He paused. "She died two years back. Childbirth. Baby didn't make it either."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I loved her, but I didn't like her much toward the end. She didn't like me either, truth be told."
He stood and brushed off his pants.
"Town widows circle me now like buzzards. All performance, no help. I'm drowning in women who want to be Mrs. Morgan, but don't want to be my partner."
Clara stood too, studying him with new understanding.
"So this arrangement is practical," Jacob finished. "You need help before winter. I need meals and mending. Nobody needs to make it more complicated."
"Agreed."
They shook hands. Her grip matched his, calloused, firm, honest.
He noticed she did not look away.
"We'll start on the roof frame tomorrow," he said as he rode off.
Clara watched until the trees swallowed him. Then she turned back to her half-built cabin, something unfamiliar stirring in her chest.
Hope was dangerous. But maybe this once, it was worth the risk.
One week later, snow began to fall. Clara measured a board while Jacob sawed, their breath fogging in the cold November air.
The cabin walls were complete now, the roof frame half finished. They worked in efficient silence, a rhythm developed through days of shared labor.
"Hold this steady," Jacob said, lifting a beam.
She braced it while he hammered. Snow dusted their shoulders, melting against their necks.
"Thomas used to drink," Clara said suddenly. "Started after we lost our first baby. Got mean when he drank."
Jacob kept hammering, but he listened.
"That night he came home drunk. Started yelling about supper being cold, about me being useless. Knocked the lamp over during the fight."
She stared at the beam she was holding.
"I tried to save him. Even after everything, I tried. But the fire..."
She shook her head.
"Town decided I must have wanted him dead. Easier to blame the scarred woman than admit their church deacon beat his wife."
Jacob set down the hammer.
"My wife wanted everything I couldn't give her. Status. Excitement. I knew she was unhappy, but I kept hoping the ranch would be enough."
He looked toward the mountains.
"When she died, my first thought was, I'm free. Been hating myself for that ever since."
"Maybe God gives us what we can't keep so we learn what we actually need," Clara said quietly.
"Maybe."
Jacob picked up his hammer again.
"Or maybe God's just quieter than preachers claim."
The snow intensified suddenly, thick flakes coming harder as the wind picked up. Jacob squinted at the sky.
"We need to stop. This is turning into a blizzard."
"You should go before it gets worse."
"Too late for that."
He secured the tarp over the unfinished roof.
"I'm staying the night."
Clara's face went carefully blank.
"There's only one blanket."
"We'll manage."
By nightfall, the storm howled outside. They sat by the fire inside the half-finished cabin, canvas tarp overhead, sharing Clara's blanket around their shoulders.
They were not touching, but they were close enough to feel each other's warmth. Clara pulled a book from her pack, water-stained but intact.
"Do you read?"
"Barely," Jacob admitted. "Never had much schooling."
"I could teach you, if you want."
"I'd like that."
She opened to a marked page and began reading aloud from Homer's Odyssey, Penelope waiting for Odysseus. Her voice was soft but clear, turning ancient words into something alive.
Jacob listened like a man starving.
Somewhere around midnight, exhausted, Clara's head drooped against his shoulder. He went very still, afraid to wake her, afraid to move.