Page 3 of Mail-Order Lady

“That sounds exhausting.” Her wide eyes held a hint of sadness.

“It’s thorough.”

The corners of her mouth lifted. Not quite a smile, but close enough that his chest tightened. “I’ll lock the door. I promise.”

He nodded, then moved toward the door. He had no business lingering in her room. “Don’t open it for anyone until I’m back.”

The smile touched her voice. “And how will I know it’s you?”

“Three knocks, then two.”

“All right.”

Was that a chuckle? He went to check his own room before he said anything foolish.

Mrs. Wang was in the hall when he came back out of his chamber. She’d removed her bonnet and smoothed her hair.

He didn’t hesitate. “I’m taking the wagon to the livery. Stay here. Both of you.” He gave her a glance to be certain she understood. “I’ll be back within the hour.”

“We will not wander off into danger while you’re gone.” She gave a nod, though her tone was dry. She must think he was being too cautious. But both women depended on him.

Clara especially.

He took the stairs two at a time and went back out to the wagon.

The street hadn’t changed. Same lounger at the trading post. Same afternoon light slanting through the dust. He climbed up, released the brake, and guided the team down the road.

The livery sat two lanes back from the river, close enough that the sour smell of the Missouri followed him the whole way.

Irish met him at the entrance. A familiar face, though Robert didn’t come to Fort Benton often enough for the man to recognize him. “Afternoon to you, sir. Looking to stable your team?”

“For the week, possibly longer.” Robert climbed down and gathered the reins. “They’ll need grain. It’s been a long journey.”

“Will do.” The man took the reins and ran a practiced eye over the horses. “These Balfour stock?”

Robert stilled. “You know my family?”

“Know of ‘em. Your brother Thomas was through here last fall with a few horses. Fine animals.” The man patted the nearest horse’s neck. “These have the same look about them.”

Of course Thomas had made an impression. His charming youngest brother always did.

“Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Balfour?”

Robert pulled his attention back to the matter at hand. “No. Thank you.” After paying the liveryman, he added a little extra, then turned back toward the street.

The walk to the hotel should have cleared his head, but too much pressed in.

Mrs. McKinney could have already spotted them on the street. Could be watching the hotel right now.

He lengthened his stride.

He’d read her letter a dozen times over the past month. The hand was elegant, the sentences carefully measured—the sort of writing that hid effort behind grace. My daughters, she’d called them, which Kate had snorted at.

Kate was not her daughter. Kate was Richard McKinney’s child from his first marriage, the girl Margaret had spent twenty years treating as a complication rather than a child.

Richard had split the inheritance between his wife and Kate—apparently leaving Kate’s birth mother’s belongings specifically to her, things Margaret had presumably kept for two decades. That suggested a man settling accounts in his final days in a way his wife may not have sanctioned while he was alive.

How had Margaret received that news? Probably not graciously.