“I Haven’t Seen A Woman In 10 Years” — The Mountain Man Said, Then Kissed The Bride And Married Her

Chapter 12

The summer was the first true summer either of them had known in a long time.

Silas coaxed the garden into abundance — potatoes and beans and the sourdough starter from his mother’s book, which Clara tended like a pet. She learned to salt meat, to dry herbs, to read the weather in the way the clouds piled against the ridge. She learned the name of every bird that sang in the trees around the cabin, and she taught Silas to hum along with the ones that had a tune he could follow.

The town came to them in small ways. The blacksmith’s wife arrived with a basket of strawberries and stayed for supper. The general store owner, a shy man who had once refused to sell Silas flour, came up the mountain to apologize in person and stayed two hours arguing about the price of pelts — a friendship conducted entirely in the language of trade.

And Silas, slowly, cautiously, began to come down from the mountain.

He went with her to the church social in July, stiff and silent among the crowd, his hand never far from Clara’s. He answered the questions with short, careful words, and he let the children stare at him until their mothers tugged them away. By the end of the evening, he had been talked into a game of horseshoes, and he had — Clara was proud to report — lost to a twelve-year-old girl with a mean streak and a natural gift for the game.

“He’s thawing,” the blacksmith’s wife said to Clara, watching Silas laugh at his own defeat.

“He’s home,” Clara said, and she meant it in a way that surprised her.

The letter came at the end of August, addressed in a neat, unfamiliar hand. Clara opened it standing at the porch rail, the afternoon sun golden on her shoulders, and read it twice before she understood.

Dear Mrs. Boon,

You do not know me, but I married your husband’s brother, Samuel, in the territory of Oregon twelve years ago. He spoke often of his family, especially of the brother who stayed. When word reached us of the troubles in Cedar Falls, and of how justice was finally done, I hoped this letter might find you and your husband well.

I should tell you that Samuel died three winters ago. I am alone now, with two children and a small farm that grows smaller every year. I have no family left on the coast, and I have been thinking — perhaps — of the mountains my husband loved so much, and of the brother he mourned for the rest of his life.

I would not presume to ask for anything. But if you would allow it, I would like to write to you again. It would mean a great deal to know that Samuel’s family still exists in the world.

With respect, Martha Boon

Clara pressed the letter to her chest and went to find her husband.

He read it silently, twice, and then he went very still. When he looked up, his eyes were bright with something she had never seen in them before.

“Samuel,” he said. “He always wanted to see the coast. He said the sea made a man feel small, and he liked that. He said it reminded him of the mountain.” He read the letter again. “She’s got his children. She’s got his blood and his name, and she’s alone.”

“We’ll write to her,” Clara said. “And if she needs a home, Silas — this is a big mountain. There’s room.”

He looked at her, this woman who had walked into his life with nothing and somehow given him everything, and he couldn’t find the words.

“Clara.”

“That’s all right,” she said, because she knew. “You don’t have to say it.”