Clara sat frozen. There was a roaring in her ears. “He is.”
“Your brother,” Millicent said softly, her voice cracking, “is dead.”
“He’s coming back,” Clara whispered.
“He isn’t.” Tears trembling in her eyes, Millicent reached for Clara.
“He might.” Clara snatched her hand away. “He might,” she whispered again, fiercely, and she left before her mother could say another word, running to the heavy barn door and letting it thud closed behind her. Once she was alone in the silence, she slumped against a support beam. She bit her lip to keep from crying.
Cecelia was in the barn, and she must not cry where Cecelia might see. Never ever where Cecelia might see.
“Clara?”
Clara took a deep breath before answering. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
Clara looked around the beam. Cecelia was in the corner of the barn, sunlight glinting off her brown hair, kittens mewling softly nearby.
“Of course.” Clara smiled. “I’m just tired.”
“You and Mother were fighting,” Cecelia said in a very small voice.
“Oh, Cee.” Clara went to kneel in the straw. “It’s the same old fight. Even Solomon wanted me to marry Cyrus. Do you remember?”
“Why don’t you?” Her brown eyes were open, innocent—too unworldly for Clara to get angry.
“Why don’t you?” She reached out and tapped her sister on the nose, grinning.
“Because he’s in love with you,” Cecelia said promptly.
“Oh, that.” Clara felt her smile fade. She had no hope of explaining something she could not understand herself. “Cee...I don’t know. I don’t know why. I just can’t.”
“All right.” But Cecelia looked dubious. She looked up when Clara stood. “Where are you going?”
“To find someone to help with the harvest, remember? I might get you some candy.” Clara gave a last smile at Cecelia’s delighted shriek and made for the wagon hitch, smiling. Her mother’s disapproval was only words, she reminded herself. Nothing more. No one could force Clara to marriage—and for all Millicent’s advice, she would never try.
Clara simply wished she could come up with a reason not to marry Cyrus Dupont. Solomon had approved of him—indeed, Cyrus had been his closest friend. Before his death, Clara’s father had looked fondly on Cyrus, and Millicent carried on the tradition, often setting an extra place at the table for him. He was kind to Cecelia. Intelligent. Handsome enough. He loved her, even Clara could see that.
Love. Clara stopped, her skirts swirling around her. In the stillness of the morning, she understood at last. It was his love, of all things, that sent her running. Had Cyrus only wanted a partner in business endeavors, a woman to build a home with, Clara might have said yes. But when she looked into his eyes, she saw love, and she knew without any doubt, that she could never return it.
She was so absorbed in thought that she was nearly to the wagon hitch before she saw the man waiting there. She started, and bit back a very unladylike exclamation.
“Hello.” He was without a coat once more, but he had made an effort to comb his hair, and he had shaved. He ducked his head but did not come any closer.
“What’re you doing here?” Clara demanded without preamble, surprise making her short-tempered.
“I came to thank you,” he said awkwardly. “Miss, I don’t like taking charity, I assure you, and I know we’re...my comrade and I...”
“What?” Clara asked icily. “Confederate soldiers? Is that what you meant to say?”
“Yes.” He met her eyes without flinching. “You helped us. It was a very noble thing to do.”
Clara strongly doubted that anyone in town would agree. She stood silently, sun warming her skin. She wanted him to leave so that she might return to her work. She did not want him here, polite and earnest. She did not want to remember what she had done, and the affront to Solomon’s...
To Solomon. Solomon, who was gone. No! She refused to believe he was gone. She looked down at the ground, clenching her teeth to keep from speaking. Charming manners and a handsome face should mean nothing to her.
“Thank you,” the man said finally, when Clara did not answer him. “We’ll be on our way. We have imposed on your hospitality enough.”