PART 4 — THE JOURNEY TO ST. LOUIS AND THE MAN WHO WANTED HER GONE

The stranger had reached Bitter Creek before Amos finished packing.

By sunrise, the entire town seemed to know that Amos intended to take his new wife east.

But someone knew more than that.

Someone knew exactly why Clara was going.

And that someone was already preparing to stop her.

Amos stood beside the buckboard, checking the supplies while Clara carefully wrapped their food in clean cloth.

“You’re certain we should both go?” she asked.

He looked up.

“Someone threatened your sister. You think I’m sending you into that alone?”

“I don’t want you losing your livelihood because of me.”

Amos тιԍнтened a strap across the luggage.

“Clara, I’ve spent eleven years coming home to an empty cabin. I reckon I can survive a few weeks away from it.”

She smiled faintly.

Then he added, “Besides, somebody has to make sure you don’t spend the whole journey arguing with railway clerks.”

“I have never argued with a railway clerk.”

“Not yet.”

For a moment, they laughed.

It was a small thing, but Clara noticed how naturally it happened now.

The man who had once looked at her as though the marriage agency had delivered a porcelain doll was beginning to look at her as though she belonged beside him.

They left Bitter Creek shortly after sunrise.

The journey was difficult.

The roads were muddy, the nights bitterly cold, and the horses struggled through several steep mountain pᴀssages.

But Clara surprised Amos at every turn.

She knew how to mend a torn blanket, calculate their remaining provisions, and negotiate reasonable prices at roadside settlements.

At one small inn, the proprietor tried charging them twice the ordinary rate.

Amos was already reaching for his purse when Clara quietly pointed out the mistake in his account book.

The proprietor examined the figures.

Then he reluctantly lowered the price.

Outside, Amos shook his head.

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“My father.”

“Your father was a carpenter.”

“He was also a businessman. He believed a person should understand every number written beside their name.”

Amos looked at her thoughtfully.

“Sounds like a wise man.”

“He was.”

Her voice softened.

For several miles, she said nothing.

Then Amos reached across the seat and placed his gloved hand over hers.

He didn’t ask what she was thinking.

Somehow, she was grateful for that.

On the sixth evening, they arrived at a small railway town where Amos planned to purchase fresh supplies.

Clara was examining a display of ribbons when she noticed a man watching her from across the street.

He wore a dark overcoat and carried a polished walking stick.

The moment their eyes met, he stepped into a nearby doorway.

Clara’s stomach тιԍнтened.

“Amos?”

He turned.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think someone has been following us.”

Amos looked across the street.

The man was gone.

“Stay close to me.”

They continued toward the general store.

But when they returned to the inn, a folded note had been slipped beneath their door.

Clara recognized the handwriting.

Henry Vale.

The message contained only a few words.

Your father should have known better than to trust his daughters. Return to Bitter Creek while you still can.

Amos read it twice.

His expression hardened.

“Have you ever told this man where you went?”

“No.”

“Does he know about our marriage?”

Clara hesitated.

“Perhaps. The agency knew my address before I left St. Louis.”

Amos placed the note on the table.

“Then somebody’s been talking.”

Clara sat down.

“There is something I haven’t told you.”

He pulled out the chair opposite her.

“Go on.”

“When Father died, Henry Vale offered to purchase the workshop. He said it was worth almost nothing because Father had debts.”

“Was that true?”

“No. Father had paid most of them.”

“Then why didn’t you sell it?”

“Because he told me something before he died.”

Clara reached into her traveling bag and removed a small envelope.

Inside was a faded pH๏τograph of a workshop and a handwritten sentence.

Never sign anything Henry Vale places before you. The truth is beneath the old workbench.

Amos studied the paper.

“Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“Because I thought it was simply a warning about a dishonest business partner. I never imagined it would lead to threats against Margaret.”

Amos returned the pH๏τograph.

“Then we’d better find out what’s beneath that workbench.”

Three days later, St. Louis appeared through the gray morning mist.

Clara stared at the familiar rooftops.

She had not seen the city in nearly two years.

Yet nothing looked quite the same.

Perhaps because she was no longer the frightened young woman who had once left it.

Perhaps because she now had someone beside her who would not let her face its troubles alone.

Their first stop was the boardinghouse where Margaret lived.

Clara hurried up the steps and knocked.

The door opened.

“Clara?”

Margaret stood frozen.

Then she threw her arms around her sister.

“Oh, thank heaven!”

Clara held her тιԍнтly.

“You’re all right?”

Margaret nodded, though her eyes were wet.

“I am now.”

She glanced toward Amos.

“And you must be Mr. Amos.”

“Amos is fine.”

Margaret studied him for a moment.

Then she smiled.

“I hope you’ve been taking care of my sister.”

Amos glanced at Clara.

“She’s been taking care of me.”

Margaret laughed.

But her expression soon became serious.

“There’s something you both need to know.”

She led them into the parlor and locked the door.

“Henry Vale came here three times last week. He wanted Father’s original property papers.”

“Did you give them to him?” Clara asked.

“Of course not.”

“Where are they?”

Margaret hesitated.

Then she pointed toward an old sewing cabinet.

“Father left a small iron key with me. He told me never to hand it to anyone except you.”

She opened a drawer and removed a tiny key wrapped in blue cloth.

Clara recognized the embroidery immediately.

It had belonged to their mother.

“What does it open?” Amos asked.

Margaret shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

Clara turned the key over in her palm.

Then she remembered something.

Their father’s workshop had contained an old iron cabinet beneath the stairs.

A cabinet neither daughter had ever been allowed to open.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered, “we go to the workshop.”

But Margaret suddenly caught her arm.

“Clara, there’s something else.”

“What?”

“Henry didn’t come alone the last time.”

Margaret looked toward the window.

“He brought a lawyer.”

“Why?”

“Because he claims Father left behind a signed agreement transferring the entire workshop to him.”

Clara felt the room grow cold.

“That is impossible.”

“I know. But he says he has witnesses.”

Amos stood.

“Then we’ll see those papers.”

Margaret lowered her voice.

“You don’t understand. Henry has already convinced several people that Clara stole money from the business after Father died.”

Clara stared at her sister.

“What?”

“He says you’re the reason the workshop nearly went bankrupt.”

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Amos walked to the window.

Across the street stood a familiar figure in a dark overcoat.

The same man from the railway town.

He was watching the boardinghouse.

When Amos moved toward the door, the stranger turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Amos looked back at Clara.

“Tomorrow we visit that workshop.”

He paused.

“And this time, we’re not leaving without the truth.”

But neither sister knew that Henry Vale had already received a message.

It contained three words.

They have arrived.

And beneath those words was a second instruction.

Burn the workbench before morning.