Undergarments.
Work aprons.
Mother’s Bible.
Three books.
Sewing kit.
Hairbrush.
A tin of salve.
One photograph.
Nothing else.
Henry stood beside the road.
“You can still stay.”
“I know.”
“If he insults you, come home.”
“I will.”
“If anyone treats you—”
“Papa.”
He stopped.
Clara hugged him.
Henry held her too tightly.
“You are worth more than what they think.”
She whispered:
“I know.”
That mattered.
The carriage rolled west.
Blackwood Ranch appeared near sunset the next day.
Clara first saw cattle.
Hundreds.
Black shapes scattered across grass lit copper beneath the lowering sun.
Then fences.
Pastures.
Barns.
Men riding.
A long ranch house built from pale timber and local stone.
Two stories.
Wide porch.
Glass windows that reflected sky.
Clara stared.
The carriage stopped.
A woman waited on the porch.
Margaret Whitmore was perhaps thirty-five.
Beautiful.
Dark hair beneath a fashionable hat.
Green traveling dress.
Gloves despite standing at home.
Her expression became almost satisfied when Clara stepped down.
Clara recognized inspection immediately.
Shoes.
Dress.
Hands.
Trunk.
Face.
Back to dress.
Margaret smiled.
“Miss Bennett.”
“Mrs. Whitmore.”
“You had a comfortable journey?”
“Yes.”
“How fortunate.”
Clara smiled politely.
The driver set down her trunk.
Margaret did not call anyone to carry it.
That was intentional.
Clara took the handle.
Heavy.
Dragged it up one step.
Margaret watched.
“Ethan is still on the south range.”
“When will he return?”
“Eventually.”
Margaret opened the door.
Clara entered.
The house was beautiful.
Rugs.
Polished furniture.
Paintings.
A grandfather clock.
Warm lamps.
She had barely taken three steps when Margaret said:
“You may wait in the kitchen.”
Clara looked toward the parlor.
Then at Margaret.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The kitchen.”
“I heard you.”
Margaret’s smile sharpened.
“It will be more comfortable.”
“For whom?”
Silence.
Margaret studied her.
Clara continued:
“Mrs. Whitmore, I understand why I’m here.”
That surprised her.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“You selected me because you expect your brother to reject me.”
Margaret’s face stayed composed.
Clara continued.
“You believe my poverty will make the point your wealthy candidates failed to make.”
Margaret removed one glove.
“You are direct.”
“I’m tired.”
“I prefer honesty.”
“Excellent.”
Clara gestured toward the kitchen.
“Then honestly, you're trying to humiliate me before your brother has even arrived.”
Margaret’s eyes hardened.
“You should remember what your family receives from this arrangement.”
Clara’s expression changed.
There.
The leash.
She had expected it.
“My father receives what you promised.”
“If I sit in the kitchen or dance on the roof, your signed agreement doesn't change.”
Margaret stared.
Clara smiled.
“Still, the kitchen is probably warmer.”
She walked there herself.
That victory irritated Margaret more than refusal would have.
The Blackwood kitchen was enormous.
Copper pans.
Iron stove.
Long worktable.
Pantry.
Two windows looking toward the barn.
A housekeeper named Mrs. Nolan introduced herself.
Fifty.
Silver-streaked hair.
Kind eyes.
She immediately looked embarrassed about Clara being placed there.
“Would you like tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“And food?”
“Very much.”
Mrs. Nolan smiled.
“Then you and I will get along.”
Clara ate stew.
Margaret disappeared.
Another sister arrived.
Charlotte Blackwood Fairchild.
Younger than Margaret.
Blonde.
Equally elegant.
Less controlled.
She entered the kitchen and simply stared.
Clara continued eating.
Charlotte whispered:
“Oh.”
Clara looked up.
“Disappointed?”
Charlotte flushed.
“No.”
“Good.”
Charlotte looked toward Mrs. Nolan.
Then back.
“You're Miss Bennett.”
“Yes.”
“I’m Charlotte.”
“I gathered.”
“You know why you're here?”
“Yes.”
Charlotte sat.
“That makes this awkward.”
“It was already awkward.”
Charlotte almost smiled.
Then boots sounded outside.
Men shouting.
Horses.
The kitchen changed.
Mrs. Nolan straightened.
Charlotte stood.
Margaret appeared in the doorway instantly.
Clara wiped her mouth.
Her stomach tightened for the first time.
The back door opened.
A man entered.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Dust covering boots and trousers.
Dark hat.
Cream work shirt with sleeves rolled.
Brown leather vest.
Sun-darkened face.
Black hair.
Stubble along his jaw.
Steel-gray eyes.
Ethan Blackwood.
He removed one glove while speaking to a ranch hand behind him.
“Move the sorrel mare into the north barn.”
“She’s favoring the left front.”
Then he saw Clara.
Stopped.
Everyone stopped.
Clara stood.
This was it.
The moment Margaret had purchased.
Ethan’s gaze moved over Clara.
Her face.
Dress.
Patched sleeve.
Hands.
Clara resisted the instinct to hide them.
His eyes remained on her calluses longer than anything else.
Then he looked toward Margaret.
Slowly.
“What did you do?”
Margaret smiled.
“Ethan.”
“What did you do?”
Charlotte stepped backward.
Margaret said:
“This is Clara Bennett.”
“I can see she's a person, Margaret.”
Clara almost laughed.
Ethan approached.
Stopped several feet away.
“Miss Bennett.”
“Mr. Blackwood.”
“My sisters invited you?”
“Yes.”
“Without speaking to me?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
Margaret interrupted.
“We've spoken about marriage repeatedly.”
“You spoke.”
“Ethan—”
He raised one hand.
Then looked at Clara.
“You traveled here believing what?”
Clara decided honesty had gotten her this far.
“That your sisters deliberately selected the poorest unmarried woman they could locate because they were tired of you rejecting wealthy ones.”
Charlotte closed her eyes.
Margaret’s face froze.
Ethan stared at Clara.
Then Margaret.
“Is that true?”
Margaret said:
“That's an ugly interpretation.”
Clara reached into her pocket.
Removed the letter.
Ethan took it.
Read.
His expression became frighteningly calm.
Margaret tried:
“The family has responsibilities.”
Ethan continued reading.
Then:
“You offered to pay her father's debts.”
“Yes.”
“If she came here.”
“Yes.”
“Whether I accepted her or not.”
Margaret’s voice weakened.
“Yes.”
Ethan folded the letter.
Very carefully.
Then he turned toward Clara.
“You agreed to this?”
Clara swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Because of your father?”
“Partly.”