“I heard he died.”
“So has half the territory.”
He accepted the rebuke.
“I’m Amos Caldwell.”
Clara knew the name.
Caldwell Ranch bordered her north line.
Six hundred acres.
Cattle.
Three hired hands.
Enough money that he probably never counted beans before cooking them.
Clara said:
“I know.”
Amos looked at the cabin site.
“You chose this?”
“Yes.”
“Good drainage.”
“I know.”
That made one corner of his mouth move.
His gaze shifted toward the pine Clara had notched.
“You’re dropping that toward the east?”
“Yes.”
“Wind’s west today.”
“I noticed.”
Silence.
Clara expected the usual advice.
You should stop.
You need a man.
This is dangerous.
Instead Amos nodded.
“That’s clean work.”
Clara’s grip on the rifle loosened slightly.
He turned his horse.
Then stopped.
“When you reach the wall plates, don’t try lifting them alone.”
Clara’s expression hardened.
“There it is.”
Amos looked back.
“There what is?”
“The part where you explain what I can’t do.”
He studied her.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“The part where I tell you I own two block-and-tackle sets and three men who owe me favors.”
Clara stared.
Amos continued:
“Use them or don’t.”
“Your land.”
“Your cabin.”
Then he rode away.
Clara watched him disappear.
She disliked that he had not given her enough arrogance to hate properly.
The first week was brutal.
Clara woke before sunrise.
Made coffee.
Ate oats.
Worked until the sun stood overhead.
Rested when the baby forced her to.
Then worked again.
The blisters on her palms opened.
She wrapped them.
Her dress ripped at one shoulder.
She stitched it.
The first corner notch failed.
The second too.
The third fit.
Clara sat beside it for nearly ten minutes staring.
One log.
Then another.
The cabin grew.
The south wall rose to Clara’s waist.
The west slightly lower.
Each log had to be rolled.
Levered.
Aligned.
Clara used ramps Henry had described.
She made wooden skids.
Used rope.
Built simple fulcrums.
People later told the story as if she simply lifted enormous logs through strength.
She did not.
She understood leverage.
That was more useful.
On the eleventh morning, Amos returned.
This time he did not arrive alone.
Two riders followed.
One older, one barely eighteen.
Amos dismounted.
Clara continued trimming bark from a log.
“What?”
“Wall plates.”
She looked up.
“Not yet.”
“Tomorrow.”
Clara stared at him.
“You’ve been watching?”
“Hard to miss a cabin appearing where forest was.”
The older ranch hand grinned.
Amos gestured.
“Jesse.”
The older man nodded.
“Tommy.”
The younger did too.
Clara looked between them.
“What do you want?”
Amos answered: