Seven Day Mail-Order Bride

Burnt Breakfast

By mid-morning, Clara knew one thing for certain.

This was not a dream.

She had used an outhouse.

An outhouse.

For the love of all things electric, she was never emotionally recovering from that experience. There were things a person simply should not have to process before coffee, and yet here she was, standing outside in the middle of nowhere with no freeway, no buildings, no distant hum of traffic.

Just open land stretching in every direction like the world had been paused and stripped back to its bones.

Clara turned slowly, arms folded tight across herself.

Still not a dream.

Still very much happening.

Inside had not helped. She had searched everywhere for her phone, which, according to Elijah, was not how one tidied a bed, considering she had managed to drag every blanket and sheet onto the floor.

Still, no phone.

No purse. No clothes. Nothing even remotely hers.

The only thing she had found was tucked neatly beneath the wedding gown.

A nightgown.

A lacy, delicate, wildly impractical dream of a nightgown so modest that her modern wardrobe looked borderline scandalous by comparison.

Clara had put it on because the alternative was standing around wrapped in a blanket while a very distracting man tended the fire, and now she stood in the morning light, running her fingers over the careful rows of lace as the fabric brushed her ankles.

It was not practical.

Not efficient.

Not anything she would have picked for herself.

And yet...

She turned slightly, watching the folds catch the light.

It felt like something out of a story. Like something she might have wanted once, before life sorted her into sensible choices and structured days, before being the smart one became more important than wanting pretty things.

Clara smiled despite herself and gave a small spin.

Okay.

She could admit it.

This part? She liked.

A lot.

Strong hands caught her mid-turn.

Clara let out a surprised laugh as Elijah pulled her in, steadying her before she could lose her balance. His mouth found hers, easy and warm, like it belonged there.

Like she belonged there.

"I could spend all day with you," he murmured against her lips, "but those animals need me."

His fingers brushed along her cheek, slow and gentle, and the way he looked at her made something deep in her chest tighten.

Not nerves.

Something softer.

Something dangerous.

"I won't be long."

Clara watched him go for longer than she meant to, because that look did not feel like acting.

Not even a little.

And that should have been a problem.

Right?

A few minutes later, Clara stood alone in the kitchen, holding two thick slices of freshly cut bread and absolutely no idea how to turn them into toast.

A hulking iron stove radiated heat from one side of the room, its heavy black doors shut tight over the fire Elijah had built for her. Rough beams crossed the ceiling, the walls were stained faintly yellow from years of smoke, and everything smelled like wood, ash, and a life that had never heard of nonstick cookware.

She glanced at the stove.

Then at the bread.

Then back at the stove.

Right.

Because apparently, in this world, bread did not come with instructions.

"Of course he makes bread," she muttered. "Why wouldn't he also be annoyingly competent at everything?"

Honestly, between the bread and the fire and everything else, the men she had been flirting with in bars for the last few years were starting to look deeply underwhelming.

Clara spotted a cast-iron pan hanging on the wall and felt a sharp little spark of victory.

There we go.

Progress.

She set the pan on the stove and stared at it.

Then at the bread.

Then at the stove again.

"It's just toast," she told herself.

She was an adult. A successful one. She used an air fryer regularly.

How different could this be?

Heat was heat.

Right?

The stove answered immediately.

Flames licked unevenly beneath the iron, one spot blazing while another barely glowed. Clara slathered the bread with a generous amount of butter, mostly because butter solved many problems and she was choosing to believe this would be one of them.

For one brief, hopeful moment, she believed this might actually work.

Then the pan started smoking.

Fast.

A thin gray curl rose toward the rafters, turning darker by the second.

Clara squinted at it.

"That looks... aggressive."

She dropped the bread in anyway.

The instant it hit metal, the hiss split the room.

Steam and smoke burst upward.

Clara flinched back. "Oh, that's not fine."

She spun toward the stove, searching the iron front. "Where's the temperature control? Where are the knobs? Where is literally anything?"

Nothing answered.

Because of course nothing answered.

Because this was apparently Little House on the Prairie: Survival Mode.

She grabbed for the pan without thinking.

Big mistake.

"Ah!"

