Do not trust him.
Nathaniel stood.
“Your father has been here before?”
“Not that I knew.”
A floorboard creaked behind us.
We both turned.
The doorway was empty.
But somewhere in the darkness beyond the room, I heard footsteps retreat.
The next morning, Amos Pike was gone.
Nathaniel found his horse missing from the stable.
“He said nothing to anyone,” Samuel reported.
Nathaniel looked toward the road.
I told him what I had noticed the first day.
Amos recognizing my surname.
Nathaniel’s expression hardened.
“He worked here when Margaret died.”
My skin prickled.
“Did he find her?”
Nathaniel’s eyes moved to mine.
“Yes.”
The story finally came out.
Three winters earlier, Margaret had left the ranch during a blizzard.
Nathaniel had been in San Antonio negotiating the sale of cattle.
Amos said she had ridden out after receiving an urgent message.
Her horse returned alone.
Searchers found her body two days later in a ravine eight miles north.
Exposure.
A broken leg.
She had been wearing a heavy cloak and the silver locket Nathaniel had given her on their wedding day.
“The coffin remained closed,” Nathaniel said quietly.
“Why?”
“The fall had… damaged her.”
I touched his hand without thinking.
He stared down at my fingers.
Then slowly closed his hand around mine.
It was the first time he touched me willingly.
“I should have been here,” he whispered.
“You didn’t cause a storm.”
“I knew she was frightened before I left.”
“Of what?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
Now we knew.
Perhaps Margaret Walker had been frightened of
Franklin Whitmore.
My father.
Day twelve brought another discovery.
Nathaniel showed me the letters he believed Victoria had written.
There were eleven.
I recognized the first sentence immediately.
I have always believed a house becomes a home through ordinary acts of kindness.
My stomach dropped.
“Clara?”
I took another.
Then another.
Every line was mine.
Not merely the handwriting.
The words.
The thoughts.
The stories.
Father had often summoned me to his study.
“Victoria needs another letter for the Texas rancher.”
Victoria would provide a few facts.
I would make them beautiful.
She liked roses.
I wrote about tending my mother’s garden.
She enjoyed music.
I described how rain sounded against the roof at night.
She liked children.
I told Nathaniel about caring for a neighbor’s feverish little boy.
All those letters.
All those conversations.
Nathaniel had never known Victoria at all.
His face changed as understanding came.
“You wrote these.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It matters.”
He stepped closer.
“You wrote that you wanted a marriage where two people could speak honestly even when honesty was difficult.”
“I did.”
“You wrote that wealth meant nothing if a home felt lonely.”
“Yes.”
“You wrote that you would rather have one person choose you knowing your faults than a hundred admire something you pretended to be.”
My eyes burned.
“Yes.”
Nathaniel stared at me.
“Those were the words that made me agree to this arrangement.”
I could not move.
He continued more quietly.
“I thought they belonged to your sister.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not being her.”
His expression broke.
“Clara.”
He stepped so close I could feel his breath.
“I think that may be the first thing in this entire mess for which I am grateful.”
He kissed me.
Softly at first.
Almost uncertain.
Then I gripped the front of his shirt, and three weeks of restraint seemed to disappear.
