Chapter 10 Fate
Fate
For two weeks after the Founder's Dance, all I could do was sit at the bay window of the library, staring out at nothing, haunted by the memory of a cowboy whose name now lived quietly in the hollow of my chest.
My friends had always described what it was like—how they just knew the moment they met the one meant for them.
I never understood that feeling. I was promised to a man as dry as a dust storm and a voice that held no softness.
He was nice, would be a good provider, but we barely know each other, and affection with him always feels like an obligation.
I’d resigned myself to a life of duty, to the quiet, colorless world expected of me.
I had come to terms with the fact that I would never know love like in the stories I read or what I watched my friends find.
Then came Marcel.
A drink. A dance. A smile carved from starlight. And in a few fleeting moments, he undid everything I thought I understood. Somehow, the touch of a stranger felt more familiar than the fiancé waiting for me back in Cheyenne.
I’ve tried to forget him. I’ve tried not to dream of the way he looked at me like I was a sunrise.
But it’s no use. His voice echoes through my thoughts like a melody I can’t shake.
Shame curls around the edges of my daydreams, but it’s not strong enough to smother the truth.
I want to know him. Desperately. Hopelessly.
A voice from downstairs breaks the spell.
“Clara?”
I blink, surfacing from my spiral, as I rise from the chair and head down the staircase.
“There you are,” my aunt calls. The butler brushes past, carrying luggage toward the front door.
“There’s trouble near the oil fields in Cheyenne,” she says briskly. “Your uncle’s needed immediately, and I’ll be going with him.”
Uncle Julian steps into the foyer. “We’ll only be gone for a couple of weeks.”
“I’m staying here, then?” I ask.
My aunt presses my hand gently. “It’s best if you stay here. There’s chaos in Cheyenne. I’ve asked Irene to check in every evening. The staff will tend to anything else. Will you be alright?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine.” I manage a smile. “Please travel safely.”
Aunt Izzy nods and wraps me in a hug. They sweep out with hurried goodbyes, the butler shutting the door behind them with a final, echoing click.
Later that afternoon, just past five, Irene arrives—her energy filling the house like spring wind through an open window.
“Clara, darling! Look at you.” She embraces me when I greet her in the foyer. “We are not staying cooped up in this mausoleum. Grab your things—we’re going out for dinner.”
The very idea causes something to stir in my chest. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good girl,” she says, eyes twinkling. “But don’t call me ma’am.”
We’re turning down a gravel road when I notice the sign swinging overhead: Devil’s Ridge Ranch.
The name slams into me like a gust of wind. My breath hitches. I turn sharply toward Irene. “Why are we here?”
“My dear friends Frank and Ada Hayes invited us for supper. Salt-of-the-earth people. You’ll adore them.”
I barely register her voice over the thunder of my own pulse.
This is his ranch. The truth crashes into me all at once, stealing the air from my lungs.
His words repeat back through the haze of memory, rising like prophecy.
If we cross paths again before you leave, let’s call it divine intervention.
My hands clench around my clutch as hope and apprehension war within me.
We pull up to the house and exit the car. I follow Irene to the door, fingers trembling, heart like thunder in my chest. The door opens, revealing a warm-faced woman with a kind smile.
“Irene! And who’s this beauty?”
“Clara Albright,” Irene beams. “Isadora’s niece. I thought she needed some fresh air.”
“Welcome, Clara. I hope a ranch dinner isn’t too rustic for you.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, voice soft, trying to steady myself.
She leads us to the dining room. The table is long, worn smooth by years of suppers, and full of life. A few men are already seated, voices low with the easy rhythm of familiarity. One rises to greet us.
“Glad you’re here, Irene. Clara, I’m Frank, make yourself at home.”
I slide into a chair, smoothing my skirt as conversation swells around me. Dishes pass from hand to hand, laughter and talk weaving through the room. More ranch hands file in, claiming seats, but one is still missing.
Then it happens. The unmistakable sound of boots crossing the porch.
The back door opens. Chestnut curls. The kind of walk that lives in a woman’s memory long after he’s gone.
My breath stills in my chest. The world slows.
He moves with that same unhurried pace, as though he were born of this place.
He slips off his hat, hanging it on the peg by the door before crossing to the sink.
Rolling up his sleeves, he washes his hands, water dripping down the strong lines of his forearms.
I pretend to study my plate, but my eyes betray me, following his every motion, greedy for every detail.
Then he turns. And sees me.
In that instant, his eyes find mine. His steps falter, just for a heartbeat, but I see it. His eyes widen just slightly before softening. His smile spreads slowly, like he’s surprised and pleased all at once.
The seat to my left is empty, and he claims it without hesitation.
“Sorry that we’re a couple of minutes late, Ms. Ada,” he says, tipping his head toward her. “The paddock took longer than expected.”
“No apologies needed, Marcel.” Ada’s smile is warm as she gestures toward me. “Everyone, this is Clara, a friend of Irene’s.”
A collection of greetings ripple around the table before Frank leads us in a bowed prayer. I lower my eyes along with the others, hands folded neatly in my lap, but my thoughts are far from the words. Even before I dare to look, I feel him.
He’s watching me.
I risk a glance and find his eyes fixed on me, filled with warmth that makes my chest ache. My cheeks flare hot, and I snap my gaze downward, lashes pressed tight against my skin as if shutting him out could calm the storm inside me.
Amen.
The word drifts into the air, but nothing in this moment feels holy.
Not when he sits beside me, close enough to touch.
Not when the memory of his hand at my waist lingers like an unshakable moment in time.
Not when I can almost hear his voice again, whispering my name as if it were a secret that he trusted only to the stars.
And now he is here. Flesh and breath, real in a way I never dared to dream of again.
This time, there are no festival lights above us, no fleeting chance encounter. This time, I am seated at his side, knowing I’m failing horribly at hiding my smile.