## PART 2 FULL — The Woman Who Chose the Giant

## Part 2 — The Woman Who Chose the Giant

## Part 2 — The Woman Who Chose the Giant

For several seconds, Ethan Cole forgot there was a storm.

Forgot the snow blowing sideways through the street.

Forgot the stagecoach driver wrestling with luggage, the horses stamping impatiently, and the dozen townspeople pretending not to stare.

All Ethan could feel was the folded paper resting in his palm.

His own letter.

The one he had written months ago at the kitchen table with a lamp burning low beside him and an untouched second cup sitting across from his chair.

He looked from the letter to Claire.

“Marry you?”

His voice came out lower than he intended.

Claire’s mouth curved slightly.

“That is what I said.”

A laugh broke from somewhere near the hotel porch.

Ethan’s head turned.

The sound died immediately.

Claire noticed.

“You frighten people without doing anything.”

“I know.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Used to.”

“And now?”

Ethan pulled his glove back on.

“Now I’ve got cattle that care less about my face.”

That made her laugh.

Not nervously.

Not politely.

She actually laughed.

Ethan stared at her.

It had been years since a woman had looked at him and laughed without cruelty hiding somewhere behind it.

Claire tightened her coat around herself as another hard gust crossed the street.

Ethan glanced toward the darkening sky.

“This isn’t a place to discuss marriage.”

“Do you know a better one?”

“My ranch.”

The words were out before he considered how they might sound.

A woman who had met him less than five minutes ago.

A ranch miles outside town.

Night approaching.

Claire raised one eyebrow.

Ethan immediately added, “There are spare rooms.”

“I assumed there were.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what?”

“Assume things about men you don’t know.”

For the first time, Claire’s expression changed.

Not fear.

Something more thoughtful.

“You’re right.”

Ethan nodded toward the hotel.

“You can stay there tonight. I’ll arrange it.”

Claire looked at the building.

Then she looked back at him.

“No.”

Ethan frowned.

“No?”

“I crossed nearly two thousand miles to meet you, Mr. Cole. I spent three nights listening to a traveling salesman snore louder than the locomotive that carried us west. I changed trains twice, rode in a coach with a woman transporting six chickens, and nearly froze to death somewhere outside Helena.”

A few of the listeners nearby smiled.

Claire ignored them.

“I am not spending another night waiting.”

The smile vanished from Ethan’s face.

“You traveled all that way because of one letter?”

“Yes.”

“That’s foolish.”

“Probably.”

“Dangerous.”

“Certainly.”

“You don’t know me.”

Claire stepped closer.

Snow collected along the shoulders of her coat.

“No,” she said quietly. “But I intend to.”

Something in the way she said it reached deeper than Ethan wanted.

He had imagined this moment once.

Not Claire specifically.

A woman.

Someone arriving.

Someone choosing him.

In those foolish imaginings she had always been shy, grateful, almost impossibly gentle.

Reality stood in front of him with snow in her hair and enough nerve to challenge a man nearly twice her size in the middle of a Montana street.

Ethan turned toward his horse.

“I’ve got a wagon at the livery.”

Claire smiled.

“So that means yes?”

“That means you’re freezing.”

“It is a beginning.”

—

By the time they left town, night had swallowed the plains.

The wagon lanterns threw trembling circles of yellow over the snow.

Claire sat beside Ethan beneath a heavy buffalo robe while the horses followed the road almost by memory.

For nearly twenty minutes, neither spoke.

Ethan preferred silence.

Usually.

Tonight the silence seemed crowded.

He could feel Claire beside him even when they weren’t touching.

At last she asked, “How far?”

“Another eight miles.”

“You really do live alone.”

“There are hired men in the bunkhouse.”

“But the main house?”

“Just me.”

Claire looked ahead.

“Why?”

Ethan nearly laughed.

“You already know why.”

“No. I know what you think the reason is.”

He glanced at her.

She was watching him.

“You think women are afraid of you.”

“Most are.”

“Maybe you choose frightened women.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened.

“That supposed to be comforting?”

“No.”

Claire folded her gloved hands together.

“Comfort from strangers is usually dishonest.”

The horses continued through the wind.

