“Of course, dinner would be late,” she said.
“I won’t starve.”
Grace turned again to the sun. “And this jaunt won’t put you behind in your work?”
Clayton slung his canteen over his shoulder. “Let me be clear. I’m throwing off the yoke. If you come, I don’t want no gabbing about my work. You’ll be my guest, and I expect you to behave.”
Grace’s eyebrow arched. “You’re telling me how to behave?” A grin danced on her lips. “Very well. Will you wait while I fetch my bonnet?”
Clayton nodded before remembering to answer aloud. She strode off, confident on the smooth stones they’d placed to direct her to the house, so far from the uncertainty that’d plagued her when he’d arrived.
His chest stretched. He’d done that. He’d helped her regain her assurance. Every day she more resembled the woman she was born to be.
What would he think of her if they’d met under different circumstances? Certainly she wouldn’t have been so demanding on a man she only knew socially. On the other hand, neither would she have been so transparent. As her help, Clayton saw both sides of her—the determined worker who expected excellence from herself and those around her, and the scared girl who worried she was inadequate to the challenges ahead. Knowledge of her fear gave him more sympathy for her demands. Although he didn’t feel guilty taking her down a peg when necessary.
She stopped before him, still tying her bonnet strings.
“It’s remarkable how you know where I am.” Clayton took her arm and directed her away from the barnyard. “Do I need a bath?”
She laughed. “No, but you’re not far from the truth. You do have a scent . . . a warmth . . . and when I get close enough, it’s like I’ve stepped into your presence. I feel it.”
Clayton almost stumbled. His temperature rose a few degrees.
“And it helps that I can usually spot something as big as you in broad daylight,” she said.
Had she been pulling his leg with all that “presence” talk? He braved a glance, something he was doing more frequently, and saw her eyes crinkling at their corners.
He blew out the breath he’d been holding. “Has your sight improved?”
“It’s worse, as if I’m inside a drawstring bag and the strings are being pulled tighter and tighter. Soon that little bag will seal up, and I’ll be left with only memories.”
The vibrantly striped walls of the canyon jutted above the rolling fields, their orange, white, and red bands contrasting against the short evergreens dotting the view. She would lose this—had already lost it. Her world consisted of less than he could see through a buttonhole. He couldn’t imagine how she could continue. What would her future bring? Who would care for her after he’d gone?
Why was he leaving anyway?
Clayton would’ve never presumed to court Grace. A woman as beautiful as she with a homestead of her own wouldn’t have any use for him. But after hearing her plans, or lack of, he couldn’t help but wonder. If she would settle for a man she didn’t know, why not him?
“Are you dead set on marrying a stranger?”
Her lashes fluttered. “I’m giving it some thought.”
“But to never see him? He could be an old goat.”
“How old are you?” she asked.
Clayton blinked. “Twenty-three.” He took four steps before getting the courage to ask why.
Grace dipped her head. “That’s barely older than me. I wondered if you were hiding something.”
Of course he was. His arm stiffened. He’d say something fast before she noticed.
“Were you looking for a husband before?”
Grace leaned more heavily against him as the ground rose beneath their feet. “I took my first teaching position when I was fifteen years old. It gave me freedom from my brother—what I most desired. I always assumed I’d marry someday, but I had no urgency about it. Catching a man’s eye didn’t seem too difficult, so I thought I’d wait until teaching no longer interested me.” She ran a finger beneath her bonnet string and swallowed. “You think I only want a husband so I’ll have someone to work for me, but that’s not true. I might be demanding, but I want to be loved, too. I want someone to think I’m special.”
Clayton’s boots felt like he was wading through quicksand, but he’d plod along no matter how deep he got. “And how will you know if someone loves you?”
She drew in a long breath. “If he can put up with my sharp tongue, that’ll be a good start.”
“So you’ve no plans to soften your tone?”
She stopped. “My natural personality is imperative.”
“I don’t understand those twenty-cent words. Does that mean the same thing as bossy?”
Her lips pursed. “So a woman isn’t allowed to make suggestions?”
“Certainly, if she’s paying for help. But if she keeps up that overbearing attitude, well, most men would rather risk their necks in a juvenile land run.”
Grace’s head dropped. She resumed her walk. “Point taken. I must remember that the fragile male ego—”
“Careful now . . .”
She patted his arm. “You see, Mr. Weber, I am a teacher, but I’m also a student. I love to learn, even when the truth is painful. Thank you for caring enough to speak plainly.”
“Why did you call me Mr. Weber? What happened to Clayton?”
“You said I wasn’t your employer during our excursion. The proper forms should be observed.”
“As you wish, Grace.”
She pressed her hand to her mouth but was too late to hide her smile. “Very well, Clayton. Would you mind telling me where we are?”
Safe ground.
“We’re coming up to a canyon wall. I thought we’d find some shade now that the sun’s being rude. That and I’d like to get a closer look at the layers of colors. I’ve never seen such fancy dirt and rock.” He did his best to describe it to her, but she seemed preoccupied.
“Meeting a woman while working cattle must be difficult,” she said at last. “It’s no wonder you haven’t married.”
