Page 71 of Mail-Order Lady

Her gaze found Clara’s immediately, and something flickered in her expression. Relief maybe. Or satisfaction.

Clara stepped to Robert’s side and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. His forearm pressed against her hand, and the warmth of that small movement settled the cold in her fingers.

Kate stepped outside too, and Thomas moved to her side. He wrapped an arm around her waist, a protective gesture that made Clara’s throat tighten. They were all here now. All standing together.

Mother’s gaze swept over them, and her smile widened. “My dear girls. How wonderful to see you both.” Her focus lingered on Kate’s pale face. “You do look unwell, Kate. I’m so sorry to hear you’ve been ill.”

The concern in her voice sounded genuine. Perfect, even. Exactly the right tone a mother should use when seeing her daughters after months apart.

But Clara had spent nineteen years learning to read the subtle shifts in her expressions. The way her eyes calculated even as her mouth smiled. The tiny pause before she spoke that meant she was measuring her words to achieve the effect she desired.

“I’m fine.” Kate’s voice came out strong. No sign of weakness. “No need for concern.”

Mother nodded, then gestured toward the man still seated in the buggy. “This is Mr. Sutton, my solicitor. He was kind enough to accompany me on this journey.”

The man inclined his head but said nothing. His dark eyes moved over the porch, the house, the brothers standing guard.

“We won’t impose for long,” Mother continued, her voice still warm as honey. “I wouldn’t dream of taxing your strength. But I did so hope we might visit for just a short while before I return home. To part on better terms than we did in Fort Benton.”

Clara’s pulse hammered in her throat. A social visit from her mother, of all people, felt like too much. Now more than ever. When every person on this ranch was stretched thin from too many nights of broken sleep and too many threats pressing in from every side.

But what else could she say? No, Mother, you can’t come in? That would only make things worse. Give her mother ammunition to use later. She would keep coming back until she’d accomplished her goal.

Clara glanced at Robert to see his reaction. He met her gaze, a question in his eyes.

The choice was hers then. He wouldn’t make it for her.

Her chest pressed tight. What did Mother really want? Not reconciliation—she didn’t do anything without a plan. But turning her away now would only make her more determined. Better to let her in, let her say whatever she’d come to say, and send her on her way.

She turned back to their guests. “Of course. Please come in.”

Mother’s smile brightened, and she moved toward the porch steps with the grace of a woman who’d just received exactly what she wanted.

Mr. Sutton climbed down from the buggy to follow. The doctor tipped his hat and murmured something about checking on his patient, then moved past them into the house.

Clara led the way inside, and thankfully, Robert stayed close. His hand found the small of her back again when they stood in the great room.

Mother swept in like she owned the space, her gaze taking in the polished floors, the furniture, the stone fireplace. Her expression shifted—just barely—into what looked almost like approval.

“What a lovely home.” She turned to face Clara, a gracious smile still fixed in place. “You’ve done well, both of you.”

Kate moved to the settee, but positioned herself behind it with one hand gripping the wooden frame. Thomas stayed at her side, his arm still around her waist.

“Please, sit.” Clara gestured toward chairs near the fireplace. Years of training—be pleasant, be accommodating, keep the peace—took over even though her insides churned. “I’ll bring tea.” Except she didn’t want to leave the room. It didn’t seem fair to foist her on Kate and the men, then walk away.

But someone needed to get refreshments, and Kate certainly wasn’t up to the task. It seemed strange that Bea or Rose or Mandie hadn’t heard the voices and come to see their visitors. Maybe they’d stepped outside through the back door.

The kitchen stood empty when Clara entered. A pot sat on the back of the stove, steam rising from the spout in a thin line. Bea always kept hot water ready.

She moved to the cupboard and pulled down the tea service—the good one with the delicate floral pattern. Her hands shook as she arranged cups on the tray, which made the porcelain clink together.

She measured tea leaves into the pot with Bea’s heated water, then added the sugar bowl. There was still a little cream from the last time James brought a supply load from Walnut Springs.

The familiar motions steadied her a little. This was something she knew how to do. Something she’d done a thousand times while entertaining guests whose names she could barely remember.

But this wasn’t her mother’s parlor. This was her home now. Her family.

When the tray was ready, she lifted it with both hands and pushed into the dining room, then the great room where the others waited.