She Fell to Her Death in the Snow After Her Mate’s Rejection – A Enigmatic Black Wolf Curled Protectively Around Her
A Choice to Stay
Clara’s hands were shaking, not from cold this time.
“Why me?”
“Because you were there,” Nate shrugged.
“Because you need a roof and I need someone who won’t run. And because my girls deserve better than what I’ve been able to give them alone.”
Molly tugged at Clara’s sleeve.
“Please stay. Please. Ruth is mean when she cooks and Papa burns everything, and I miss having someone who smells nice.”
Clara almost laughed, almost cried. The two felt dangerously close to each other.
She looked around the room—at the mess, at the suspicious faces of the older girls, at Nate’s steady gaze, at Molly’s hopeful eyes. This was madness.
She didn’t know these people, didn’t know this place, didn’t know if she could survive another rejection when this inevitably fell apart. But outside the storm was still raging, and inside, for the first time in years, someone was asking her to stay.
“All right,” she said.
“I’ll stay.”
Molly squealed and threw her arms around Clara’s neck. Nate nodded once, like they’d just concluded a business deal.
The middle girls—Naomi, Sarah, Grace—exchanged uncertain looks. And Ruth… Ruth stared at Clara with eyes full of cold fire.
“She won’t last a month,” Ruth said.
“They never do.”
Then she turned and walked out of the room, her footsteps heavy on the stairs. Clara watched her go.
She understood that anger; she had carried her own version of it for years.
“Don’t mind Ruth,” Nate said quietly.
“She’s protecting herself.”
Clara met his eyes.
“She’s smart to be suspicious. I’m a stranger. She doesn’t owe me trust.”
Something flickered across Nate’s face—surprise, maybe, or respect.
“I’ll show you to your room,” he said.
The room was small. A bed with a quilt that had seen better decades, a dresser with a cracked mirror, a window that looked out over endless white.
“It ain’t much,” Nate said from the doorway.
“It’s perfect.”
He almost smiled, almost.
“Dinner’s in an hour if you’re up to it.”
“I’ll cook.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
Clara set her carpet bag on the bed.
“It’s what I do. And your girls deserve a proper meal.”
Nate studied her for a long moment, then he tipped his hat—actually tipped it, like something out of a dime novel—and left.
Clara stood alone in the little room listening to the wind throw itself against the walls. She should be terrified, should be planning her escape, figuring out how to get to the next town, the next opportunity, the next place that would eventually throw her out too.
Instead, she unpacked her carpet bag. She hung her spare dress in the wardrobe, placed her hairbrush on the dresser, set her mother’s Bible on the nightstand—the only thing she had left of her, the only thing the Harringtons hadn’t managed to take.
Then she went downstairs to make dinner.
The First Supper
The kitchen was a disaster, but Clara had seen worse. She found flour, lard, the remains of a chicken, some shriveled potatoes, and a handful of dried herbs that still had some life in them.
An hour later, the table was set with chicken pot pie, fresh biscuits, and something approaching order. The girls filed in one by one.
Naomi first, silent and watchful. Then Grace, who immediately started straightening the silverware.
Sarah came next, sniffing the air like a suspicious cat. Molly bounced in, already reaching for a biscuit.
Ruth came last. She sat at the far end of the table, as far from Clara as possible.
Nate took his place at the head. He looked at the food, then at Clara.
“You did this in an hour?”
“I’ve had practice.”
He served the girls first, then himself. Clara waited until everyone had full plates before taking her own portion.
The first bite was silent. Then Molly made a sound of pure joy.
“This is the best thing I ever ate!”
“Molly, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Grace said automatically.
“But it is.”
Sarah was eating so fast she was barely chewing. Naomi had slowed down, savoring each bite with her eyes closed.
Even Ruth. Clara watched Ruth take a bite, chew, swallow.
Her expression didn’t change, but she took a second bite, and a third, and she didn’t stop until her plate was clean.
“There’s more,” Clara said,
“if anyone wants seconds.”
Three hands shot up. Ruth’s wasn’t among them, but her plate was empty, and that said enough.
After dinner, Clara washed the dishes while the girls scattered to their evening routines. Nate lingered at the table, nursing a cup of coffee.
“You’re good at this,” he said.
“Cooking’s easy. It’s just following instructions.”
“I don’t mean the cooking.”