Pain shot through her palm. Clara jerked back, staring as red bloomed hot and fast across her skin.

Oh.

That was real real.

"Okay, okay." She grabbed a fistful of her nightgown, wrapped it around her hand, and lunged for the pan again.

Still hot.

Still terrible.

Still a mistake.

The pan tilted sharply as she lifted it, dumping blackened chunks of bread across the floor in a sad, smoking scatter.

Clara coughed as smoke curled into her face.

"Nope. Nope. Absolutely not."

She grabbed the nearest bucket of water and dumped the pan into it.

The reaction was immediate.

A violent hiss exploded upward, steam erupting in a blinding cloud that hit her face, her eyes, her lungs.

Clara stumbled back, coughing hard and waving her arms uselessly.

"Perfect," she rasped. "Just perfect."

Then she looked at her hand.

Blisters were already forming.

Her stomach dropped.

This was not supposed to happen.

Not like this.

Not if this was fake.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

"This is not a dream."

The door behind her groaned open.

Cold morning air cut through the smoke, sharp with pine and frost.

"What on God's green earth..."

Clara froze.

That voice.

Calm. Steady. Familiar.

Elijah.

She turned slowly.

Through the haze, his silhouette filled the doorway, broad shoulders, long coat dusted with hay, dark curls stirred by the wind. For one second, relief lifted in her chest.

Then something felt wrong.

He looked taller like this. Harder. His blue eyes cut through the smoke with a focus that made the room feel smaller around him.

This was not the man who had left her minutes ago.

Not exactly.

His gaze swept over the smoke, the ruined pan, the chaos. His jaw tightened as he crossed the room and shoved open a window, cold air rushing in to fight the haze.

Clara stood frozen, every thought colliding at once.

Dream.

Actor.

Time travel.

Whatever this was, she had clearly made a mess of it.

And for some reason, that mattered more than it should have.

He turned back toward her and stilled.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Then he moved.

Too fast.

One step, and he was in front of her, solid arms around her, his hand sliding up her back as his mouth found hers.

Clara didn't think.

Didn't question.

As long as he wasn't angry with her, she didn't care.

She leaned into him instantly, gripping his shirt and matching the kiss without hesitation. It was hungry in a way that didn't match the few minutes he had supposedly been gone, like he had been waiting, like he needed her.

Like he had missed her.

"NOAH."

The word cut clean through the room.

Clara stopped breathing.

Because now there were two of them.

And her brain did not have a plan for that.

Standing in the doorway was Elijah.

Her Elijah.

Watching them with dark eyes and an expression she could not read.

"You mind explainin'," he said, voice calm but edged with steel, "why you're kissin' my wife?"

Clara's head snapped between them.

Oh, this was not okay.

They were not identical, but they were close enough to make her brain deeply uncomfortable. The man holding her was a little taller, leaner, his grip still firm against her back. Elijah stood broader and steadier, like something that did not move unless he chose to.

Noah did not look away from Clara.

Not even for a second.

His thumb brushed slowly along her lower back, like he had not quite accepted that she had pulled away.

"She might be your wife now," Noah said quietly, "but she was mine first."

Clara blinked.

Then laughed.

A short, disbelieving sound.

"Okay. No. No, that's not..." She stepped firmly out of Noah's arms and moved toward Elijah. "This is a mistake. A big mistake."

She pointed between them, as if that could somehow fix it.

"You're Noah?" she asked, glancing back at him. "That's your name?"

Then she turned to Elijah, grounding herself in the only thing that made any sense.

"I'm married to Elijah. I don't know who you are."

The words landed hard.

Noah flinched like she had struck him.

Like that answer had not even been an option.

Clara's stomach twisted.

He stepped toward her anyway, reaching like he couldn't stop himself. "Clara..."

His voice dropped, rough around the edges.

"My little Clare-bear... you know me."

The nickname hit something deep in her.

Clara hesitated.

Elijah stepped forward, placing himself between them.

"I think you need to leave, Noah."

His voice was not loud.

It did not need to be.

His arm shifted back slightly, shielding Clara behind him without fully touching her, like there was no question where she belonged.

Noah did not argue.

He took a slow step back toward the door, then stopped in front of them.

"Sorry," he said quietly. "Must've been the smoke in my eye."

