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Clark was working on a fence, keeping an eye on Missie, who was digging in the dirt just a little way off, when one of the neighbor boys, a member of the large Graham clan, came riding up.

"Iffen ya please, Pa says to come if ya can first thing tomorrow. Feller was thrown off his horse, Pa says we got to bury 'im." The boy cleared his throat.

"'Course."

"Ma says she'll be happy to watch Missie for ya." The boy smiled at Missie, giving her a little wave.

"Thank ya."

And he was gone, off to collect more neighbors for the burial. Poor fella, Clark thought. Sounded like a stranger, from the way young Tommy had told it. Passing through, likely. A sad day for his family.

He didn't know how sad until he arrived the next day with his shovel and saw the broken-down wagon, clearly on its last legs, and noticed the tear-stained face of a woman peeping out through the cover. His heart ached for her, knowing what pain she must be feeling. His own loss was all too fresh, and yet he and Ellen had been able to build a home; they'd had Missie. He had a life worth living left to him. This poor woman was left alone with not much to her name, he judged, looking at the condition of the wagon.

Clark and Ben Graham and a couple other neighbors dug the grave. Wagons arrived as they were doing so, folks coming to pay their respects to this man who had been a stranger in their midst.

All the while he'd been digging, Clark had heard the muffled sobs coming from inside the wagon, his heart throbbing in sympathy with every choked gasp. They must have loved each other very much, he thought. He knew how that felt.

When the little bride appeared from inside the wagon, though, she had pulled herself together as best she could. She faced the strangers who had come to her aid with dignity, although if you looked closely you could see how dazed and lost she was. Clark admired her for the attempt. There was a strength in her that should see her through the worst of it. Poor thing, if she only wasn't so alone in the world.

He looked around the little gravesite as the visiting preacher spoke the words, estimating which neighbor might be most likely to offer this Missus Claridge a home until she could get back on her feet. Wanda Marshall stepped up to speak to her, but the Marshalls lived in one room; Ma Graham enfolded her in her motherly arms, but the Grahams' house was full. Everyone's house was full, it seemed. Large families, small houses, many mouths to feed …

As he watched her climb forlornly back into the wagon, which would be hot and stuffy in the heat of the day but was all she had, an idea came to him. An idea he rejected almost violently—how could he have another woman in his home, touching Ellen's things, rearranging her kitchen, taking her place in Missie's mind and heart? He couldn't.

Looking up through the trees, he realized that he was being an offered an answer to his prayer, a way to fill not only Missie's needs but to also provide succor to a fellow creature in a kind of pain that he understood only too well. How could he walk away from this sorrowing woman, when what she needed so badly was exactly what he had to provide? He couldn't.

But oh, how hard it was, despite the sympathy he felt for her, to walk up to that wagon, knowing what he must say.

Missus Claridge had come out while he was thinking, and was leaning against the broken wagon wheel, looking off into the distance, lost and alone. Seeing her there made it some easier for him to speak.

"Ma'am."

She looked up at him, but plainly was too grief-stricken to speak.

"Ma'am, I know thet this be untimely—ya jest havin' buried yer husband an' all—but I'm afraid the matter can't wait none fer a proper-like time and place." He turned his hat in his hands and cleared his throat. "My name be Clark Davis, an' it peers to me thet you an' me be in need of one another."

She gasped sharply.

Clark raised a hand to keep her from speaking. If he didn't get all this out now, he might never be able to. "Now hold on a minute. It jest be a matter of common sense. Ya lost yer man, an' are here alone. I reckon ya got no money to go to yer folks, iffen ya have folks to go back to. An' even if thet could be, there ain't no wagon train fer the East will go through here 'til next spring. Me, now, I got me a need, too." His voice choked at that point, and he thought despairingly of Ellen, of how much he still loved and needed her. But she was gone, he reminded himself, and Missie was here, and Missie needed a mother's care and tending. Gathering all his strength, he managed to go on. "I got me a little 'un, not much more'n a mite—an' she be needin' a mama. Now, as I see it, if we marries, you an' me—" It occurred to him how it must look to her, him standing there next to her talking down to her while she sat on the ground, and he hunkered down so he could look her in the eye. "We could solve both of those problems. I would have waited, but the preacher is only here fer today an' won't be back through agin 'til next April or May, so's it has to be today." He didn't add that she had nowhere to go, so it might just as well be today.

An expression had made its way into her brown eyes, finally—she looked absolutely horrified. Well, of course she did. He'd had a long time to realize what Missie needed. This Missus Claridge had only had a day to start realizing her man was gone. Clark wished he could have given her more time, but there was none.

"I know, I know," he said in response to those horrified eyes. "It don't seem likely, but what else be there?"

She was silent, and Clark didn't know whether that meant she was listening or thinking or what, so he went on.

"I've been strugglin' along tryin' to be pa and ma both fer Missie, an' not a doin' much of a job of it either with tryin' to work the land an' all. I've got me a good piece of land an' a cabin thet's right comfortable like, even if it be small, an' I could offer ya all the things thet a woman be a needin' in exchange fer ya takin' on my Missie. I be sure thet ya could learn to love her. She be a right pert little thing." It occurred to him that he needed to be clear about the rest, as well. It would be hard enough for him to watch another woman sleeping in Ellen's bed—to sleep there with her, and all that went with it, was more than he could imagine being capable of. "But she do be a needin' a woman's hand, my Missie. That's all I be askin' ya, ma'am. Jest to be Missie's mama. Nothin' more. You an' Missie can share the bedroom. I'll take me the lean-to. An' …" This was the hardest part, but he knew it had to be done. To be fair to Missie, to be fair to this woman of whom he was asking so much, it had to be done. "I'll promise ya this, too. When the next wagon train goes through headin' east where ya can catch ya a stagecoach, iffen ya ain't happy here, I'll see to yer fare back home—on one condition: thet ya take my Missie along with ya. It jest don't be fair to the little mite not to have a mama."

Clark realized he'd been talking on a long time, and that maybe this Missus Claridge needed her a moment to get used to the idea. That she would see, as he had, that it was the best answer for all of them, he didn't doubt. But he wanted to give her the time she needed to come to that conclusion for herself.

He rose to his feet. "I'll leave ya to be a thinkin' on it, Ma'am. We don't have much time."

Walking away from her, he found a tree to lean on. Glad that the neighbors had all left by now, he gave way to the tears that threatened. Oh, Ellen, I don't want this, he thought. He wanted his lively young wife, not this silent stranger. But Ellen was gone, and this woman was here, and his duty to her, and to Missie, was clear.

He would just have to get used to it.

Turning, he saw Missus Claridge climb out of the wagon with a small bag full of items packed, his answer there in the shabby bundle. She stood there looking at him almost defiantly, and he nodded, returning to her.

"Ya have everything ya be a needin' fer now?"

She nodded.

"I'll come back tomorrow and haul yer wagon back to my place so ya can clear everything out of it."

Another nod.

"Well, then, we best be goin'."

She didn't nod this time, but she followed him to the wagon.