He was watching her with those winter sky eyes.
“I mean all of it. The girls, the house. You walked in like you belonged here.”
Clara scrubbed at a stubborn spot on a pot.
“I’m good at making myself useful. It’s how I survived 12 years in someone else’s house.”
“This could be your house too.”
She stopped scrubbing, turned to face him.
“Mr. Dawson—Nate.”
She took a breath.
“I appreciate what you’re offering more than I can say. But I’ve learned not to get comfortable. People like me, we don’t get to stay.”
“People like you?”
Clara gestured at herself—at her broad shoulders, her thick waist, her sturdy frame.
“I’m not what people want in a woman. I’m too big, too plain, too much. The Harringtons reminded me of that every day for 12 years.”
“And now? Now you think I’m going to do the same?”
“I think everyone does eventually.”
Nate stood, walked toward her, stopped close enough that she could see the lines around his eyes, the gray threading through his beard.
“My wife was a beautiful woman,” he said quietly.
“Slender, delicate. Everyone who saw her said I’d married above my station.”
He paused.
“She’s the one who left. Left me with five children and a hole where a family used to be. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t put much stock in what people look like.”
Clara’s throat was tight.
“That’s… That’s kind of you to say.”
“It ain’t kind; it’s honest.”
He stepped back.
“Get some sleep, Clara Jean. Tomorrow we start for real.”
He walked out before she could respond. Clara stood alone in the kitchen, dish towel in hand, heart pounding for reasons she couldn’t name.
Breakfast Battles
Through the window, the storm was finally dying. The snow had stopped, and somewhere beyond the clouds, stars were beginning to peek through.
She finished the dishes, banked the fire, checked the locks on the doors, then she climbed the stairs to her little room. She lay down on the bed that wasn’t hers and stared at the ceiling until sleep finally came.
In her dreams, she was walking through snow again, but this time, when she fell, someone was there to catch her.
When Clara awoke, the house was already stirring. She could hear footsteps overhead, the clatter of something falling, Ruth’s sharp voice giving orders.
She dressed quickly—her spare dress, not the frozen one from yesterday—and made her way downstairs. The kitchen was chaos again.
Sarah had apparently tried to make porridge and had burned it to the bottom of the pot. Grace was attempting to salvage what she could.
Molly was crying over spilled milk, literally, and Naomi sat in the corner drawing in a notebook, ignoring everything. Ruth stood in the middle of it all, looking like she wanted to scream.
“Morning,” Clara said.
Every head turned.
“I’ll take it from here.”
Clara crossed to the stove, assessed the damage, made decisions.
“Sarah, scrub that pot. Grace, get me fresh oats from the pantry. Molly, stop crying—milk wipes up. Naomi…”
She glanced at the quiet girl.
“You’re fine. Keep drawing.”
For a moment, no one moved. Then Sarah grabbed the pot, Grace headed for the pantry, Molly sniffled and reached for a rag.
Ruth stared at Clara with something that might have been hatred or might have been relief.
“You think you can just walk in and take over?”
“I think I can make breakfast without burning down the house. After that, we’ll see.”
Ruth’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. She just turned and walked outside, slamming the door behind her.
Clara watched her go, then got to work. 30 minutes later, the table was set with fresh porridge, bacon, toast, and eggs.
The girls ate like they hadn’t seen real food in weeks. Maybe they hadn’t.
Nate came in from the barn, stomping snow from his boots. He stopped when he saw the table.
“You’re up early.”
“I’m always up early. Sit. Eat.”
He sat. He ate. He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave her over his coffee cup said enough.
The Ghost of Margaret
After breakfast, Clara started taking stock. The house needed work, real work, but it wasn’t hopeless.
The floors needed scrubbing, the windows needed washing, the linens needed airing, the pantry needed organizing. It would take weeks, maybe months.
Good. She needed something to do with her hands, something to keep her mind off the cold knot of fear that still lived in her chest.
Around midday, Ruth came back in. Her cheeks were red from cold, her hair escaping its braid.
“I fed the chickens,” she said,
“and collected eggs.”
Clara looked up from the bread she was kneading.
“Thank you.”
Ruth hesitated, then almost against her will.
“The bread smells good.”
“It’s just a basic recipe. Your mother’s probably. I found it in the drawer.”
