He looked toward the mountains.
Then back.
“Because I wanted to hear the rest.”
Clara stared.
That answer disarmed her.
Samuel continued.
“I was going to ride south this morning.”
“I have business.”
“People following me.”
Clara’s expression sharpened.
“The men who shot you?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t mention that.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I bandaged a bullet wound.”
“I thought the circumstances were implied.”
Clara folded her arms.
“Who are they?”
Samuel looked toward her father’s cabin window.
“Not something you want near this place.”
“So you’re leaving to protect us.”
“Yes.”
Clara hated how relieved and disappointed that made her simultaneously.
Samuel reached toward the saddle.
Then stopped.
“I’m still leaving.”
“But I’m coming back.”
She stared.
“What?”
“I said I’m coming back.”
“Why?”
Samuel looked at her in a way no man had before.
Not politely.
Not gratefully.
Not as Abraham Whitmore’s dutiful daughter.
As a woman.
Heat rose slowly beneath Clara’s skin.
Samuel said:
“Because you prayed for a man who had nowhere to go.”
His voice lowered.
“And I’m curious what happens if he decides he does.”
Clara forgot what response belonged there.
Samuel mounted with difficulty.
She stepped closer.
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is a poor promise.”
“It’s the best I can give today.”