Jacob came back the next afternoon and found her crouched by the fire, boiling coffee in a dented pot.
He didn’t know why that detail mattered—maybe because coffee meant she still believed tomorrow existed.
Her tools were laid out neat. Hammer, nails sorted, lumber stacked with care. Everything about the place said she planned. She thought ahead. She was building a life with nothing but muscle and will.
“You do good work,” Jacob said.
Clara didn’t look up.
“Taught myself.”
She handed him a tin cup.
Jacob drank the coffee the way cowboys do—hot, bitter, no complaining.
“Town’s got a lot of widows,” he said. “Why buy land out here alone?”
Clara’s jaw tightened.