He gritted his teeth. “I’ve done the trails and worked odd jobs here and there, but I need a place to put a family before I can go about getting one. As soon as your windmill is finished—”
“You promised no talk of chores.” She smiled. “Now, surely, you’ve had a sweetheart. Maybe a childhood friend?”
He used to tease the girls. That was before.
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”
Her cheeks pinked. Her fingers extended their full length before settling against his arm again. “Do you have the tools you need to fix the windmill?”
Grace prided herself on controlling her realm. Now that she had the inside of her homestead organized she walked taller, and soon she’d be familiar with the barn and garden. But out here on the tableland . . . out here she was at Clayton’s mercy, and being under his protection wasn’t nearly as distasteful as she’d feared.
They lingered in the shadows of the canyon wall while the afternoon sun baked the earth. Clayton dozed in the grass while she walked her fingers over the cool rock wall, memorizing the texture. Grace had heard of Monsieur Braille’s innovative coding for the blind even before she’d been stricken, but she’d be lucky to ever hold one of Braille’s books. Not many would pass through Dry Gulch. Still, she imagined reading through touch, pretending that the uneven wall held messages invisible to the sighted yet detectable by her. Had God carved a message for her here? What would it say?
He would tell her something about being healed in heaven, promising her that she would see her Savior’s face through unclouded eyes. And until that day, God no doubt wanted her to know that He saw her, loved her, and wouldn’t abandon her. Even though she couldn’t see, His words would light her path so that she would have nothing to fear.
The rock crumbled beneath her fingers, dashing chips around her feet. She believed, even if she needed continual reminders. Her fear wasn’t a foe easily
vanquished, and as long as she still had light, she hadn’t faced the worst. As long as Clayton was with her, she hadn’t had to fight alone. But he wouldn’t be here long.
On the way home, neither of them spoke much. When possible, Grace followed a few steps behind. She needed the space, for Clayton’s presence disrupted her thoughts.
She smelled the sow first, and then the smoke from her cookstove.
“I want to cook tonight,” Clayton said above the wind chimes.
“Are you tired of my cooking?” Grace reached for the door, but Clayton swung it open for her and ushered her inside with a hand at her back. Benny rushed out, scampering around Grace’s ankles.
“Maybe I need the practice more than you do.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that they were home and once again she was in charge, but she wasn’t ready to resume command. Not when he carried it so well.
No longer needing to count her steps, she hung her bonnet on its peg. The pump groaned, and water gushed into the basin.
“Your turn.” Clayton handed her a towel.
While she washed her hands and face, he poked at the fire until it crackled, and soon the ham was sizzling in the skillet. Grace’s stomach grumbled, so she pinched a piece of corn bread from Emilie’s tin.
“I saw that.” Clayton slid the bread away from her.
Grace popped the stolen bit in her mouth and sat at the table. “I wish my rolls would’ve taken. They’d go perfectly with that delicious ham.”
“Stop your bellyaching,” he said, but there was a smile in his voice. The table groaned under the weight of the iron skillet. The heat rolled over her face like the ripples of a sun-warmed stream. A plate slid to her.
Grace skimmed her hand over the table until she found a knife and fork. After a few empty jabs, she laid her knife aside and located the food with her fingers.
“Here. Let me cut it.” Clayton tugged at the plate.
“No.” She caught his hand. “I need to do it myself. You won’t always be here.”
Or would he? The room grew quiet. Clayton didn’t release her plate, but neither had she released his hand. Grace had spent the day on his arm, but touching his skin, the cords spanning from his wrist to his sturdy knuckles, sent heat through her. At times Clayton seemed little more than a voice to her, but he was real—sitting in her kitchen, seeing her, seeing how she kept house, how she walked, what she did with her face. While she knew very little of him physically, her appearance was no doubt familiar to him. For all she knew, he was watching her now. She glided her thumb along the side of his finger and noticed his callouses. His breathing grew slow and deliberate. Yes, he most certainly was watching her and waiting for her to explain herself.
“I’m sorry.” She left her hand resting atop his. “I’ve gotten into the habit of touching when I’m . . . curious about something.”
She lifted her hand and found her knife, but instead of using a fork, she held the ham steady with her left hand while she cut. Her trembling increased the difficulty of the task. Why was he so quiet? Shouldn’t he be eating? She wished he’d wear a blindfold so they’d be on even footing.
“What were you curious about?” he rasped.
“Nothing.” She took a bite of ham and prayed he’d not ask again.
His utensils clicked against his plate. “Do you want to know what I’m thinking?”
Grace’s throat tightened. She reached for her drink, but it wasn’t where she’d expected.
Clayton touched her wrist and slid the cool mug into her hand before speaking. “I’m wondering how you could trust a person you’ve never seen. I can’t imagine talking to someone without knowing how they were listening. Not being able to see if they were leaning forward, watching each word leave your lips. Not knowing if they were watching you as you crossed a room. You wouldn’t realize how much their happiness depended on you. You might completely miss their interest.”
Grace straightened. What had she missed? Was he flirting with her? He sounded too serious to be teasing. The corn bread crumbled in her hand. “Since losing my sight, I haven’t been exposed to much socializing, but if such looks were going unnoticed, I’d hope you’d inform me.”
