The door opened before she reached the porch.
A man stepped out, tall and lean, built from sun and labor and something harsher than weather. His shirt was faded, his boots scuffed, his dark hair needed cutting, and his face looked as if it had learned not to expect softness. But it was his eyes that stopped her, gray and flat as a winter creek.
“Mrs. Whitfield.” Not a question. An identification.
“Mr. Mercer.” Clara set her carpetbag down carefully, as if sudden movements might break the air. “Clara Whitfield. The stage—”
“You’re here.” His gaze flicked past her toward the road, then back. “That all you brought?”
“I have a trunk. The driver left it at the crossroads.”
Something tightened near his mouth. Annoyance, maybe, or fatigue that had stopped bothering to disguise itself. “I’ll fetch it before supper. Come inside. I’ll show you the kitchen.”
He turned as if the conversation had already reached its maximum allowable length. Clara followed him into the dim interior, and the first thing she noticed was not what was present, but what was missing. No laughter. No running feet overhead. No argument drifting down the stairs. No life.
