“Half inch then.”
Clara lowered.
The beam dropped cleanly into the notch.
She stared.
Amos looked up.
“Told you.”
Clara smiled.
“Do not ruin this by being pleased with yourself.”
“Too late.”
She laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
From then on, Amos began appearing more often.
Never daily.
Never predictably.
Sometimes carrying nails Clara had not asked for.
Sometimes merely riding past.
Once he left venison on a stump.
Clara found it after he was gone.
She rode north the next morning to return half.
Amos stood outside his barn when she arrived.
“You didn’t need to do that.”
Clara dismounted carefully.
“Neither did you.”
He accepted the meat.
Fair.
That evening, Amos rode south again with a sack of flour.
Clara stared.
“What now?”
“Trade.”
“For?”
“Half the venison.”
“That is not equal.”
“No?”
“No.”
Amos thought.
“Then give me coffee when your cabin is done.”
“I still have no coffee.”
“Then I’ll bring that too.”
Clara looked at him.
“You are very bad at trade.”
“Maybe.”
The baby shifted.
Clara winced.
Amos immediately noticed.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
She gave him a look.
Amos raised both hands.
“I’m leaving.”
Clara almost smiled.
The cabin was finished on day fifty-one.
Not polished.
Not beautiful.
But square.
Dry.
Door hung correctly.
Stone chimney.
Two windows.
Bed platform.
Small loft.
The first night inside, Clara sat on the floor because the chair had not been built yet.
She placed one hand against a wall.
The logs were rough beneath her palm.
Henry had designed hundreds of things in his life.
Clara had assisted.
This was different.
She built this.
Not alone.
Amos and his men helped.
But every measurement.
Every joint.
Every choice.
Hers.
Clara cried for the first time since Henry’s funeral.
Not from sadness.
From the enormous relief of discovering grief had not made her useless.
Three days later, a storm came out of nowhere.
The sky blackened before sunset.
Wind struck from the west.
Clara was inside when the first shingle ripped away.
She heard it.
Then another.
“No.”
Rain began.
She grabbed spare shingles and hammer.
The ladder leaned against the western wall.
Wind nearly knocked her down before she reached it.
Clara climbed.
One rung.
Two.
Three.
Rain soaked her hair.
Her hands slipped.
A gust hit.
The ladder shifted.
Clara fell.
Mud struck first.
Then pain.
She landed hard on hands and knees.
For one terrible second she felt nothing inside her belly.
Clara froze.
“No.”
She placed both hands around the enormous curve of her stomach.
“Please.”