Page 6 of Mail-Order Lady

The street had filled with afternoon traffic—wagons hauling freight toward the levee, riders heading in from the prairie, a cluster of men outside the saloon. He scanned faces, looking for a woman of middle age with blonde hair and the bearing of someone who’d spent her life enforcing social hierarchies.

Nothing.

But she was out here somewhere. In town. On business—as she considered Clara…her own daughter.

He turned back to the hotel. She might be at the land office, checking records. Or the telegraph office, sending messages. Or—and this lodged like a stone in his chest—she might be at the hotel already, asking the clerk which room Clara was in.

He quickened his pace. He couldn’t let that woman get to Clara first.

CHAPTER 2

No matter what her mother intended by traveling so far, Clara had to stay strong. She couldn’t let herself be swayed by whatever feigned emotions Mother wielded.

Clara sat by the window, the book open in her lap, her eyes tracking across the same paragraph for the third time. Or was it the fourth? The sentences slid past without catching.

Robert had been back an hour at least, so they might hear from her mother any time. The weight of it all pressed heavier with each passing minute.

Margaret McKinney didn’t travel across half a continent on a whim. She came with purpose. With plans. She always had plans—as layered and intricate as the lace on her best gowns, each thread pulling tight in its proper time.

And trying to hold ground against her mother’s plans was like trying to dam a river with her bare hands. The water always found a way through.

Outside, Fort Benton carried on with its business—wagons creaking past and the perpetual sound of men’s voices. Normal sounds.

The afternoon light slanted through the glass, warm against her shoulder, but inside a coldness wrapped around her belly. Her mother was somewhere in this town.

She turned the page and tried again. Something about a garden. A young woman walking through roses. The sort of gentle, romantic scene that usually pulled her in without effort.

Today the roses might as well have been arithmetic.

A knock sounded on the door, and Clara flinched, nearly dropping the book.

Bea’s voice sounded from the hall. “Message for you, dear.”

From Mother. It had to be.

Her hands shook as she set the book aside and gripped her skirts to keep them busy as she crossed to the door.

Robert stood beside Bea in the narrow hallway, his posture perfect like it was when he was working very hard to appear calm.

The older woman, whom she’d grown close to these past months while with the Balfours, held out a folded piece of paper. The stationery was cream-colored, expensive—the kind her mother always used.

Her middle twisted.

Robert met her gaze, then gave a single nod. Not permission, exactly. More like acknowledgment for how much the contents of this note could change things.

There was no point in delaying what had to be faced. She took the letter. The paper was smooth and heavy between her fingers, and for a moment she didn’t open it. Just stood there holding it while her pulse beat too fast in her throat.

At last she unfolded the missive.

My darling Clara,

I have just had the pleasure of receiving Mr. Balfour’s message. I am so relieved to know you arrived safely. Please say you will all dine with me this evening in the hotel dining room. Seven o’clock, if that suits. I have so much to tell you and so much to hear.

All my love, Mother.

The handwriting looped exactly as it always had. Elegant and controlled, each letter formed with care.

All my love. Three words her mother wielded like a chisel.