THE LAST DRESS

PART 2

“Who told you to leave?”

Clementine couldn’t answer.

The lantern flame trembled between them.

Or perhaps it was her hand.

Charles stood just inside the attic door, his hat still in his hand, his dark coat carrying the smell of cold night air and horse leather.

His eyes moved over the room.

Broken glᴀss glittered beneath the table.

Spools of thread lay scattered across the floor.

One of Clementine’s silver needles had been crushed beneath a boot heel.

And beside the cot sat a battered leather satchel, half-filled with everything she owned.

Charles looked at it again.

Then at her.

“Who told you to leave?”

Clementine swallowed.

“Miss Harley.”

His jaw тιԍнтened.

“She fired you?”

Clementine nodded.

“She said I was to be gone by dawn.”

“And you believed her.”

Clementine’s eyes dropped.

“What else was I supposed to do?”

Charles stepped farther into the attic.

“Look at me.”

She hesitated.

Then slowly lifted her face.

The anger in his eyes wasn’t directed at her.

That frightened her more.

“I have no money,” she whispered. “No family. No place in Cheyenne. If I leave this ranch tomorrow, I don’t know where I’ll sleep.”

Charles glanced toward the broken sewing table.

“You won’t leave tomorrow.”

Clementine stared at him.

“Miss Harley said—”

“I didn’t ask what Miss Harley said.”

His voice was quiet.

Final.

Clementine’s fingers тιԍнтened around the edge of her apron.

“Why do you care?”

Charles didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he crossed the room and crouched beside the scattered pieces of embroidery.

He picked up a small black rose that had been cut from a piece of fabric.

He studied it.

Then he looked at her.

“Because a woman who can make something this beautiful shouldn’t have to beg for permission to exist.”

Clementine’s lips parted.

She looked away before he could see the tears forming.

Charles noticed anyway.

“Sit.”

“I can stand.”

“I can see that.”

His gaze dropped to her swollen ankle.

“I can also see you’re hurting.”

Clementine slowly lowered herself onto the cot.

Charles pulled a chair from beneath the sewing table and sat opposite her.

For a moment, neither spoke.

The ranch below them was quiet.

Then Charles said, “Tell me about the dress.”

Clementine blinked.

“The crimson one?”

“Yes.”

“You liked it?”

“I didn’t say I liked it.”

Her heart sank.

Charles’s expression softened.

“I said it was a masterpiece.”

Clementine looked down at her hands.

“I started it three weeks ago.”

She ran one thumb over a callus.

“The silk was difficult. Too heavy for summer. But the color reminded me of autumn leaves.”

Charles listened.

“I embroidered the roses by hand,” she continued. “There are forty-three.”

“Forty-three?”

She nodded.

“Harley wanted thirty.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“You added thirteen.”

“She wasn’t supposed to know.”

“Why?”

Clementine’s shoulders lifted.

“Because I wanted it to be beautiful.”

Charles looked at her for a long moment.

“And that is why you’re leaving?”

“No.”

Her voice cracked.

“I’m leaving because people like me don’t get to make beautiful things. We only make them for people who can afford them.”

Silence.

Charles leaned back.

“Perhaps that’s about to change.”

Clementine looked at him.

He reached inside his coat and removed a folded sheet of paper.

He placed it on the table.

“What is that?”

“A proposal.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“What kind?”

“Work.”

She didn’t touch the paper.

“What kind of work?”

Charles nodded toward the sewing table.

“I want a dress.”

Clementine stared at him.

“For whom?”

“For someone who matters to me.”

Her heart gave an uncertain beat.

“Who?”

“My mother.”

Clementine blinked.

Charles continued.

“She has spent most of her life wearing dresses designed to please everyone except herself.”

He paused.

“I want that to change.”

Clementine looked at the paper again.

“You want me to make it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw what you did with Harley’s gown.”

He leaned forward.

“I didn’t see a woman who couldn’t fit into society’s mold.”

His gaze settled on her hands.

“I saw an artist.”

Clementine’s eyes filled.

She looked away.

“I’ve never been called that.”

“Then people have been blind.”

A floorboard creaked somewhere below.

Both of them turned.

Charles rose.

The warmth disappeared from his expression.

Someone was standing outside the attic.

A shadow moved beneath the door.

Clementine’s breath caught.

Charles stepped between her and the entrance.

The latch slowly began to turn.

Then Harley’s voice drifted through the wood.

“Charles?”

His eyes hardened.

Clementine stared at him.

Harley’s voice came again, sweeter this time.

“I know you’re in there.”

Charles didn’t move.

Harley laughed softly.

“Perhaps we should discuss what you’ve been doing with my seamstress.”

Clementine’s stomach twisted.

Charles reached for the door.

Before opening it, he looked back at Clementine.

“Whatever happens next,” he said quietly, “do not pack that bag.”

Then he opened the door.

Harley stood outside in a silk robe, her golden hair falling over her shoulders.

Her eyes moved past Charles.

Straight to Clementine.

Then to the packed satchel.

Then back to Charles.

Her face went still.

“She’s leaving,” Harley said.

Charles’s answer was immediate.

“No.”

Harley’s smile disappeared.

“What?”

Charles stepped into the doorway.

“She isn’t.”

The attic fell silent.

And for the first time, Harley realized the man she had spent weeks trying to impress had never been watching her at all.