Clara looked at this enormous man kneeling in snow because he would rather freeze than assume he could move closer.
“Yes.”
He leaned in slowly.
Clara met him halfway.
Their first kiss was brief.
Too brief.
Caleb pulled back almost immediately.
Clara stared.
“That’s all?”
He looked startled.
“You were injured.”
She caught his collar.
“I remain injured.”
Then kissed him again.
This time Caleb forgot the mountains.
His hand came carefully to her waist, resting there as though he had been granted custody of something sacred rather than flesh.
Clara felt no shame about how much of her filled his palm.
For once, she did not make herself smaller.
When they separated, Caleb’s forehead rested against hers.
Neither spoke.
Then a gunshot cracked somewhere far down the ridge.
Caleb stood instantly.
Clara flinched.
Another shot did not come.
He looked toward valley.
“Hunter?”
Clara asked.
“Maybe.”
His expression said otherwise.
That afternoon Caleb rode back toward the stagecoach wreck.
He had delayed because of snow and Clara’s condition.
Now road had settled enough.
He told her he wanted to salvage luggage.
That was true.
Not entire truth.
The loose wheel pin had troubled him.
At wreck site, he found what he expected.
And what he feared.
The axle pin had not failed.
Someone had removed its retaining clip.
Caleb crouched beside the broken assembly.
The metal showed recent tool marks.
Clean scratches.
Deliberate.
He searched nearby.
Most tracks from crash were gone beneath snow.
But a leather document case remained wedged beneath a passenger seat.
Not Clara’s.
One dead man had carried it.
Caleb opened it.
Inside were business papers.
Property transfers.
And a letter addressed to a man named Ambrose Whitmore.
Caleb knew the surname.
He read.
His expression hardened.
The letter referenced Clara.
It referenced Nathan Whitmore’s remaining estate.
And one sentence made Caleb stand very still.
If Mrs. Whitmore reaches Helena, the final transfer cannot proceed without her signature. Ensure the matter is settled before she arrives.
Caleb folded it slowly.
The stagecoach had not merely wrecked.
Someone had wanted Clara never to reach Helena.
He returned to cabin after sunset.
Clara knew something was wrong before he removed his coat.
“What happened?”
Caleb placed the letter on table.
She read.
Once.
Then again.
Her face went pale.
“Ambrose.”
“Who?”
“Nathan’s cousin.”
“Did he inherit?”
“Some.”
“Not enough?”
She looked at letter.
“When Nathan died, the milling property was divided.”
“I received forty percent.”
“Ambrose got thirty.”
“The rest went to Nathan’s sister.”
Caleb sat opposite.
“You sold your share?”
“No.”
“I tried.”
“Ambrose said mill was worthless.”
“He offered six hundred dollars.”
“What is it worth?”
“I don't know.”
“More.”
“Probably.”
Caleb tapped letter.
“He needed your signature.”
“For final transfer.”
Clara’s jaw tightened.
“He told me taxes would eat everything.”
“That leaving Montana meant I should sign power of attorney.”