Page 1 of Mail-Order Lady

CHAPTER 1

May, 1870

Fort Benton, Montana Territory

Clara McKinney hadn’t spoken in two hours. Of course he’d be quiet too if he’d been summoned to meet a mother like Clara’s.

As the wagon creaked beneath them, Robert Balfour's attention kept drifting back to her—to her silence, as it had to every smile, frown, and sidelong glance. Whatever part of him had once insisted she was merely his sister-in-law's sister had quietly surrendered.

She pushed back the same strand of honey-blonde hair again—the fourth time in the last mile. A wisp that always slipped free from the left side of her bonnet and curled against her cheek when the wind caught it. The way it teased her cheek had become as distracting as the cheek itself. Was her skin as soft as it looked?

If only she would say something to distract him, or even Mrs. Wang, who sat behind him in the wagon bed. Normally, Clara’s ability to value quiet was one of the details he appreciated about her. But he also loved that melodious voice that wove through him like warm honey.

The last words out of her mouth hadn’t been for him, but for Mrs. Wang—a question about the river. Before that, she’d noted the light glancing off the bluffs. Only small remarks. The sort people made when real feelings loomed too big to be spoken. He could well imagine how worried she must be to see her mother again after Clara and Kate had fled the woman and her social-climbing schemes.

Within a half hour, Fort Benton materialized out of the dust, bringing with it the swampy smell of the Missouri. The town was built at the farthest point of navigable water. Beyond here, the river ran too shallow for the big steamboats to pass farther.

Everything that needed to proceed past this point had to travel by foot or wheel. A place of arrivals and departures. Of people strung between their pasts and anticipation of what might be coming.

That described the three of them well enough too.

On Front Street, a man lounged against the trading post wall, watching the passersby without ever seeming to. Men passed back and forth along the road, sometimes in clusters, sometimes with a determined stride. Casual commerce. Not anything he needed to worry about. Perhaps. With a beautiful woman like Clara, one couldn’t be too careful.

But somewhere in this town, her conniving mother might be waiting, even now. His gut clenched a little tighter.

“The hotel.” Mrs. Wang pointed at the brick building on the left.

He reined in the wagon, then set the brake. After climbing down, he came around to hand Mrs. Wang out, and then turned to Clara.

Those pretty greenish-brown eyes already watched him. When he met her gaze, she dropped her focus to his outstretched hands. She placed her gloved hands in his and stepped down. Her hands were so small, yet they fit perfectly in his. The urge to draw her close and protect her was almost too strong to resist.

“Thank you.” She let go as soon as her boots met the dirt. Then she turned toward the hotel with her shoulders set like she was determined to force brightness into her world, no matter how dreary the outlook presented.

If only he could say something to help her. He would be by her side to face Margaret McKinney, but that didn’t feel like enough.

“Ready?” he asked instead.

She gave a firm nod. “Let’s get it over with.”

Perhaps her mother’s steamboat hadn’t arrived yet. One could always hope.

He picked up the bags and followed the women inside.

Other than a few boarding houses, this was the only hotel in town. Fortunately it was dry and mostly clean. Nice enough for what they needed.

The lobby smelled of tobacco and old wood and a faint metallic odor—river water, probably, tracked in on boots and never quite dried. Stairs rose near the front door, beside a hallway leading back to a dining area. The main room held a desk and a few chairs where people could gather.

Two men sat near the window, playing cards with the leisure of people who had nowhere else to be. Both glanced up, then refocused on their game. They seemed innocent enough.

The clerk at the desk studied them as they approached. A young man, perhaps twenty, with ink stains on his cuffs. His gaze skipped past Robert to settle on Clara with an interest that made Robert tighten his jaw.

“Good afternoon.” Robert stepped forward. “I sent a wire ahead. Balfour.”

“Ah, yes.” The clerk turned to consult his ledger. “Got your message. Three rooms. That still suit?”

“It will.”

The clerk’s gaze flicked to Clara, then away. “Sign here, Mr. Balfour.”