Chapter Eighteen
That Saturday, Weston Crane stood at the washbasin in his room, as if wasn’t really sure what he was doing.
His sleeves were rolled past his elbows, as cold water dripped from his chin.
The morning sun filtered through the window in thin, golden stripes, catching on the dust in the air and making it all look gentler than it was.
He stared at his reflection in the warped bit of mirror nailed beside the door frame.
He saw the same face, and the same hollows beneath the cheekbones, and the same eyes that looked a little too long at nothing.
He ran a hand through his damp hair, combed it back with his fingers, then let it fall forward again.
Nothing looks right. Not the man in the mirror, not the day ahead.
He cursed under his breath. I should’ve said no when they mentioned the town fair. Should’ve found an excuse, a fence to mend, a toothache, anything… but instead, I nodded like a fool and said I’d come.
Now here he was, trying to dress like he belonged.
He pulled on the only clean shirt he had left, the one that didn’t smell of horses or smoke.
The collar chafed at his neck, and he tugged at it twice before giving up.
The trousers, once black, had faded to a tired gray.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing would make him pass for the kind of man they’d want Nora to be seen with, anyway.
He wasn’t fool enough to think they didn’t talk. That they didn’t whisper about where he came from, what he lost, how quickly Nora had brought a stranger into her home, into her life. And the worst thing was…he didn’t blame them.
Weston buckled his belt, checked the fit of the shirt again. His fingers hesitated at the cuffs, then left them undone. I’d rather look like a man still working than one playing pretend.
The sound of hooves in the distance drew his attention. Someone was already heading into town. Outside, the world seemed cheerful, green and warm, like it hadn’t buried half of what he loved. That was the thing about summer, how it lied so easily, and how everyone believed.
He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed and eyes focused on the stretch of dirt road leading down toward town.
There would be ribbons and pie contests and smiling children, and Nora somewhere in the middle of it, pretending like she belonged to none of them and all of them at once.
God, she was good at that, at walking into a room like she was made for it.
Like she wasn’t carrying a single burden heavier than her name.
But Weston knew better. He’d seen her restless late at night, with her hair up, trying to make the books stretch further than they could.
He’d seen the way she looked at Mary Jane sometimes, with worry knotted behind her smile.
He liked that about her, her grit, her quiet.
The way she didn’t need to talk about sorrow to carry it.
But she’d invited him to the fair, as a partner.
And that scared him more than anything. What if I let her down?
What if this thing between us, this fragile, half-spoken hope, snaps in the daylight where everyone can see?
Weston rubbed at the back of his neck and stepped down onto the porch.
The boards creaked beneath his weight. That’s it.
I’ll show up. I’ll walk beside her. I’ll stand at her side and smile at the neighbors like I don’t feel them measuring me with their eyes…
And if they ask questions… if they stare too long, well… I’ll take it. For her.
Because somewhere along the way, without asking for it, she’d started to matter to him more than anything else.
***
Weston lingered in the doorway, slowly taking off his dirty boots and, with his hat in hand, he tried not to track mud on the clean floorboards. I should probably clean them for today… When he finally stepped into the kitchen, he saw Nora at the stove. A strand of hair was curled against her cheek.
She turned around and gave him a surprised, almost judgmental look he didn’t quite expect. “That’s what you’re wearing?”
“It’s all I’ve got,” he said simply. Her question made his decision to go to the fair even more reluctant.
However, Nora didn’t say anything mora than that, she just stared at him. Then she disappeared upstairs. He stood there, unsure if he should follow or retreat.
When she came back down, she held a neatly folded stack of clothes in her arms: brown trousers, a white shirt, and a black vest with polished buttons. Her fingers smoothed the fabric as she set it down on the table. “These were my father’s,” she said. “They’ll fit you well enough.”
He blinked, surprised. “I can’t take that.”
“You’re not taking them,” she said. “You’re borrowing them. My father wouldn’t mind. He always said clothes were meant to be worn, not kept in a trunk like ghosts.”
Weston hesitated. Something about the gesture, that act of kindness, intimate in a way that made his throat tighten, it made him think again. “You sure?”
“I wouldn’t have brought them if I wasn’t.”
