The sheriff listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he asked to see the letter and the telegram.
Clara opened her valise and placed both on the desk.
He examined them carefully.
Then he looked at Silas.
“Bell’s name is on the telegram?”
“Yes.”
“Did he give you the original?”
Clara shook her head.
“He said it was a company document.”
The sheriff frowned.
“That’s unusual.”
He examined the letter from Amos.
“Do you have any reason to believe the signature is false?”
“I don’t know.”
The sheriff studied the paper.
“I’ll send a telegraph inquiry to the western station and ask whether they ever reported Reed’s death.”
Clara’s hands tightened in her lap.
“How long will it take?”
“If the wire is clear, we may have an answer by tomorrow.”
“And if they did report it?”
“Then we’ll ask for the record.”
He looked toward Silas.
“Did Bell threaten you?”
“He threatened to return with Amos.”
The sheriff nodded.
“I’ll send a deputy to Red Creek. If Bell is still there, we’ll ask him to explain his conduct.”
Clara felt a fragile sense of relief.
For the first time, the matter was no longer trapped inside her fear.
It had become something that could be written down, investigated, and answered.
The sheriff rose.
“Miss Clara, you can stay at the boardinghouse across the street until we learn more. Mrs. Harlan is a decent woman. She’ll see you’re fed and warm.”
Clara glanced at Silas.
He gave her a reassuring nod.
“Thank you,” she said.
The sheriff gathered the papers.
“And one more thing. Nobody can force you to marry a man simply because he says you promised. Whatever documents he wants signed, you should read them with an attorney before you put your name to anything.”
Clara looked at him.
“I understand.”
“Good. We’ll find out what Mr. Reed thinks he’s entitled to.”
The boardinghouse was warm, clean, and crowded with the smells of coffee, bread, and coal smoke.
Mrs. Harlan was a sturdy woman in her sixties, with silver hair twisted into a bun and a habit of speaking as though every sentence were an instruction.
She showed Clara to a small upstairs room with a narrow bed, a washstand, and a window overlooking the main street.
“You look half-frozen, child,” she said. “You’ll have soup before you do anything else.”
Clara tried to protest.
Mrs. Harlan waved her away.
“Soup first. Questions later.”
Silas carried her valise upstairs and set it beside the bed.
“Your room’s secure,” he said. “The sheriff knows where you are.”
Clara looked at him.
“Will you be staying?”
“I’ve got a place at the livery.”
She felt an unexpected pang of disappointment.
Then she reminded herself that he had already done far more than she could reasonably ask.
“Thank you for bringing me here.”
“You’re welcome.”
He turned toward the door.