Page 24 of Mail-Order Viscountess

He was leaving. In two weeks.

She stared at the flames, at the way they bent and twisted around the wood.

Why did it matter? She’d known from the moment they arrived in Butte that this arrangement was a disaster. That Clara wouldn’t be marrying Thomas Balfour. That they’d need to find another path forward.

But somehow, hearing him say it—hearing the certainty in his voice—made their situation feel more precarious. As if the ground beneath her had been unsteady all along, and she’d only just noticed.

“So you’ll abandon your family.” She kept her voice level. “Leave them to manage the ranch without you.”

“They’ll manage fine.” His tone carried that same bitterness from before. “They always have. I’m just the brother who fills in where needed but isn’t actually necessary.”

The words should have sounded self-pitying. Instead they landed with the flat certainty of someone stating a fact they’d accepted long ago.

His profile in the firelight—the bruise spreading across his cheekbone, the set of his jaw—spoke of decisions already made. Something about the way he held himself, even battered and trapped in an ice cave, suggested a man who’d spent years being told what he was rather than getting to choose who he wanted to be.

She understood that better than she’d like to admit. “You think being the youngest makes you unnecessary.”

His shoulders tensed, the defensive wall building behind his eyes even as he kept his gaze on the fire.

Still she pushed on. “But leaving won’t prove you’re more than that. It’ll just prove them right—that you can’t commit to anything difficult.”

His head snapped up, and the firelight caught the flash of anger in those hazel eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe I don’t.” She leaned forward, the heat from the fire doing nothing to cool the anger building in her chest. “But I know what it looks like when someone makes excuses for running away. You think California will be different? That you’ll finally prove yourself there?” She let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You’ll just be the same man in a different place, still running from whatever it is you’re afraid of.”

The words hung between them, sharp and cutting.

His face shifted—the anger there deepening, but something else flicked beneath it. Something that looked uncomfortably like recognition.

Then his features lost some of the expression. Turned guarded. “California has opportunities. Land for ranching. Room to build something that’s mine. Not my brothers’. Not the Balfour name. Mine.”

The way he said it—mine—carried a weight that tightened her chest.

She knew that hunger. Had felt it clawing at her own ribs since she was old enough to understand that everything in her father’s house belonged to someone else. The furniture, the silver, even the roof over her head—all of it came with conditions attached. With expectations she could never quite meet.

But wanting something didn’t make running toward it the right choice.

“And when you get there?” She kept her voice steady, though something uncomfortable shifted beneath her ribs. “When you’ve built this ranch that’s all yours, who will you share it with? Or is the point to be alone?”

His jaw worked, the muscle jumping beneath the bruise. “I’ll make connections. Build a life.”

“With strangers.” The words came out flatter than she’d intended. “People who don’t know you. Don’t care about your history or your family.”

“Exactly.” The single word carried conviction. “No expectations. No comparisons to my brothers. Just me and what I can build with my own hands.”

She should understand. Should recognize the appeal of starting fresh where no one knew your failures or your family’s disappointments. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted when she’d dragged Clara across the continent? A place where her stepmother’s poison couldn’t reach, where Clara could breathe without fear of being sold to the highest bidder?

But California felt different somehow. Thomas wasn’t running toward something—he was running away from people who loved him. Who’d raised him and stood by him and yes, meddled in ways they shouldn’t have. But at least they cared enough to meddle.

Who would care in California?

The thought twisted in her chest, sharp enough that she had to look away from his face. The fire crackled between them, sending shadows dancing across the walls. Her fingers had finally stopped aching with cold, though her toes still felt like blocks of wood in her boots.

“Your brothers care about you.” The words came out quieter than she’d meant them to. “They interfered, yes. Overstepped in ways they shouldn’t have. But they did it because they don’t want to lose you.”

“They have a funny way of showing it.” Thomas reached for another branch and tossed it onto the fire. Sparks flew, dancing toward the ice ceiling before winking out. “Ordering me a wife like I’m some problem to be solved.”

“Better than not caring at all.” The words scraped her throat raw. Her father—the way he’d retreated into his study when her stepmother started planning Clara’s marriage. The way he’d nodded along with every scheme, every manipulation, too weak or too indifferent to fight for his own daughters.