Page 9 of Mail-Order Lady

Was Mother disappointed she wouldn’t be able to marry Kate off to the tradesman in Columbia, as she’d planned before? Surely she hadn’t come here thinking that would still be an option. Yet Margaret McKinney didn’t like her plans thwarted.

“Thomas is a good man.” Her voice took on a defensive edge, so she tried to soften it. “Kate is very happy.”

“I’m glad.” Her mother took a delicate sip of water. “And you, darling? Are you happy as well?”

Robert’s attention sharpened beside her, though he didn’t move. Bea had gone very still across the table.

“I am.” The ranch had been peaceful in ways she hadn’t expected. And the family. They’d taken her and Kate in and made them a part of the family. And the mountains so beautiful…the sense of being somewhere her mother couldn’t reach.

Except her mother had reached. She was here now, halfway across the country, sitting at a dining table with that expression that looked like love and pressed like…something she had to fear.

“I’m so glad.” Mother reached over and laid her hand on Clara’s. Her touch was warm, familiar.

That old untrustworthy emotion rose again. That feeling she’d tried to press down so many times. It sprang up now to sting her eyes and close off her throat. Mama.

Clara withdrew her hand gently. She didn’t want to seem cold, but she couldn’t bear the contact another moment. Couldn’t let her emotions be swayed by the hope that her mother would simply act like a loving mother, without all the schemes and plotting. “Thank you for bringing Kate’s things all this way.”

“Of course.” Her mother settled back in her chair. “They were always meant to be hers. Richard was quite clear about that in the end.”

In the end. As if their father had only remembered his first daughter when death became close enough to touch. Maybe that was true. Maybe it wasn’t. She had no way of knowing what had passed between them in those final weeks.

“I’m sure Kate will treasure them.” Clara picked up her fork again, though her appetite had vanished.

The meal dragged on through small talk that felt like navigating a river where the current ran beneath the surface. Her mother spoke of the steamboat journey, of acquaintances in Columbia who sent their regards, of how much she’d missed Clara during the months apart.

All of it pleasant. All of it friendly.

All of it leading to something Clara dreaded.

When the server finally cleared their plates, relief loosened the tension between Clara’s shoulders. They could leave now. Return upstairs, where doors had locks, and Robert could position himself between her and whatever her mother intended.

“Well.” Her mother dabbed her napkin at the corners of her mouth. “That was lovely. Thank you all for joining me.”

They stood. Robert stayed at Clara’s side, and Bea gathered her shawl in her usual steady manner.

As they began walking, Mother moved beside Clara, forcing Robert to drop back as they stepped through the doorway. Mother’s voice lowered, turning gentle. “Clara, darling. I’d like to call on you tomorrow so the two of us can visit. I’ve missed you so very much.”

Clara’s pulse kicked against her chest. A visit. Just the two of them. The kind of conversation where her mother could speak freely, without witnesses, without Robert’s careful attention tracking every word.

She swallowed past the knot in her throat so she could speak. “I’m not sure that’s⁠—”

“Tomorrow afternoon would be perfect.” Her mother laid a hand on Clara’s arm, light as a bird landing. “There’s so much we need to discuss. Things I couldn’t say in a letter.”

The pressure of those fingers felt like it always had—gentle, insistent, impossible to refuse without seeming cruel. Without being the daughter who rejected her grieving mother’s simple request for time together.

She needed to say no. Needed to tell Mother that whatever she wanted to discuss could be said with Robert present, with Bea present, with anyone present except just the two of them in a room where her mother’s voice could work its way under her defenses.

But Clara’s voice stuck somewhere behind her ribs.

“Perhaps the hotel parlor would be best.” Robert’s voice came from her other side, smooth and courteous. “I’m sure they have a comfortable space to speak privately.”

Her mother’s smile didn’t falter, but her fingers pressed a tiny bit on Clara’s arm. “How thoughtful, Mr. Balfour. I’m sure the parlor will suit the two of us well.”

The two of us. Making it clear no one else was welcome to join.

Robert only nodded, but a muscle in his cheek flinched.

They reached the base of the stairs, and her mother released her arm at last. “Sleep well, darling. I’ll call on you tomorrow at one o’clock.”