Page 13 of Mail-Order Lady

Clara’s fingers hovered over the box without quite touching it.

“The ring came a year later.” Margaret set the brooch back with careful precision. “When he secured the contract with the textile mills. He said every woman should have something beautiful that was hers alone.”

Her voice softened further. “These pieces meant the world to me, Clara. They still do. They’re symbols of everything your father and I built together—the life we made, the opportunities we created for you and Kate.”

The words landed exactly as they were meant to. Clara’s shoulders drew inward, and her gaze fixed on the box like she couldn’t look away.

Margaret McKinney understood her daughter better than Clara probably understood herself. Knew which levers to pull and when. The gifts weren’t just gifts—they were a reminder of what Clara had left behind. Of the world her mother inhabited and Clara had fled.

“I can’t accept these.” Clara’s voice came out barely above a whisper. “They’re yours.”

“They were mine.” Margaret closed Clara’s fingers around the box. “Now I’m giving them to you. Because you’re my precious daughter.” She paused, and when she spoke again her voice carried the weight of grief. “Your father wanted you to have them. He wrote you a letter—it’s there, beneath the brooch. I started reading it, but...” She pressed her fingers to her lips. “I couldn’t. It felt like losing him all over again.”

A letter? It could say anything. Maybe contain her father’s genuine wishes, or might have been shaped by Margaret’s influence in his final days when he’d been too weak to resist.

Clara’s fingers moved to the paper beneath the brooch. She drew out the single sheet and unfolded it.

As she read, the color drained from her cheeks in stages. First the soft pink that had been there when they’d entered the parlor. Then the warmer undertone beneath. Until she looked like porcelain, pale and fragile in the afternoon light.

Her lips parted. Her hands didn’t shake—she had too much control for that—but her fingers pressed white against the paper’s edges.

She read to the bottom, then lifted her gaze to her mother. Didn’t speak. Just looked at her with an expression that felt empty. Almost like she’d been betrayed and was giving up without a fight.

It took everything in him not to jump up and snatch the note from her. Guide her out of this parlor and back to her room. Then load the buckboard and ride hard back to the ranch, leaving Margaret McKinney and her controlling claws far behind where she could never hurt Clara again.

But he stayed still. He needed to wait for some sign from Clara.

Margaret reached forward and covered Clara’s hand with her own. “He wanted what was best for you, darling. We both do.”

Clara set the letter in her lap, but still didn’t speak.

“Chester Whitfield has been asking about you.” Margaret’s voice held that same warm certainty she’d used when arranging dinner last night. “For months now. Ever since you left Columbia.”

Chester Whitfield. The man Margaret had planned for Clara to marry before she fled west. Had Clara flinched when her mother spoke his name?

“He’s been very patient and understanding.” Margaret’s thumb moved in small circles over Clara’s knuckles. “Despite everything. Despite the confusion last fall when you left so suddenly. He understands young women sometimes get nervous when faced with such an important decision.”

Nervous. As if Clara had been a skittish horse that needed gentling rather than a woman who’d seen clearly what that marriage would cost her. A man more than twice her age who had already buried two wives.

His jaw locked so tight his teeth ached. He couldn’t let Margaret see his tension though.

She’d not so much as glanced his direction since that first time, but she knew he was here. Every word she spoke was calculated for his ears as much as Clara’s.

“He’s willing to overlook the delay.” Margaret shifted closer to her daughter on the settee. “More than willing—he’s eager to have you return. The wedding could take place immediately after we arrive home.”

His pulse hammered against his ribs. Immediately after we arrive home. As if it were settled. As if Clara were already packed and boarding the steamship.

Clara’s fingers crinkled the letter in her lap. “Mama, I don’t think⁠—”

“He has a beautiful home waiting for you in Columbia.” Her voice took on a dreamy tone that suggested she’d rehearsed this speech. “Three stories with the most lovely porches. So many servants. Even a ballroom overlooking the garden. Everything a young woman could want.” The words poured out like honey, sweet and thick.

Clara’s throat moved. “I don’t want⁠—”

“He’s one of the wealthiest men in the state now,” Margaret pressed in. “The shipping business has been extraordinarily profitable since the war ended. He’s expanded his holdings—warehouses, two new ships, investments in the railroads. You’d want for nothing, darling. You’d have everything I’ve ever dreamed of for you.”

Everything her mother had dreamed. Not what Clara wanted.

Clara’s lips parted again. “Mama⁠—”