Chapter 4 – The Hill

Clara looked at the headstone: Annie Hail, 1855–1881. Beloved.

“She was right about carnations,” Clara said.

He looked at her. “She usually was,” he said.

They stood at the grave a while longer. The Wyoming mountains were going from gold to the first blue of the early evening. When they walked back down the hill, the conversation came more easily—about the town, about the ranch, about the flowers she had trouble sourcing in winter, and about nothing in particular, in the way that people talk when they are getting used to each other’s company and the topic is beside the point.

At the bottom of the hill, where the road split, Thomas stopped. “Same time next week?” he said, looking at the road, not at her.

“I’ll have the lavender ready,” she said.

He nodded and went his way; she went hers. The walk back to the shop felt shorter than she remembered it being.

She learned about Annie over several Fridays and walks, and one afternoon when rain caught them both and they waited it out on the bench under the feed store overhang. Not all at once; Thomas was not a man who talked all at once about anything. Annie had grown up in Millfield, had known Thomas since they were children, and had made him wait three years before she said yes—not because she was uncertain, but because she wanted him to be certain.

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On the third walk, Thomas brought a book. “This was hers,” he said, holding it out. “You mentioned the author. She had opinions.”

Clara took it. The margins were full of Annie’s handwriting: underlining, small comments, and occasionally a firm “no” beside passages she disagreed with.