The sound of boots on the porch interrupted her thoughts, followed by voices as the hired men entered the house. She smoothed her skirt and followed Mrs. Wang back into the dining room, carrying the extra plates.
Three men stood by the doorway, hats in hand, the dust of travel still on their clothes. Two of them she could see were brothers—similar build and coloring, though one was younger. The third fellow looked older, lean and weathered, with sharp eyes that took in everything at once.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” Enoch rose from his chair. “Welcome to the Balfour ranch.”
As the men greeted each other, she placed the plates she carried on the table, then slipped back into the kitchen. The less time she spent around them the better.
But as she reached for more mugs from the cupboard, James appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Rose.” His voice came quiet, careful. “Could I speak with you a minute?”
Her hands stilled on the cups. The gravity in his tone tightened her chest. “Of course.”
Mrs. Wang looked up from ladling potatoes into the bowl, her dark eyes moving between them. “You two go. I finish here.”
Rose followed James back through the dining room, then toward the front door. With every step, her insides twisted tighter.
Once outside, he let out a breath. “It’ll be quieter here.”
More private too. With any other man, she might be worried for her safety or virtue, but this was James. And even if she didn’t already know deep inside what a good man he was, she’d spent the entire wagon ride from Butte alone with him, and he’d proved himself a gentleman. Besides, the tense line of his shoulders said he had bad news.
About her, apparently.
James led her to the wooden porch chairs, but he didn’t sit, so she didn’t either. The evening air carried the sharp bite of coming winter, and Rose wrapped her arms around herself, as much for comfort as warmth.
“Rose.” He stopped, running a hand through his hair. In the lamplight spilling from the windows, the conflict in his face showed plain—the way his jaw worked as though searching for the right words.
Her stomach dropped even further. “What is it?”
“There was a notice posted in town today. At Holbrook’s mercantile.” His green eyes found hers. “A missing person notice. For you.”
The world tilted beneath her feet. She gripped the porch railing, her knuckles white against the weathered wood. “What did it say?”
James’s expression grew grim. “Fifty-dollar reward. Posted by Vincent Dunhill in Virginia City.” He watched her face carefully. “Says your family is worried for your safety.”
Her head went light, and the world swayed a little.
Vincent. Of course he would come after her—she was his investment, his prized songbird. Twenty years of her life signed away on a contract, and he wouldn’t let her slip away so easily.
“Rose?” James stepped closer, his hand hovering near her elbow as though he feared she might collapse. “Who is Vincent Dunhill?”
She couldn’t speak past the constriction in her throat. He was the man who owned her voice, her time, her very existence until she was thirty-five years old. The man who’d been so generous when Mama lay dying, so understanding about the medical bills and funeral expenses. All she’d had to do was sign her name.
“He’s not family,” she finally whispered. “He’s…”
She couldn’t breathe. The mountain air that had felt so clean and fresh all day now seemed thin, insufficient.
Vincent had found her trail already. Of course he had—he had connections everywhere, men who owed him favors. She’d been foolish to think she could simply disappear.
“I have to leave.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “I have to leave tonight.”
“No.” James’s hand covered hers on the railing, warm and steady. Too solid. “Rose, whatever this is, whatever you’re running from, you don’t have to leave. My family—we’ll protect you. But we have to understand what we’re up against.”
The knot in her middle twisted tighter at his words. Protect her? How could they protect her from a legal contract signed by her own hand? How could they understand what they were facing when she could barely bring herself to speak it?
“You don’t understand.” Her voice came out thin. “Vincent isn’t just some man looking for a missing girl. He…” She swallowed hard, forcing the words past the shame that rose in her throat like bile. “Mama married him after we left here, then he managed our singing performances. He…required us to sing. When Mama was dying, the doctors, the medicines—it all cost so much money. Vincent paid for everything. The funeral too.”
James waited, his hand still covering hers, impossibly still.
