Before he could answer, Ethan spoke again.
“She’ll leave.”
Nathan’s patience snapped.
“Ethan.”
“What?”
“You don’t know her.”
“I know the others.”
Clara looked between father and son.
“What others?”
Nathan said nothing.
That silence irritated her more than an answer would have.
She set the suitcase down.
The impact sounded harder than intended.
“I would like someone to explain exactly what I have walked into.”
Nathan’s gaze dropped to the suitcase.
Then back to her.
“Miss Whitmore—”
“Clara.”
A pause.
“Clara.”
She hated the way her name sounded in his voice.
Not because it was unpleasant.
Because for one stupid second it sounded too natural.
Nathan continued.
“There’s something I should have told you before you traveled.”
Her stomach tightened.
Here it came.
Secret wife.
Debts.
Violence.
Disease.
The family stories she had heard about women sent West to men nobody respectable would marry locally.
“What?”
Nathan looked at the children.
The oldest boy’s anger vanished.
All five went quiet.
That frightened Clara more than anything so far.
Nathan reached inside his coat.
His hand emerged holding an envelope.
Not new.
The paper had yellowed at the folds. One corner was worn almost soft. The seal had already been broken, but a second smaller envelope remained tucked behind it.
Nathan stared at it for several seconds before speaking.
“I did not send for you.”
Clara blinked.
The station noise seemed to recede.
“What?”
“I never contacted the agency.”
Her humiliation arrived before understanding.
“You mean I came here by mistake?”
“No.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Nathan lifted the envelope.
“My wife wrote them.”
Nobody moved.
The wind tugged Clara’s skirt against her boots.
Nathan continued, voice quieter.
“Three days before she died.”
Clara stared.
The oldest girl pressed her face into the younger one’s hair.
Ethan looked away.
Clara’s anger drained so quickly it left her cold.
“Your wife.”
“Yes.”
“She arranged your next marriage.”
“No.”
Nathan’s face tightened.
“She asked the agency to send someone after she was gone.”
Clara looked at the letter.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He extended the smaller envelope.
“Because the last page was addressed to whoever came.”
Clara did not take it.
Nathan’s arm remained between them.
“You never opened it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
His eyes met hers.
“Because it wasn’t written to me.”
For the first time since Clara stepped from the train, she had no answer.