Clara’s cheeks warmed.
“More than that.”
Samuel kissed the side of her neck.
She forgot the cabbage.
He knew.
“That?”
“Possibly.”
He kissed her again.
Clara gripped his fur vest.
“Samuel.”
“Yes?”
“Supper.”
“Again?”
“You nearly ruined it last time.”
“Worth remembering.”
She laughed.
Their marriage changed after the land dispute.
Not in affection.
In possibility.
The north ridge contained timber.
Enough to sell carefully without stripping the mountain.
Clara refused clear-cutting offers.
Instead they contracted selective harvest.
Samuel handled crews.
Clara handled accounts.
He hated paperwork.
She enjoyed watching him suffer.
One evening he stared at a ledger for nearly an hour.
“Numbers should not have this many numbers.”
Clara looked over.
“That sentence explains our financial arrangement.”
Samuel frowned.
“You think you’re funny.”
“I have evidence.”
They invested part of the timber income in livestock.
Part in improving the road.
Part Clara kept untouched.
Her money.
Samuel agreed before she asked.
Another thing she noticed.
Independence did not offend him.
It relieved him.
“I don’t want you trapped,” he once said.
Clara looked toward him.
“By you?”
“Especially me.”
That answer stayed.
Their physical relationship remained warm.
Playful.
Intense.
Clara had never expected desire to survive ordinary domestic life.
She thought marriages became chores with a bed attached.
Samuel disagreed by example.
He flirted while hauling wood.
Touched her waist while passing behind.
Watched her dress.
Occasionally made comments inappropriate enough that Clara threw towels.
One winter night, years after the cabbage mystery, she stood at the stove wearing a plain blue dress.
Samuel came behind.
His hands rested around her.
Clara smiled.
“Food.”
“I know.”
“You always become interested when I’m cooking.”
“Firelight.”
“Excuse.”
“Apron.”
She laughed.
Samuel lowered his voice.
“Woman.”
Clara turned.
“What about her?”
He looked at her body with open appreciation.
“Everything.”
She softened.
That simple.
No apology.
No qualification.
Everything.
They had no children.
Not from choice initially.
Then years passed.
It simply did not happen.
Clara grieved privately at first.
Samuel noticed.
He always noticed.
One evening she said:
“I’m sorry.”
He looked confused.
“For?”
“You wanted children.”
Samuel sat beside her.
“I wanted a life with you.”
“That could have included children.”
“Yes.”
“It didn’t.”
He took her hand.
“That sentence has two parts.”
Clara frowned.
Samuel continued:
“The part that didn’t happen.”
“And the part that did.”
He gestured around.
Cabin.
Land.
Their lives.
“I refuse to call this the lesser part.”
Clara cried.