PART 3 — THE LETTER FROM ST. LOUIS

The storm lasted two days.

By the time the skies cleared, the mountains looked like a world made entirely of white.

Amos spent the morning clearing the path to the stable. Clara prepared breakfast and organized the supplies that had survived the storm.

When he returned, he found her standing beside the table with a small envelope in her hand.

“What’s that?”

“It came with the last supply delivery.”

He took the envelope.

His name was written across the front.

But the handwriting was unfamiliar.

Amos opened it.

He read the first line.

Then the second.

His expression became so still that Clara immediately noticed.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Amos, you look as though someone has died.”

He folded the letter.

“It’s from the marriage agency.”

Clara’s heart sank.

“Is there a problem?”

He looked at her.

“The agency wants another payment.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen dollars.”

Clara sat down.

“But you already paid thirty.”

“They claim the first payment covered the introduction and travel arrangements. The remaining amount is supposedly due after the marriage.”

Clara stared at the letter.

“I was told the thirty dollars covered everything.”

“So was I.”

Amos placed the paper on the table.

“They say if the balance isn’t paid, the marriage registration may be challenged.”

Clara went pale.

“Could they send me back?”

Amos looked at her carefully.

“Do you want to go back?”

She shook her head.

“Then they won’t be sending you anywhere.”

“But what if they have legal authority?”

“Then I’ll find out.”

He folded the letter again and slipped it into his pocket.

Clara remained silent.

She had left St. Louis with almost nothing. The money she had saved from sewing had paid the remainder of her travel expenses. She had expected a difficult marriage, perhaps even an unhappy one.

But she had never imagined that someone might try to send her away after she had finally begun to feel settled.

That afternoon, Amos rode down to Bitter Creek.

He returned just before dark with a small parcel and a newspaper.

“What happened?” Clara asked.

“The agency’s office is closed.”

“Then what will we do?”

“I spoke to the town clerk. He says the marriage certificate is registered properly. Nobody can cancel it because an agency wants more money.”

Clara exhaled.

“So we’re still married?”

Amos looked uncomfortable.

“According to the county, yes.”

She nodded.

“Thank you for going.”

He placed the parcel on the table.

“I also bought you something.”

Clara opened it.

Inside lay a pair of sturdy leather boots, lined with wool.

She looked up.

“My shoes are worn,” she said.

“I noticed.”

“These must have cost a great deal.”

“Less than a broken ankle.”

Clara smiled.

“Thank you, Amos.”

He nodded and turned toward the stove.

But she noticed he was trying not to smile.

The following morning, Clara received another surprise.

A letter had arrived from St. Louis.

She recognized the handwriting immediately.

It belonged to her younger sister, Margaret.

Clara’s fingers trembled as she opened it.

The letter was short.

Dear Clara,

I hope you are safe. I have been trying to find you for weeks. A man came to our boardinghouse asking questions about your marriage. He said the agency had received a complaint from someone claiming you were not the woman who agreed to the arrangement.

I did not understand what he meant. He also asked whether you had inherited anything from Father.

Clara, I think someone is looking for you.

Please write as soon as you can.

Your loving sister,

Margaret.

Clara read it twice.

Then she sat down.

Amos entered carrying a basket of firewood.

He noticed the letter.

“What happened?”

She handed it to him.

He read it slowly.

“Who would be looking for you?”

Clara shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

“Did your father leave you anything?”

She hesitated.

Then she nodded.

“Not money. At least, not much.”

“What, then?”

Clara looked toward the old trunk beside the wall.

“My father owned a small house in St. Louis. He was a carpenter. He also had a workshop where he made furniture.”

“And?”

“He died before I turned twenty. The house was left to my sister and me.”

Amos frowned.

“Did you sell it?”

“No. We rented it to a family while we lived at the boardinghouse.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

Clara lowered her eyes.

“Because I didn’t want you to think I had married you for a house or money.”

Amos stared at her.

“Clara, I didn’t marry you because you were poor.”

She looked up.

“I thought you wanted a practical wife.”

“I did.”

“And you thought I was too delicate.”

He rubbed his beard.

“I did.”

“Do you still?”

Amos looked at the organized pantry, the repaired curtains, and the warm cabin.

Then he shook his head.

“No.”

A quiet smile appeared on Clara’s face.

“Good.”

He sat opposite her.

“Your sister says someone is looking for your inheritance. We should find out why.”

Clara nodded.

“I think so too.”

Three days later, Amos rode into Bitter Creek with a letter addressed to Margaret.

When he returned, he found Clara standing on the porch, holding another envelope.

This one had no return address.

“Who delivered that?” he asked.

“A boy from the trading post.”

Amos took the envelope.

There was no greeting.

Only a single sentence:

Leave your husband’s cabin and return to St. Louis before the first day of spring, or your sister will lose everything.

Clara’s face had gone white.

Amos read it again.

Then he turned the paper over.

A name was written at the bottom.

HENRY VALE — ST. LOUIS PROPERTY OFFICE.

Clara recognized it immediately.

“Henry Vale,” she whispered.

“Who is he?”

“He was my father’s business partner.”

Amos folded the letter carefully.

“Why would he threaten your sister?”

Clara looked toward the mountains.

“Because Father didn’t leave him the workshop.”

She swallowed.

“He left it to us.”

Amos stood.

“Then that’s where we’re going.”

Clara looked at him in disbelief.

“You would travel all the way to St. Louis?”

“If someone is threatening your sister, yes.”

“But the journey could take weeks.”

“Then we’d better start preparing.”

Clara looked at the man who had once complained that she was too beautiful to be his wife.

Now he was preparing to cross hundreds of miles of rough country because someone had threatened her family.

She reached for his hand.

“Amos?”

He turned.

“Thank you for believing me.”

He looked down at their joined hands.

Then, for the first time, he gently squeezed hers.

“You’re my wife, Clara. I should have started believing in you from the moment you stepped off that stagecoach.”

But neither of them noticed the rider watching from the tree line.

He had been waiting there since morning.

And when Amos went inside to prepare the horses, the stranger rode away toward Bitter Creek with a message of his own.

Clara had been found.