Page 7 of Mail-Order Lady

She refolded the paper along its crease. “She wants us to dine with her tonight.” The words came out flat. She handed the note to Robert.

As he read it, his jaw tightened. Then he passed the paper to Bea, who scanned the message with the same careful attention she gave everything.

“It will be good to know what we’re dealing with.” Robert’s voice didn’t quite hold a growl—he was too much a gentleman for that—but not far from it.

She could only nod. “I’ll be ready to go down at a quarter of seven.” She needed a few minutes to sort through the churning in her mind.

At six forty-five, she stood in front of the small mirror above the basin and studied her hair. Even after fastening a formal coif, she still looked a bit windblown. Her mother would be scandalized at how much color her cheeks held from the spring Montana sun.

She’s your mother. This was the detail she kept returning to, the solid fact of it. Her mother was many things, but she was also Clara’s mother.

Her mother had crossed half a continent to be here. She was grieving. She had lost her husband.

Father was gone.

She set down the comb and braced herself against the basin stand as she squeezed her eyes shut. It was still hard to believe she’d never see him again.

He’d been distant, often absent, more concerned with his business than with his daughters. But he’d been alive. A presence. A person who saw her, at least sometimes, when Mother’s attention became too much.

And now he was no more.

She opened her eyes and straightened. Smoothed down the front of her dress—one of the nicer ones she’d brought, though it had seen too many days folded in a trunk.

Her mother would notice the wrinkles.

Three knocks, then two, sounded on the door.

She turned from the mirror and crossed to unfasten the lock.

Robert stood in the hallway, dressed in a dark suit she hadn’t seen before. He must have packed it especially for this. For meeting her mother. The knot in her midsection twisted. She was dragging a good man into this mess that had become her life, but she needed him.

Bea stood beside him, her dark eyes determined in that no-nonsense way she had.

“Ready?” His gaze slid over her face. Reading her the way he read legal documents—looking for the meaning beneath the words.

If only she could say no. Tell him she’d changed her mind, that she couldn’t sit across a table from her mother and make pleasant conversation while waiting for a trap to snap shut.

“Yes.” She gave as bright a smile as she could manage, then stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed behind her. “Let’s go.”

Bea led the way, and Robert moved beside Clara. His voice lowered. “One thing you should know. My brothers and I don’t use our English titles here. We’re ranchers. I’d rather your mother not learn otherwise—at least not from us.”

She glanced up at him. Thomas had once told Kate as much. Not flaunting their title… Such a different way of approaching life from how her mother acted. One with so much less pressure.

“Of course.” She matched his low tone as they reached the top of the stairs. “I won’t say anything.”

He gave a nod, then gestured for her to precede him down the steps.

They descended in silence. The lobby was busier now than when they’d arrived—a handful of men clustered near the desk, their voices a low rumble. The dining room lay beyond an archway to the left, and the savory scent of some kind of meat drifted through the air.

Her mother would already be there. Seated. Waiting. Arranging herself just so, the way she always did when she wanted to make an impression.

Clara’s hands wanted to shake again. She folded them together at her waist and kept walking.

The dining room was smaller than she’d expected—perhaps a dozen round tables, half of them occupied.

Her mother sat alone at a table near the window, positioned so she could see everyone who entered.

She looked exactly as she had before…and somehow very different. Her blonde hair showed more silver at the temples. The lines around her mouth had deepened. But her posture remained the same—spine straight, shoulders back, hands folded in her lap. A woman who knew her worth and expected others to recognize it.