Seven Day Mail-Order Bride

Burnt Breakfast

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

This was not a dream.

Dreams didn’t last like this. They didn’t leave you standing in a kitchen you didn’t recognize, staring down at a stove that looked like it belonged in a museum, with freshly sliced bread in your hands and no idea how to cook it.

The iron stove sat heavy and black in front of her, already hot from the fire Elijah had built before stepping out. He had said something about checking the animals, about not being long.

That had been long enough.

Clara stared at the pan.

Then at the bread.

Then back at the pan.

“It’s just toast,” she muttered. “People have been making toast for hundreds of years. I refuse to be the one who can’t manage it.”

A minute later, she regretted that statement.

The heat was wrong. Too strong in one place, barely there in another. The pan smoked before she was ready, and when she tried to adjust, she realized she had no idea how.

“Okay, no, this is… this is a design flaw,” she muttered, dropping the bread into the pan anyway. “Where is the temperature setting? Where is anything?”

The smoke started to curl up, thin at first, then thicker.

“Great. Fantastic. I’m about to burn down 1878 before breakfast.”

She reached for the pan without thinking.

The heat bit instantly into her skin.

“Ah!” She jerked her hand back, breath catching as the pain flared sharp and immediate. “Right. Hot. Obviously hot.”

Grabbing a handful of her skirt, she wrapped the fabric around her hand and tried again, lifting the pan just enough to move it off the worst of the heat.

It slipped.

The weight shifted too fast, the edge catching wrong, and before she could stop it, the pan tipped. The bread fell in blackened pieces to the floor, crumbling into ash-like fragments.

Smoke thickened around her.

Panicking, she grabbed the nearest bucket and dropped the pan into it.

A loud hiss split the air as hot iron met water, steam surging up in a thick cloud that swallowed the space.

Clara coughed, waving her hands uselessly.

“Perfect,” she said hoarsely. “Just perfect.”

The door opened behind her.

Cold air cut through the smoke.

“What in God’s name…”

Clara froze.

The voice…

It was Elijah’s. The same steady voice that had patiently walked her through a marriage she didn’t remember. But she hadn’t gotten a proper look at him before he left that morning.

Slowly, she turned.

Her breath caught.

The man in the doorway was tall, broad through the shoulders, dark hair still wind-tossed, blue eyes sharp as they fixed on her. He carried himself like he belonged anywhere he stepped, like the room adjusted around him without question.

If this was her husband…

Well.

She could work with this.

Her gaze lingered a second too long before she caught herself.

Then his expression came into focus.

Not soft.

Not warm.

Her stomach dropped.

Had she ruined a marriage she didn’t even want on the first morning?

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Something shifted in his expression, subtle but unmistakable, like something had struck deeper than he expected.

Clara felt it.

Felt the way his attention settled on her, made him feel dangerous and all the more enticing. His gaze made her feel naked as his eyes drank her in.

Awareness hit her all at once.

Her hair was loose and half-tamed.

The thin shift she’d managed to pull on, the only thing she could figure out alone, the rest of the dresses far too complicated to fasten without help.

Bare arms.

Bare throat.

Smoke still curling behind her.

Not exactly the picture of a proper new bride.

She glanced back at the steaming bucket, then at him again.

“Sorry,” she said.

The moment broke.

His jaw tightened; whatever tender feelings for her were gone, replaced by something harder, more controlled.

Behind him, footsteps sounded.

“Elijah,” the man said, not looking away from her. “You mind explainin’ why your house is smokin’ before the day’s even started?”

Clara blinked.

Then Elijah stepped in.

And everything shifted.

The resemblance was there, close enough to confuse at a glance, but there was no mistaking the difference now. Elijah’s gaze found her, warm and steady, a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth like he was holding it back just for her.

Relief hit her so fast that she almost went lightheaded.

Oh.

That was her husband.

A breath left him, not quite a laugh.

“I was making breakfast,” Clara said quickly, lifting her chin just a little, trying to gather what dignity she had left. “It didn’t go as planned.”

Elijah crossed the room without hurry, retrieved the pan with a cloth, and set it aside as if it were nothing at all.

“You ain’t got to prove nothin’ your first mornin’,” he said, gently.

The other man let out a short breath.

“She can’t cook?” he asked.

"You bought her that fancy new contraption, and she can't even use it."

Clara turned on him immediately.

“I can cook,” she said. “Just not… like this.”

“Fire’s fire.”

“No,” she snapped, gesturing toward the stove. “This is chaos. There’s no control, no..”

She stopped.

Both men were looking at her.

Elijah, patient.

The other one… unreadable.

Clara pressed her lips together.

“Elijah,” he said after a moment, finally shifting his attention. “You married her yesterday?”

“I did.”

A beat passed.

“And you thought that was a good idea.”

Elijah didn’t answer right away. He set things back in order, steady and unbothered, before turning slightly toward Clara.

“This is my brother,” he said. “Noah.”

Only then did the man speak again.

“Noah Walker,” he said, his tone even, though his gaze had already returned to her. “Since you don’t seem to recall much else.”

Clara met his stare.

“Clara.”

Noah gave a single nod.

“If you’re done insultin’ how the rest of us stay fed,” he said, dry and unimpressed, “you might want to put on somethin’ decent before Elijah’s neighbors come wanderin’ in.”

And though his expression had settled into something controlled, something almost cold…

There was something underneath it.

Something unsaid between them.