The words did not match the way he looked at her.

Not even close.

Before Clara could answer, Noah reached carefully for her hand.

Like it mattered.

He lifted it and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her fingers.

Elijah made a sound behind her.

Not quite a word.

Closer to a warning.

Noah ignored him.

Then he turned her hand over.

Saw the blisters.

His expression changed instantly.

His thumb hovered near her injured palm before he lowered his mouth again, brushing the lightest kiss over the damaged skin.

Soft.

Almost reverent.

Clara's breath caught.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn't.

When Noah looked up, the plea in his eyes hit harder than anything he had said.

"That is enough," Elijah said.

His voice had gone firm.

"Out. Now."

This time, he did not wait.

He stepped forward, using his size and presence to force Noah back toward the door. Noah let himself be moved, but his gaze never left Clara.

Not until the door shut between them.

Clara stood there, hand still lifted, heart doing something completely unreasonable.

Okay.

What was that?

She stared at the door.

Then at her hand.

Then back at the door.

She had just had two men fight over her.

Two.

Over her.

Clara.

Spreadsheet-loving, Friday-night-at-home Clara.

That did not happen.

That had literally never happened.

And yet her body had very different opinions about the situation.

Warm.

Awake.

Very, very aware.

"Oh no," she whispered.

This was not helping.

Not helping at all.

Elijah stepped back into view like nothing had happened, like he had not just physically removed another man from the house.

His easy grin started to return as he reached for her hand.

Then he stilled.

"Your hand."

The shift was immediate.

Focused concern.

He guided her gently into a chair, crouching as he turned her palm toward the light. The pain came rushing back the second she looked at it, sharp and angry.

"Oh," she winced. "Yeah... that."

She gave a small, sheepish shrug.

"I was trying to make toast."

Elijah huffed something that might have been a laugh as he stood and moved with quiet efficiency. He lifted the pan from the bucket with a folded cloth, set it aside like it weighed nothing, then reached for a jar of something thick and golden from the shelf.

When he returned, he dropped easily to one knee in front of her.

"You don't have to prove nothin' your first mornin'," he said softly.

His fingers were surprisingly gentle as he brushed salve over her blisters.

Clara watched him.

This man made her feel beautiful.

Not useful. Not sensible. Not friend material. Not the woman holding someone else's purse while men asked her prettier friends to dance.

For the first time in her life, she felt like the kind of woman someone would choose.

Fight for.

Protect.

Marry.

And what a man he was.

He built fires. Made bread. Handled chaotic brothers. Knelt in front of her like she was something precious.

Clara leaned into him a little more than necessary.

Just to be sure.

Just to remind herself.

This was real.

This was hers.

And that was becoming a much bigger problem than she was ready to deal with.

She looped her arms around his neck, careful to keep her sticky hand away from his hair, and kissed him.

A soft giggle slipped out before she could stop it.

"You are the best gigolo husband a girl could ever have."

Elijah pulled back just enough to look at her, brow furrowing.

"What is a gigolo?"

Clara laughed, brushing her nose lightly against his.

"A man," she said softly, "who's so good in bed he's worth his weight in gold."

His eyebrows lifted.

She kissed him again before he could answer.

"And a man who makes me feel beautiful," she added, quieter now, "even with red monster hands."

Elijah huffed a low laugh and pulled her up into a hug, lifting her clear off her feet like she weighed nothing at all.

Clara laughed, gripping his shoulders as he kissed her, deep and easy, like he couldn't help himself.

When he set her down, his hands lingered at her waist.

"Then I reckon I'm glad to be your gigolo husband," he said, a smile tugging at his mouth.

Clara smiled back.

For one tiny, impossible second, she almost forgot the outhouse, the burned toast, the missing phone, the year, the place, and the man on the other side of the door who had looked at her like losing her had already ruined him.

Then Elijah's thumb brushed over her hand.

His smile softened.

"Noah will get over it," he said.

Clara looked toward the closed door.

Outside, a horse snorted.

Bootsteps moved across the porch.

Slow.

Lingering.

Not leaving.

Her stomach tightened.

Somewhere beyond the wall, Noah's voice carried low through the morning air.

"I won't."