“I’m Not Pretty,” She Whispered—The Cowboy Replied, “That’s Fine… I Need Honest, Not Fancy.”
Chapter 10
Late March brought the first true spring day.
Clara awoke in the finished cabin, sunlight streaming through windows Jacob had fitted perfectly. He was asleep in the chair by the banked fire—he rode home most nights, courting properly, respecting her need for time and space.
She watched him sleep. This man who’d chosen truth over ease, partnership over appearance. His face was peaceful in ways it hadn’t been last fall.
He stirred, met her eyes, smiled.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
They cooked breakfast together. Eggs from her new chickens. Bread she’d baked. Coffee he’d brought from town. Easy partnership. Comfortable silence.
Outside, the garden plot waited.
They spent the morning planting—carrots, beans, potatoes, wildflowers at the edges because Clara wanted color. Their hands worked the soil together, planning harvest, building future.
A rider approached around noon. Pritchard, hat in hand.
“Miss Brennan, Mr. Morgan.” He cleared his throat. “I came to apologize. I misjudged—”
“You didn’t misjudge,” Clara interrupted calmly. “You couldn’t see past surfaces. Simple as that.”
“I hope there’s no hard feelings.”
“There aren’t. But there’s no business either. Good day, Mr. Pritchard.”
He left, dismissed without anger, without power to hurt them anymore.
Evening came soft and golden. They sat on the porch Jacob had built—a bench, two chairs, space for living. Mountains turned purple in fading light.
“Marry me,” Jacob said quietly. “When you’re ready. Could be tomorrow. Could be years. I’m not going anywhere.”
Clara took his hand. “Ask me when the wildflowers bloom full. I want to say yes when the world’s alive again.”
“Deal.”
They sat in comfortable silence, watching the first stars appear.
The cabin stood solid behind them—every beam, every nail, every moment of shared work visible in its walls. The barn rose beside it. The garden held seeds of future harvests.
“You know,” Jacob said, “you’re beautiful.”
Clara touched her scar, smiling slightly. “I’m scarred.”
“Same thing, way I see it. Shows you fought and won.”
Night fell completely, firelight glowing warm through the cabin windows.
In the meadow, early wildflowers dotted the grass—small, determined, reaching toward spring.