He nodded once. He was grateful indeed, but still confused. He gathered the clothes. As he turned to go, he caught her looking at him. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, like she was pleased he hadn’t argued more, like the simple act of him accepting help meant something to her.
***
The borrowed clothes fit better than he expected. The shirt was a little loose through the shoulders though, and the vest snug at the ribs, but it felt like armor all the same. They were all clean, whole, and definitely not unraveling at the seams. Weston hardly recognized the man in the mirror.
He stepped lightly into the kitchen again, unsure why his palms were damp.
Nora was still in there, setting out a pair of tin cups.
She looked up when he entered, and for a moment, her gaze stayed on him.
Her eyes flicked over the collar, the pressed sleeves, and a cheerful grimace passed over her face.
Has she finally approved of my appearance?
Or is she just relieved that, at least, I don’t look like a beggar?
“You clean up well,” she said.
Weston shrugged, trying not to show how these small words made him feel like a better man at this point. “Helps when the clothes ain’t held together with string.”
She tilted her head, resting one hand on her hip. “Sit down a minute.”
He hesitated. “Why?”
“I’m gonna cut your hair.”
He blinked. “You don’t have to—”
“Weston.” She was already pulling a small pair of scissors from the drawer. “You look like you just came out from the woods. Let me help.”
God, this woman is hard to please…
He sat. The chair creaked beneath him as he lowered himself onto it, trying not to stiffen.
Her hands were gentle as she draped a towel over his shoulders.
Then the scissors started snipping. The sound of them was soft and rhythmic, almost calming.
Nora moved behind him, close enough that he could feel the heat of her body, the faint pull of her breath.
Stray hairs floated down, catching the light like dust motes.
He stared straight ahead with his eyes fixed on a knot in the wood floor, forcing himself not to think too hard.
But he felt her, each time her fingers brushed his neck, each time her knuckles grazed his jaw.
It was the quiet care in her touch that made him feel her every move, the way she didn’t flinch from him like others had.
As if she sees me the way I am and isn’t afraid to accept that…
“Have you ever done this before?” he asked, and he regretted the fact that his voice came out rougher than intended.
She gave a short laugh. “Plenty of times. Used to cut my father’s hair when he got too busy to ride into town.”
“I can picture that,” he murmured, imagining how her younger self used to do the very same thing, only maybe slower and with more uncertainty. “But I hope you’ll not going to make me sit longer than needed…We still have to be there on time.”
“We’ll survive.” She smiled, then continued her work with focused attention.
When she finished with the scissors, she stepped around him and crouched to retrieve a basin and a straight razor from the nearby shelf. She set them on the table, poured warm water into the bowl, and looked up at him. “Can I shave you, as well?”
He hesitated, but soon nodded appreciatively. “If you don’t mind.”
“I offered, didn’t I?”
He nodded again, not trusting himself to speak. She lathered the soap, then tipped his chin gently with two fingers. He let her do what she thought was the best. That was when he realized he truly trusted her.
She leaned in, the curve of her face just inches away from his. Her skin smelled like rosemary and chamomile. Her thumb held his jaw steady as the razor scraped softly down his cheek.
He watched her, the way her mouth pressed in quiet concentration, the way a soft furrow appeared in her brow. She wasn’t trying to impress him. She wasn’t performing anything. She just was, focused and sure and real.
His eyes drifted to hers. She had always had striking eyes.
They were hazel, he’d thought at first. But now, in the full light of the kitchen window, he saw the truth of them.
That day, they were green, deep and full of life, threaded with gold where the sun caught them.
Like moss in the river light, like new leaves in spring. How did I never notice that before?
He wasn’t sure if she felt his stare, but she didn’t look away.
The light made her seem somewhat softer.
Her lashes caught the sun as well, casting tiny shadows on her cheeks.
There was a small, almost imperceptible crease beside her left eye, something he’d only notice if he were this close.
Something he’d only notice if he were actually looking, and if he actually cared to look.
However, what caught him the most was the fact that her gaze landed on him without armor now.
There was no flinch, no guardedness, only quiet steadiness, as if she could see past the rough edges, past what he’d done and failed to do.
