“That night,” Clara continued, staring at the beam, “he came home drunk. Started yelling about supper being cold. About me being useless.”
Her voice tightened.
“Knocked the lamp over during the fight.”
She swallowed.
“I tried to save him. Even after everything, I tried.”
She shook her head once, like she was shaking off ash.
“Town decided I must have wanted him dead. Easier to blame the scarred woman than admit their church deacon beat his wife.”
Jacob set his hammer down.
He didn’t speak for a moment.
Then he said quietly, “My wife wanted everything I couldn’t give her. Status. Excitement.”
He looked out at the mountains.
“I knew she was unhappy. I kept hoping the ranch would be enough.”
He exhaled, and the words came out like confession.
“When she died, my first thought was… I’m free.”
Clara went still.
Jacob’s jaw clenched.
“Been hating myself for that ever since.”
Clara’s voice came softer.
“Maybe God gives us what we can’t keep,” she said, “so we learn what we actually need.”
Jacob picked up his hammer again.
“Maybe,” he allowed.
Then, after a beat, “Or maybe God’s just quieter than preachers claim.”
Snow intensified suddenly. Thick flakes. Wind picking up.
Jacob squinted at the sky.
“We need to stop,” he said. “This is turning into a blizzard.”
Clara’s face went carefully blank.
“You should go before it gets worse.”
Jacob secured the tarp over the unfinished roof.
“Too late for that,” he said. “I’m staying the night.”
Clara swallowed.
“There’s only one blanket.”
Jacob glanced at the storm and shrugged like survival didn’t care about awkwardness.
“We’ll manage.”
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