“Then give me something better.”
Samuel looked down.
Clara surprised herself.
“Promise you will not disappear.”
He went still.
She continued:
“If you decide not to return, send word.”
“Don’t let me wonder whether you’re dead in a ditch.”
Samuel studied her face.
Then nodded.
“I promise.”
Clara believed him.
She did not know why.
He touched two fingers to the brim of his hat.
Then rode away.
Clara watched until horse and rider disappeared beyond the southern ridge.
Her father spoke behind her.
“Well.”
She spun.
He stood on the porch wrapped in a blanket.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough.”
Clara groaned.
“Apparently nobody sleeps in this family anymore.”
Abraham smiled.
“He’ll come back.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know men.”
“You once bought a mule that kicked you through a fence.”
“Animal judgment is unrelated.”
Clara shook her head.
Then returned inside.
Samuel did not come back that day.
Or the next.
By the fourth morning, Clara hated herself for counting.
By the sixth, she began believing she had misunderstood him.
By the eighth, she stopped looking toward the southern ridge every time she heard hooves.
On the ninth day, a boy from town delivered a folded paper.
Miss Whitmore,
Still alive.
Business worse than expected.
Should be back within a week.
Do not pray too loudly while I’m gone.
S.C.
Clara read the last line three times.
Then smiled despite herself.
Abraham noticed.
“Bad news?”
“No.”
“Then why are you smiling at paper?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Eat your soup.”
Samuel returned eleven days later.
No dramatic approach.
No blood.
No armed men.
Just the same bay horse walking into the yard shortly before dusk.
Clara was chopping carrots.
The knife fell against the board when she heard her father call:
“Your cowboy is back.”
“He is not my cowboy.”
“Then I suppose I should send him away.”
Clara nearly ran to the door.
Stopped herself.
Walked normally.
Samuel dismounted.
His shoulder appeared better.
His coat was dusty.
He looked tired.
Alive.
Clara stood on the porch.
“You took longer than a week.”
“Four days.”
“You said within a week.”
“I was optimistic.”
“That is another word for wrong.”
Samuel smiled.
“I missed you too.”
Clara’s mouth opened.
No answer.
Abraham laughed from inside.
Samuel looked past her.
“Evening, Abraham.”
“Come in before she decides whether to hit you.”
Samuel climbed the porch.
As he passed Clara, he lowered his voice.
“Did you?”
She looked up.
“Did I what?”
“Miss me.”
Clara met his eyes.
“Yes.”
No games.
Samuel’s smile vanished.
Something warmer replaced it.
“Good.”
He entered.
That night Samuel explained more.
Not everything.
Enough.
He had been riding with a freight outfit running cattle and supplies from Wyoming into Montana.
The company owner used more than wagons.
He also moved stolen horses.
Samuel discovered it.