After a while Ethan asked, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Why aren’t you married?”

The question seemed to change something.

Claire’s eyes moved away.

For the first time since stepping from the coach, uncertainty entered her face.

“I almost was.”

Ethan waited.

When she didn’t continue, he said, “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I know.”

More silence.

Then Claire spoke.

“My father died when I was seventeen. My mother followed three years later. There wasn’t much left except debt and a house in Pennsylvania that belonged more to the bank than it did to us.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I worked.”

“Doing what?”

“Whatever people paid me to do. Teaching. Sewing. Keeping accounts. Reading letters for women whose husbands wrote home from places they couldn’t pronounce.”

Ethan glanced at her.

“Keeping accounts?”

She smiled faintly.

“Surprised?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Most people who can do figures don’t volunteer it.”

“Most people who can do figures are men who enjoy making them look mysterious.”

That almost made him smile.

Claire continued.

“A merchant proposed to me when I was twenty-four. He was respectable. Had a store, a house, money.”

“What happened?”

“I discovered he wanted a housekeeper he could kiss occasionally.”

Ethan coughed.

Claire looked innocent.

“Was that too direct?”

“No.”

“It sounded too direct.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

“I imagine cattlemen are poets when women aren’t around.”

This time Ethan did smile.

Barely.

Claire saw it.

Her eyes brightened.

“There.”

“What?”

“You do know how.”

“How what?”

“Smile.”

Ethan’s expression immediately flattened again.

Claire laughed.

“There it goes.”

They rode another mile.

Then Ethan asked, “Why the matrimonial notice?”

Claire’s amusement faded.

“Because respectable courtship had failed me.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Did you answer many?”

“One.”

Claire turned sharply.

“One?”

“Yours.”

“Why?”

Ethan stared ahead at the road.

“I don’t know.”

“You must.”

He took a long time answering.

“Your notice didn’t say you wanted a wealthy man.”

“Many women do.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“No.”

“You didn’t ask for handsome either.”

Claire smiled.

“I see where this is going.”

Ethan ignored her.

“You wrote that you wanted a man who could listen without believing silence made him weak.”

Claire grew still.

“You remembered.”

“All of it.”

She said nothing.

Ethan added, “Figured any woman who wrote something like that had known too many loud men.”

Claire looked into the darkness.

“Yes.”

That one word closed the subject.

Ethan let it.

—

The Cole ranch appeared near midnight.

Claire first saw the barns.

Then fences.

Then dark shapes of cattle beyond them.

Finally the house emerged from the snow.

It was larger than she expected.

Two stories.

Wide porch.

Strong timber.

Built to withstand weather that had killed lesser buildings.

A lantern burned near the door.

Someone stepped outside before the wagon stopped.

A stocky man in his fifties hurried down the porch steps.

“Boss?”

“Evening, Silas.”

Silas stopped when he saw Claire.

Then looked at Ethan.

Then Claire again.

“Well.”

Ethan climbed down.

“Silas Mercer, this is Miss Claire…”

Ethan froze.

He looked at her.

He had never asked her last name.

Claire noticed.

“Whitmore.”

“Miss Claire Whitmore.”

Silas removed his hat.

“Pleasure, ma’am.”

“Likewise.”

Silas’s eyes returned to Ethan.

Something close to delight spread across his weathered face.

Ethan pointed toward the wagon.

“Her trunk.”

“Yes, boss.”

Silas obeyed before Ethan could threaten him with his eyes.

Claire followed Ethan toward the house.

“You employ curious men.”

“Silas has worked here fifteen years.”

“So he’s earned the right?”

“No.”

Claire smiled.

Inside, heat rolled from a stone fireplace.

The house was clean.

Almost painfully clean.

A long dining table occupied one room.

A large stove stood in the kitchen.

Books lined shelves beside the fireplace.

Claire removed her gloves slowly.

“This isn’t what I expected.”

Ethan shut the door.

“What did you expect?”

“Antlers everywhere.”

“There are antlers in my office.”

“Of course there are.”

“And a bear hide.”

Claire turned.

“Please stop ruining my good impression.”

Ethan took her coat.

She stood in a dark blue traveling dress.

Without the heavy coat, she seemed smaller.

