Count Down Starts
917 Words
He was there.
His arms are around her. The smell of woodsmoke. That scratchy, too-thick blanket.
And she had never been so relieved in her life.
His sleeping face was buried against the back of her neck, his breath warm as it brushed over her skin, catching on the fine hairs there and making her shiver.
Clara turned quickly in his arms without thinking.
Like she was afraid that if she waited, he might disappear.
Her arms wrapped around him, tight enough that his eyes snapped open in surprise just as she kissed him.
A low sound left him, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, still caught in sleep as his arms came around her in return, pulling her close without question.
Clara smiled against his mouth, breathless, a little wild in the dim, predawn light.
“Good morning, husband.”
One eyebrow lifted slowly, his gaze sharpening as it found her face, like he was trying to decide what had gotten into her.
Her answering smile only widened.
A soft giggle slipped out as her fingers traced down his chest, slow and deliberate, like she already knew exactly what she was doing.
That was all the answer he needed.
He shifted, rolling her onto her back in one smooth motion, the mattress creaking beneath them as his mouth found hers again, more certain this time, sleep forgotten.
Clara let out a small sound of surprise that turned into laughter, her hands catching at his shoulders as he settled over her.
“Careful. Don't want to break your bed,” she murmured, though there was no real protest in it.
His answer was a quiet huff of amusement against her lips.
His hands moved, not hurried, just sure, brushing along her legs beneath the soft cotton of her nightgown, pushing the fabric higher in slow, absent-minded passes that made her breath catch.
Her fingers found the front of his long johns, fumbling slightly with the buttons, more eager than practiced.
Giddy.
That was the only word for it.
Giddy and a little foolish, and not caring at all.
Because he was here, and he was hers.
By the time the sun rose, they were both dressed, passing quiet, teasing smiles between them.
The stove held the same pan she remembered, now filled with eggs and potatoes, the smell warm and steady as Elijah worked it with practiced ease. Clara sat at the table, watching him.
“Here,” Elijah said, setting a small jar beside her.
She looked down. Thick, yellow ointment puzzled over what to do with it. It didn't look like butter or jam.
“For your hands,” he added. “From yesterday.”
She blinked as things began to snap together, the burns on her hands from that mean old pan.
The blisters stood out now that he’d said it, tight and angry against her skin.
Her breath caught.
He said Yesterday. Her mind scrambled; it's not the first day. It's the next.
Her chest tightened. This was less time than she thought. She had to save him, and her time was running out.
Clara looked up at him, something inside her pulling tight.
“Elijah… I have to tell you something.”
His smile faded, not gone, but quieter now as he turned toward her fully.
“You can tell me anything.”
The door slammed open. Heavy boots crossed the floor before either of them could react.
Noah didn’t slow down and didn’t greet.
He stopped just short of the table, his gaze fixed on Elijah, then flicking sharply to Clara.
“Did she tell you?” he said, voice low and edged. “What she did yesterday.”
Clara froze. Yesterday, here was now two days ago for her. Her mind flashed to Noah in the field.
Heat rushed to her face.
Elijah straightened slowly, his tone calm, but firmer now.
“Well,” he said, glancing at Clara, “I expect my wife was about to tell me herself… before you came stormin’ in.”
Clara swallowed, words tumbling out too fast.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said quickly. “You look so much alike, I thought, I just... I didn’t realize..”
She stopped, flustered, her hands tightening together in her lap.
Elijah went still.
Just for a second. Hurt flickered across his face. Gone almost as quickly as it came.
Noah’s mouth curved faintly, like he’d been waiting for exactly that.
Then Elijah let out a breath, as if he was making a choice.
And then chuckled.
“Well,” he said, shaking his head, “Mum always said she couldn’t tell us apart most days.”
Clara blinked. Relief hit so fast it almost made her dizzy.
Noah didn’t laugh.
“Her not tellin’ you is one thing,” he said flatly. “But you barely wed. It ain’t right.”
Elijah stepped forward, easy, unbothered, clapping a hand briefly to his brother’s shoulder.
“Well, nor did you tell me,” he said lightly. “If you’ve got somethin’ to say, brother, best say it plain.”
Then, just a touch sharper, but still teasing.
“What is it? You takin’ a shine to my bride?”
Noah shrugged him off.
But his gaze had already shifted back to Clara. A look only she could see.
The hungry look made her breath hitch.
Clara’s stomach tightened.
She quickly lowered her gaze from him.
She was going to have to be more careful.
- Writer
