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.
The front room held a stone fireplace and plain furniture, sturdy enough to outlast pride. Everything was clean, swept, arranged. The kind of clean that looked like someone had been scrubbing not for comfort but for control, as if dust might invite more loss.
Luke Mercer led her through a doorway into a large kitchen dominated by a cast-iron stove and a scarred worktable. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with dishes and dry goods and jars of preserves in neat rows. A pump rose over a deep sink. Through the east windows, Clara could see the barn, the fenced pastures, the line of cottonwoods along a shrinking creek.
“Chickens are yours to manage,” Luke said, voice flat as a recited list. “Eggs. Butchering when needed. Garden out back. Root cellar beneath the pantry. Breakfast at six, dinner at noon, supper at seven. The children eat what’s put in front of them. No complaints. No special requests.”
Clara nodded, hands folded in front of her apron like she was already trying to make herself small enough to be tolerated. “And their names?”
He paused. For the first time, something human crossed his face, a brief tightening around the eyes that looked like pain trying to decide whether it was allowed to show itself.
“Ethan’s fifteen. Lily’s twelve. The twins, Noah and Nora, nine. Maggie’s six.” His throat worked as if swallowing something sharp. “Rosie’s four.”
“I’d like to meet them.”
“They’re doing chores.” He stepped toward the door as if even that small request cost him. “Your room’s upstairs, end of the hall. Used to be the sewing room. Bed, dresser, chair. If you need anything, tell me.” He paused in the doorway, not quite looking at her. “Supper’s at seven, Mrs. Whitfield. I expect you’ll manage something tonight, even without your trunk.”
Then he was gone, boots heavy on the wooden floor, the front door shutting with a quiet finality that sounded, to Clara’s ears, too much like a coffin lid.
