“I’m Not Pretty,” She Whispered—The Cowboy Replied, “That’s Fine… I Need Honest, Not Fancy.”
Chapter 7
The week before Christmas, Clara insisted on accompanying Jacob to town for supplies.
“I’m tired of hiding,” she said.
“Town’s not kind to you.”
“Then they can be unkind to my face.”
Elkridge was twenty miles south—a collection of wooden buildings around a church and general store. They arrived Sunday morning just as services let out.
Clara walked beside Jacob down Main Street, chin up, scar visible in cold sunlight.
Conversation stopped. Women clutched children away. Men stared with contempt or unwanted interest.
Preacher Whitmore blocked the mercantile steps, flanked by Amos Pritchard and three church elders.
“Brother Morgan.” The preacher’s voice carried, intended for the gathering crowd. “This woman is known for sin. You defile her and yourself with this arrangement.”
People gathered, forming a circle. Public judgment. Social execution.
Pritchard stepped forward, oily smile in place. “Clara, my offer stands. Honest work at my boarding house. Save both your reputations. End this… arrangement.”
The trap closed around them. Public accusation, social pressure, the weight of judgment. Jacob felt panic rise—the old instinct to avoid scandal, to protect his name.
Sarah had cared so much about appearance. He’d spent years enabling that lie.
“It’s just work,” he heard himself say. “The cabin’s nearly done.”
The words hung in frozen air.
Clara went rigid beside him.
Just work.
He’d reduced everything—the shared nights, the laughter, the trust they’d built—to labor. Made her nothing again.
“See?” Pritchard’s smile widened. “Even he knows you’re not worth defending, Clara.”
She turned and walked to the wagon without a word.
The silent ride home lasted forever.
At her cabin, she climbed down, spoke without looking at him. “Don’t come back. The cabin’s finished. Our contract’s done.”
She closed the door—the door he’d hung—in his face.
Jacob sat in the wagon, snow beginning to fall again, and understood exactly what he’d done.
He’d chosen reputation over truth, just like before.
And this time, he’d destroyed something real.