The metallic taste of panic flooded his mouth. He forced himself to swallow, to keep his expression politely interested rather than horrified. “I was just a boy then. I don’t remember all the details. I think her mother remarried and they moved away.” His voice sounded steady enough, though his heart hammered against his ribs. “We lost contact with them after that.” It wasn’t fully a lie. Was it? Just not all the truth.
Mrs. Holbrook nodded. “Such a shame when people drift apart like that. I always wondered what became of them.” She paused, her fingers drumming against the counter. “This missing person notice—Rose Prescott, age nineteen. That would be about right for the little girl I remember, wouldn’t it? She’d be a grown woman now.”
The blood roared in his ears. He managed what he hoped passed for a casual shrug. “Could be, I suppose. Prescott’s not an uncommon name.”
“No, I suppose not.” But her eyes held a calculating gleam that made his stomach churn. “Still, what are the chances? A red-haired girl with the last name of Prescott, the same as your mother’s maid. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
Every instinct screamed at him to get out of there, to end this conversation before Mrs. Holbrook’s curiosity led her to conclusions that could destroy Rose’s safety. But leaving too abruptly would also fuel her suspicions.
“Well.” He forced his tone to remain light. “I hope wherever she is, she’s safe. Good day, Mrs. Holbrook.”
He touched the brim of his hat and turned to exit, his movements feeling stiff and unnatural. Each step toward the door felt like walking through thick mud, as though the weight of Mrs. Holbrook’s suspicions dragged at his boots.
“See you later, Mr. Balfour. Thanks again for the work.” Bill Carter tipped his hat to James as he walked by where the man perused the winter coats. He’d forgotten Bill was in here, doing a bit of shopping with the wages he’d earned from the haying.
James forced a friendly expression as he slowed and nodded to the man. “Thanks again for all your help, Bill. I’m not sure we would have finished that last field in time without you.”
A modest smile tipped one side of his mouth. “We got it done though. Glad I could be of service.”
James moved on to the door and stepped out into the crisp mountain air, each breath visible in small white puffs. The door closed behind him with a soft chime, but Mrs. Holbrook’s curious gaze followed him through the window.
Every fiber of his being wanted to get back to the ranch, to make sure Rose was still safe within those log walls. But he’d planned to spend a night in town to receive his father’s return wire before he rode home. He had to follow through with that.
The boarding house sat just down the street, its painted sign creaking in the afternoon wind. Mrs. Patterson would have a room—she always did after the first snow, when the mining crews had headed down to warmer elevations and the loggers left for winter.
The boarding house door opened before he could knock, and Mrs. Patterson’s weathered face peered out at him.
“James Balfour. What brings you to town overnight?” She stepped aside to let him enter, her gray hair pinned back in its usual severe bun. “Don’t tell me there’s trouble at the ranch.”
“No trouble.” The lie came easier than it should have. “Just waiting for a telegram from my father. Thought I’d stay the night rather than ride back and forth.”
“Of course, dear. I’ve got a nice room on the second floor, overlooks the street.” She bustled toward the desk in the corner to pick up the key. “Supper’s at six if you’d like to join us. Nothing fancy, but it’s hot and filling.”
James followed her up the creaking stairs, his mind still churning over Mrs. Holbrook’s questions. The woman had always been curious about other people’s business, but this felt different. More pointed. The way she’d connected the dots between the missing person notice and Rose’s childhood at the ranch made his chest tight with dread.
“Here we are.” Mrs. Patterson unlocked a door halfway down the hall and pushed it open. “Clean blankets, fresh water in the pitcher. Will this suit you?”
“It’s perfect. Thank you.”
The room was small but tidy, with a narrow bed, a washstand, and a single window that looked out onto the main street. Mrs. Patterson handed him the key and stepped back.
After she left, he sank onto the edge of the bed and dropped his head into his hands. The silence of the room felt oppressive after the constant worry that had plagued him since leaving the ranch that morning.
Mrs. Holbrook’s words echoed in his mind: A red-haired girl with the last name of Prescott, the same as your mother’s maid. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
He should have anticipated this. Should have realized that the older residents of Walnut Springs would remember Rose’s mother, would make the connection between the missing person notice and the Prescotts who had once lived at the Balfour ranch.
At least people thought the Prescotts had long ago left the area. No matter what, he had to make sure Rose never came to town.
CHAPTER 12
The ink had faded to brown on the yellowed pages, but each word still held the weight of her mother’s voice. Rose traced her finger along Mama’s careful script, each letter a lifeline to a woman who felt increasingly distant with every passing day.
March 15th - Rose and Master James have become such good friends, especially since we came to the American territories with the Balfours. It warms my heart to see them so happy, though I know theirs can never be more than friendship. He sits at tea with her and her dolly, and she goes fishing with him, catching just as many or more than the lad does.
Rose closed her eyes, letting herself linger in the memories—the warm afternoons by the creek, James’s patient hands showing her how to bait the hook, the way he’d never once suggested fishing wasn’t proper for a girl. She could almost smell the pine sap and hear the gentle murmur of water over stones.
The silence of the house wrapped around her like a familiar quilt as she read through the journal for the third time. Downstairs, the soft sounds of a Saturday afternoon winding toward evening—the gentle tick of the mantel clock, the occasional creak of settling timber.
