It was the fact that she hadn’t come here by accident.
Garrett lifted her carpetbag as though it weighed nothing. “Ruth’s inside. She’ll feed you before you collapse.”
“Ruth?” Clara repeated, grateful for something ordinary to anchor to.
“She keeps us civilized,” Wyatt said from behind Garrett, his tone gentle. He stepped forward, offering his hand as if Clara were crossing into a new country and needed a guide. “I’m Wyatt.”
Blake’s boots thudded on the porch steps. “And I’m Blake,” he said. No hand offered. No smile. Just truth.
Clara nodded, forcing steadiness into her breathing. “Clara.”
The name seemed to hang there, bright and fragile, between three men who looked like they’d never been fragile a day in their lives.
Garrett turned toward the house. “Come on.”
As Clara crossed the threshold, she felt it: a subtle shift, as if the air itself decided she belonged inside more than outside. The parlor glowed with lamplight, and the scent of stew and bread curled around her like a warm hand. There were books lining one wall. Not one shelf, but shelves. A whole stubborn library in a land that seemed made for wind and cattle and silence.
Then Ruth Brennan appeared, wiping her hands on her apron, gray hair pinned tight, eyes sharp.