Not fragile.

Just human in a house built for Ethan’s scale.

He hung the coat beside his.

For the first time in years, two coats hung by his door.

He stared at them.

Claire followed his gaze.

Neither mentioned it.

“I’ll show you upstairs.”

Her room was at the end of the hall.

A large bed.

Washstand.

Dresser.

A small iron stove.

Ethan lit the lamp.

“The room hasn’t been used much.”

“It’s lovely.”

“I’ll get wood.”

“Ethan.”

He stopped.

It was the first time she had used his given name.

He looked back.

Claire stood beside the bed.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Not pretending.”

His brow furrowed.

“About what?”

“Any of this.”

Ethan considered her.

“I don’t know what happens tomorrow.”

“Neither do I.”

“You might decide you made a mistake.”

“I might.”

He appreciated the answer more than reassurance would have pleased him.

“And you might decide you don’t want me here,” Claire added.

Ethan looked at her for a long moment.

“I don’t think that’ll happen.”

Claire smiled.

“Good night, Ethan.”

“Good night, Claire.”

He closed the door behind him.

Then stood in the hallway like an idiot.

Downstairs, Silas was waiting.

Ethan descended.

Silas crossed his arms.

“Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“I was going to say she’s pretty.”

“Go home.”

Silas grinned.

“She the letter woman?”

Ethan stopped.

Silas’s grin vanished.

“You told me there wasn’t an answer.”

“There wasn’t.”

“But that’s her?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

Silas lowered his voice.

“She come all this way for nothing?”

Ethan looked toward the ceiling.

“No.”

Silas smiled.

Ethan pointed toward the door.

“Out.”

—

Claire woke before dawn to silence.

Real silence.

No wheels.

No hotel walls.

No strangers.

She dressed and went downstairs.

Ethan was already in the kitchen.

He stood over the stove frying bacon.

Claire stopped in the doorway.

“You cook?”

He looked over his shoulder.

“I eat.”

“That does create necessity.”

He placed a coffee cup on the table.

Claire sat.

“You sleep?”

“Some.”

“You?”

“Better than I expected.”

Ethan served eggs and biscuits.

Claire tasted one.

Her eyebrows rose.

“What?”

“These are good.”

“You expected antlers and burnt biscuits?”

“Essentially.”

“You’re difficult to impress.”

“I traveled to Montana because of handwriting.”

Ethan had no answer to that.

After breakfast, he took her around the ranch.

Claire saw everything.

The horse barn.

The cattle sheds.

The bunkhouse.

The smokehouse.

The frozen creek.

Ethan introduced workers.

Each introduction produced the same badly hidden expression.

A woman?

Here?

With Ethan?

Claire found it increasingly entertaining.

Then they reached a fenced pasture where a chestnut mare stood alone.

Claire leaned against the rail.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Mean.”

The mare pinned her ears.

Claire smiled.

“I like her already.”

“She bit Tom Larkin.”

“What did Tom do?”

“Walked near her.”

“Perhaps she didn’t like him.”

“Nobody likes Tom.”

Claire laughed.

Ethan watched her approach the fence.

“Don’t.”

Claire stopped.

The mare came closer.

Ethan moved immediately.

“Claire.”

She held out one hand.

The horse stretched its neck.

Sniffed.

Then touched Claire’s glove with its muzzle.

Ethan stared.

“That horse won’t let anybody near her.”

Claire stroked the mare’s nose.

“Maybe you’ve all been asking the wrong way.”

Ethan looked at Claire rather than the animal.

Maybe.

—

By the third day, Claire had rearranged nothing.

That surprised him.

Women who visited the ranch in years past always commented on what ought to change.

Curtains.

Furniture.

Kitchen shelves.

Claire changed nothing.

Instead, she learned.

She asked the cook at the bunkhouse how many men he fed.

She asked Silas how much feed they used through winter.

She asked Ethan where his cattle were sold.

By the fourth evening she was sitting in his office looking through ledgers.

Ethan entered and stopped.

“You’re reading my accounts.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You left them on the desk.”

“That isn’t normally an invitation.”

“It was to me.”

Ethan crossed the room.

“You find anything interesting?”

Claire looked up.

“Yes.”