They ate in silence, although Grace was now crackling with curiosity. What had he meant? If only she could watch him as closely as she felt him watching her.
“Would you truly place an advertisement for a husband?” he asked finally.
Grace ducked her head. “What choice do I have? Without someone to help me, my life will be so limited. I can’t go anywhere. I can’t read anything. I wouldn’t be helping anyone, just be a burden to tend, and so much of life would go unexperienced.”
His fork clunked against the table.
“Are you finished?” Grace asked.
Clayton grunted.
Although she knew he was studying her, she slipped her apron on and carried the dishes to the basin. A quick sweep of his plate let her know that he’d left a rind for Benny. She tossed it in the pup’s direction and filled the basin with water.
His footsteps sounded behind her. “What exactly are you afraid of missing?”
Clayton had plenty of fears of his own. Fears of being accused. Fears of being judged. Mostly he tried to avoid new experiences, not search them out. But Grace was adventurous. As poor a hand as she’d been dealt, she still wanted to play again.
She remained bent over the basin, her heavy black hair caught in a twist at the nape of her neck, her apron strings tied in a pretty bow at her slender waist.
“I want a family,” she said. “I spent years taking care of everyone else’s children and have never had my own to dote on. While a teacher, I lived in house after house. I’d like to choose my own meals and arrange furniture that I selected. I’d like to make a home for myself . . . and to share.”
“Oh.” He had dreams of his own homestead, so he could understand. “If that’s all—”
“All?” She turned to face him, her skirt squashed by the cabinet behind her. “Clayton, not only do I want those things, I’ll probably never have them. How am I going to meet a man living out here? Who is going to court me? Who would marry me now? I fancy myself educated, yet my education is sorely lacking. I’ve never even been kissed.”
Times like this made him grateful she couldn’t see him. “It’s nothing,” he stammered. “A bunch of foolishness over nothing.”
She chewed her bottom lip and, having reached a decision, nodded. “Then you wouldn’t mind showing me? It could be a sort of scholarly exercise, just to see what all the fuss is about.”
His stomach dropped. Oh, he’d asked for this, him with all his sweet talk. He should’ve known she’d demand action, but how could he refuse? “I’m telling you, don’t expect too much.”
She squared her shoulders to his voice and backed even more firmly against the countertop behind her. There were hundreds of reasons this was a bad idea, but not one of them could stop him. Clayton clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward. He aimed carefully, but hearing his approach, she moved, causing him to brush the side of her mouth.
Her eyebrows drew together.
“That was your own fault,” he said. “You moved.”
Again he leaned in.
“I’m sorry,” she said just as his mouth glanced off of hers. Another failed attempt.
“Listen, woman. You can’t be jumping all around like that.” He placed his hand on her cheek. “Be quiet . . . be still . . . and . . .”
There’d be no missing this time. Her lips rose and waited just beneath his. He brushed against them, and then once more just to make sure the job was done correctly. She gasped and because he didn’t want to hear her criticism, he kissed her again—this time more deeply. Her lips softened beneath his in a most curious fashion. His hands found their way to her shoulders, slid around her back, and pulled her close, amazed at the way her body shaped to his own. He hadn’t realized it, but there was more kissing to be done. There we
re different kisses, tastes, depths—and he wanted to try them all. Immediately. With Grace. His heart thudded against his ribs. His core burned. He realized he was devouring her, but he couldn’t stop. Not as long as she was so compliant, so willing.
He had to breathe, but he didn’t go far. His mouth found her cheek, her neck. What had come over him? She wasn’t a piece of cobbler to be nibbled on.
With a grunt he sprang from her. She clutched at the countertop with iron fingers, obviously outraged.
“My stars!” she exclaimed. “It can’t always be that way.”
He was gasping air as he croaked, “What way?”
“So . . . so wonderful! Is it like that every time?”
His chest filled at the sight of her—eyes half closed, mouth ripe and inviting. No, he couldn’t do it again or there’d be no telling what would happen.
“How would I know? I’ve never kissed a woman before.”
Grace’s jaw dropped. “But . . . but you acted like you had. You said it was a bunch of foolishness.”
He shoved his chair beneath the table, scooting it a full foot. “Evidently I was wrong.” And he stomped outside.
Chapter 7
All evening Grace had dreaded her next meeting with Clayton—the awkwardness, the disbelief of what had transpired between them—but by morning she couldn’t wait for him to come to her. She’d relived the kiss half the night, her heart fluttering every time. Had Clayton stopped the first or the second time, she’d still be addled, but then he’d jumped the moon, and now Grace feared her knees would buckle at the sound of his steps on the threshold.
But he hadn’t stepped on the threshold. The bright glow in the window told her that it was past breakfast. Emilie would be by soon. Grace turned the lid on the canned pears and returned them to the pantry.
What was Clayton thinking this morning? Had he stopped to consider that her homestead could be nicer than any he might find in the Cherokee Strip? Did he remember that she’d originally thought he was answering an ad for a husband? At this point Grace was nearly ready to ask him point-blank.
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