The driver steers us smoothly to a stop and cuts the engine. The house looms, quiet, my aunt and uncle still away in Cheyenne. My chest tightens with the weight of that absence. Normally, I’d find comfort in solitude, but now it feels like a dangerous freedom.
Inside, Irene sits in the parlor. “Well,” she says brightly, turning to me with eyes that gleam sharper than her tone, “that was an awfully long afternoon ride.”
I force a light laugh, unpinning my hat with trembling fingers. “The ranch is wide, Irene. It takes time to see it properly.”
She arches a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Indeed. But forgive me, Clara—I don’t believe it was the ranch that held your attention.”
I bristle, heat rising in my cheeks. “Marcel was a perfect gentleman. He showed me the trails, told me about the land. That’s all.”
“Mm,” she hums, slipping out of her jacket and hanging it neatly on the stand. “And yet you look as though you’ve been carrying a flame through a windstorm. That glow isn’t from the sun.”
I spin toward her, scandalized. “Irene!”
She only laughs, delight sparkling in her eyes as she waves me into the room. She pours two glasses of lemonade from the pitcher the maid set out, her tone softening. “Come now, Clara. I’ve known many women in my life. I know what it looks like when a man leaves his mark, even if it’s only in the heart.”
I sink onto the settee, lemonade untouched in my hands. The weight of truth presses too heavily to keep it buried. My eyes sting, my voice breaking. “I shouldn’t feel this way. Not about him. I’m engaged, Irene. In August, I’m meant to stand beside Phillip Winthrop and vow myself to a man I can hardly bring myself to speak with. And yet…” My throat closes on the words. “And yet one afternoon with Marcel makes me feel more alive than anything I’ve ever known.”
Irene’s expression softens, though there’s mischief lingering at the corners of her smile. She sits beside me, patting my hand. “Darling girl, the heart rarely respects the arrangements made for it. It listens only to itself.”
Tears slip free, sliding hot over my cheeks. “You must swear—swear with your very life—you’ll take this to your grave. If my aunt or uncle knew, if my parents—God, I can’t even imagine?—”
“I swear it,” Irene interrupts firmly, squeezing my hand. “This confession stays here, with me.” Then her eyes twinkle, conspiratorial. “But I’ll be damned if I let a girl waste the only summer of freedom she’ll ever know. Especially when freedom comes with curls and kind eyes.”
I gape at her. “Irene?—”
She leans back, fanning herself with a sly grin. “Don’t look so scandalized. I’m not suggesting ruin, Clara. Only opportunity. Time to discover what it is you truly want before the world cages you. And if you ask me…” Her voice dips into something almost playful. “What you want looks an awful lot like a ranch hand with a crooked smile.”
My pulse stutters. “You can’t mean?—”
“Oh, I do.” She winks. “Leave the scheming to me. Your aunt doesn’t have to know a thing. Consider me your accomplice.”
Her words spark a dangerous, thrilling heat in my chest—hope, temptation, terror all tangled into one. I clutch the glass in my hands, whispering the truth I can no longer hold back. “I think I love him already, Irene. And I don’t know how I’ll survive it.”
“Love is a heavy word, my dear Clara. Don’t let your heart run wild yet.” Irene warns.
Irene gives my hand a final squeeze, then leans back, her grin returning, sly and conspiratorial. “Now, leave the details to me. Your aunt will be in Cheyenne for days yet, and I know how to get the staff out of the house when I need them gone. A picnic here, a ride there—enough stolen hours to give you the chance to learn what your heart already suspects.”
My pulse hammers as her plotting takes root. It’s reckless. It’s dangerous. And yet—I feel alive in a way I’ve never dared before.
I whisper the only words I can manage. “Thank you, Irene.”
She winks, raising her glass in mock salute. “Don’t thank me yet, darling. Just promise me you’ll tread carefully. A secret flame is bright, but if you let it run wild, it can burn down everything in its wake.”
An Attempt
Marcel 1986
I leadClara up the staircase, my steps slower than usual, my heart not ready to say goodnight. The hallway is dim, lit by the first bit of moonlight slipping in through the windows. When I stop at what was Caroline’s door, I open it carefully, as though the room might remember its past occupant.
“This one’s empty now,” I say softly, stepping aside so she can enter. “It hasn’t been used much lately, but it’s warm and quiet. Private.”
Clara hesitates, brushing the frame before she steps in. Her eyes sweep across the bed, the quilt folded neatly at its foot, the dresser polished to a faint sheen. The lace curtains stir with the faintest draft, carrying in the cool scent of the fading day.
She turns slowly, almost wary. “It’s lovely.”
I clear my throat, restless, wanting to offer more. “Bathroom’s through there,” I say, gesturing to the adjoining door. “Hot water works well. Fresh towels are in the cabinet. Linens, too, if you need them.”
I move toward the dresser, tugging a drawer open before I can think better of it. “There…might be some clean clothes in here you could use. Nothing fancy, but night things, simple things. They’ve been laundered.”