And for a man like Weston, that was more dangerous and more frightening than any disastrous moment he had survived.
Finally, he cleared his throat, and murmured unsurely. “Never thought I’d have someone shave me again.”
Nora glanced up without pulling away. “Why’s that?”
He exhaled, “Didn’t figure I’d be around long enough for it to matter.”
Her eyes held his now, as the razor paused mid-stroke. “You’re here now. And it matters. You matter.”
***
When she finished, she wiped the last of the soap from his jaw with a clean cloth, then stepped back to admire her work. “There. You look like a true gentleman now.”
He huffed, half amused, half aching. “That so?”
She nodded. “Give it time.”
The towel was still draped around his shoulders. The scent of her hands lingered on his skin. The razor was back in its case, and the basin was cooling on the table. But, for some reason, Weston hadn’t moved. Instead, he reached for her hand.
He didn’t think it through. His fingers just found hers, callused and warm, and held them like they belonged there. She looked down, surprised, but she didn’t pull away.
“Nora,” he said softly, not sure what would follow. He only noticed how her name felt different in his mouth now, like a prayer he’d never said out loud.
She looked up at him, searching his face. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I just…don’t want this to end…not yet.”
Her fingers curled slightly around his. She didn’t smile, but her eyes warmed, and he could swear that they became even greener. “It doesn’t have to.”
Something loosened in his chest when he heard her voice. He exhaled through his nose; it was almost a laugh. Then, without thinking any further, he leaned in. She didn’t move away. In fact, she leaned in too.
Their lips met in the hush between heartbeats. Her hand came to rest against his chest, light as a moth’s wing. There was no rush, no hunger, only heat and wonder. A stillness filled the space between them, the kind that didn’t ask for more than what it already was.
For a breath, he forgot where he was, who he was. The past, the scars, the reasons he’d sworn he couldn’t feel something like this again, it all dissolved under the soft pressure of her lips and the steady, unmistakable fact that she was kissing him back.
And just as he began to believe the moment might hold, a voice bright, cheerful rang through the house. “Nora!” Mary Jane shouted eagerly. “It’s time! We’re gonna miss the ribbon sheep!”
Weston pulled back and got out of the chair like he’d been burned. Nora blinked. Her lips parted, caught somewhere between surprise and other emotion. She looked at him, but didn’t have time to say anything.
The little girl barreled into the kitchen with her bare feet, her braid half-done and her face flushed with excitement. She skidded to a stop, looked between them, and tilted her head. “You ready?” she asked impatiently, completely oblivious of the situation.
Weston cleared his throat and took a half-step back, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just about.”
Nora quickly nodded once, already smoothing the moment into something more manageable. “Let me get the basket, little bug,” she said with a high voice, giving a gentle boop on Mary Jane’s nose. Then, she disappeared into the pantry.
Weston stood there, rooted and restless, as his fingers kept tingling with the memory of her hand, her lips, the impossible softness of it all.
His thoughts spun and tangled, too fast to catch.
He didn’t know if that kiss was a beginning or a mistake, but it didn’t really matter.
The only thing he knew was that it had felt good.
Nora returned a moment later, holding the picnic basket in one hand, her hat in the other. She looked composed, as if the past few minutes hadn’t turned the ground beneath them. Her gaze flicked to Weston’s for half a breath. It was loving and tense, and then away again.
“Come on, you two,” she said, shifting the basket to her hip. “The fair’s not going to wait for us.”
Mary Jane tugged Weston’s hand. “Race you to the wagon!”
He forced a smile. “I ain’t runnin’ in boots, kid.”
“I’ll still win,” she grinned and ran outside.
As Mary Jane darted ahead, Weston followed more slowly, trailing beside Nora as they stepped out into the sunlight. He could feel her presence at his side, the silence between them stretching wide and taut like a wire.
He wanted to say something, ask so many questions.
What did that mean, that kiss? Did you feel it too?
But the words stayed stuck in his throat.
Instead, he glanced at her one more time, hoping she’d meet his eyes again.
And she did, just long enough to leave him wondering.
Then she looked ahead, called out to Mary Jane, and the moment, whatever it was, drifted behind them like dust on the wind.