She surged to her feet, her blood pounding in her ears. “My father did no such thing!”
But the dreaded societal mistake of showing her emotions had been made. She’d played right into his hands. Foster slapped his hat on his head and slinked out of the room as fast as he’d entered.
———
Martha jerked awake. Pain shot through her neck. With a groan, she sat up in her chair and pressed her fingertips into the tight muscle. The clock on the mantel chimed midnight. Where was her mother?
But then, footsteps sounded out in the foyer.
Martha rushed out there and spotted the older woman heading up the grand staircase. “Mother!”
“Heavens, child.” She put a hand to her chest. “What are you doing up at this hour?”
Martha lifted her chin. “I could ask you the same thing.” She’d never spoken to either of her parents like that.
Mother narrowed her eyes. “Young lady, you better have a good explanation for speaking to me in such a way.”
“A reporter, Mother.” She spat the words. “He came here and said he’s writing an article about how Father blew up fossils in Wyoming!”
Mother paused, placed her hand on the intricately carved handrail, then descended the stairs with slow, steady steps. Her lips were pinched in a thin line.
How could Mother be so calm? The thought of Martha’s own flesh and blood stooping to the levels of sabotage and connivery made her sick to her stomach. “Father would have never done that.”
“We will not speak of it now. I don’t have time for this.” For the first time ever, Martha’s mother looked ... weary. Aged. Mother had always been a beautiful woman, but the lines around her mouth and eyes had deepened since Father’s death.
“But Mother! He was a reporter. Won’t he tar—”
“Enough!” Mother’s raised voice was like a slap. “I will deal with this reporter. What was his name?”
“Leonard Foster.” The name even tasted rancid on her tongue.
“Very well.”
Had she pushed too hard? She rushed to her mother, hoping to embrace her and cry together like they had before, but Mother stepped back and held up a hand. “I’m tired, my dear. Things have been difficult since...”
Feeling the ache of her own grief compiled with the stabbingpain of being refused, Martha straightened. “I understand.” But she didn’t. And she never would.
On wooden legs, she carried herself to her room, threw herself on her bed, and sobbed.
FRIDAY, JUNE21, 1889
Martha knew Jacob’s address by heart, not that she would have ever dreamed of coming here on her own before today. But at this moment, she didn’t care that she was without a companion or chaperone. She didn’t care what people thought. She didn’t care if anyone recognized her.
All she wanted was to talk to Jacob.
As she looked up at the two-story apartment house, she couldn’t stop the tears. She’d been like this the entire night and the only person she could think of talking to was him.
The sun wasn’t even up yet, but she waited outside the building watching the mountains in the west as the sun’s rays hit them.
“Martha?” Jacob’s shocked voice from behind her was followed by footsteps on the porch. “Is everything all right?”
She turned her tear-stained face toward him and shook her head. “No. It’s not all right.”
He pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and handed it to her. With a hand to the small of her back, he led her across the street.
As she wiped her eyes, his gaze darted around. “Perhaps we could go to the hotel and have breakfast there?”
“I’m not hungry.” She shook her head and sniffed.