Something flickered across Ruth’s face—pain, memory, loss.
“She never baked,” Ruth said quietly.
“She hated the kitchen. Said it was beneath her.”
Clara kept kneading, kept her voice even.
“What did she like?”
“Pretty things. Dresses, jewelry, parties.”
Ruth’s voice was bitter.
“She wasn’t made for this life. She told us that every day. And yet she stayed for 13 years because she was trapped, because Papa wouldn’t let her go.”
Clara looked up.
“Did he tell you that?”
“He didn’t have to.”
“Maybe you should ask him someday what really happened.”
Ruth’s expression hardened.
“I know what happened. She left because she couldn’t stand it anymore. Because five children and a failing ranch weren’t worth staying for.”
Clara set the dough aside, wiped her hands on her apron, chose her next words carefully.
“Ruth, I’m not going to pretend I know your mother or your father or what happened between them. But I know what it feels like to be left. And I know that the reasons people give aren’t always the truth.”
“What do you know about being left?”
“I know that my mother died when I was six. I know that my father remarried a woman who couldn’t stand the sight of me. I know that I’ve been cooking and cleaning for other people’s families since I was 14 years old, and not one of them ever wanted me to stay.”
Ruth was silent.
“You don’t have to like me,” Clara continued.
“You don’t have to trust me. But I’m not your mother. I’m not going to make promises I can’t keep.”
“What promises can you keep?”
Clara thought about it, really thought.
“I can promise to get up every morning and make breakfast. I can promise to keep this house clean and warm and safe. I can promise to be here when you need someone and to leave you alone when you don’t.”
She met Ruth’s eyes.
“That’s all I’ve got. Is it enough?”
Ruth stared at her for a long moment, then she turned and walked away without answering. But she didn’t slam the door this time.
And that night, when Clara served supper, Ruth passed her the salt before she asked for it. It wasn’t forgiveness, it wasn’t trust, but it was a start.
Thawing Hearts
The days blurred into each other. Snow, work, meals, sleep.
The girls slowly started to thaw, not just from the cold but from whatever frozen thing they’d been carrying inside. Naomi showed Clara her drawings—portraits of the family, of the ranch, of horses and mountains and dreams.
Clara told her they were beautiful, and Naomi’s smile was worth more than gold. Sarah stopped burning things; she even started helping in the kitchen, her quick hands useful for chopping vegetables and kneading dough.
She hummed while she worked—tuneless, happy sounds that filled the silence. Grace relaxed, stopped trying to mother everyone, let herself be nine years old again, if only for moments at a time.
Molly attached herself to Clara like a burr. Followed her everywhere, held her hand, fell asleep against her shoulder, called her “Miss Clara” with such sweetness it made Clara’s heart ache.
And Ruth. Ruth watched, waited, judged.
But she stopped leaving the room when Clara entered. Stopped making cutting remarks at dinner.
Started, very occasionally, to ask Clara questions—about cooking, about sewing, about things a girl her age should know. Clara answered everyone, never pushed, never presumed.
Trust, she had learned, couldn’t be demanded, only earned. Two weeks after Clara arrived, Nate found her on the porch at sunset watching the snow turn pink and gold.
“You’re still here,” he said.
“Did you expect me to leave?”
“Ruth said you’d be gone by Christmas.”
“Ruth doesn’t know me yet.”
Nate leaned against the porch rail beside her, close but not touching.
“Neither do I.”
“What do you want to know?”
He was quiet for a moment. The wind whispered through the bare trees, somewhere in the barn a horse nickered.
“Why’d you never marry?” he asked finally.
Clara laughed, a sharp, surprised sound.
“That’s what you want to know?”
“It’s a start.”
She considered the question. The real answer was complicated—too big, too heavy for a sunset conversation—but she gave him part of it.
“Because no one asked. And before you say the obvious,” she held up a hand.
“It wasn’t just about how I look, though that didn’t help. It’s that I never learned how to be small, how to need rescuing, how to make a man feel like he was necessary.”
“Maybe you never met a man who didn’t need to feel necessary.”
Clara looked at him, really looked.
“Maybe,” she said.
They stood in silence as the sun sank below the mountains and the first stars appeared.
“Clara Jean,” Nate said finally.
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she just nodded and they watched the stars come out together. And somewhere inside her, a door that had been locked for years cracked open just a little.
