Chapter 8
Rose sat between James’s empty chair and Robert at the long oak table, listening to the easy flow of dinner conversation around her while darkness pressed against the windows.
The evening had settled around the ranch house like a familiar quilt, and she’d found herself surprisingly at peace during the long afternoon spent learning Mrs. Wang’s—Bea’s—methods for managing the household.
The older woman had insisted Rose call her by her given name like Mandie did, though it appeared the men still addressed her with the formal respect of Mrs. Wang.
There was something comforting about that small intimacy, as though she’d been granted entry into an inner circle she’d never expected to find again.
What would she do if it were all taken away again?
“The weather’s holding better than I expected,” Robert was saying as he passed the bowl of roasted potatoes. “If we can get another few days like this one, we might actually beat the snow.”
Enoch glanced at the window, though he could surely see nothing with the darkness outside. “James should have been back by now. Hope he didn’t run into trouble finding men willing to come up here.” The way he said it made Rose’s stomach tighten. She set her fork down.
Mandie offered a gentle, “I’m sure he’s fine.” But her hand drifted to rest protectively over her belly. “Maybe he stayed in town to have supper with the men he hired. It would make sense to talk over the work while they ate.”
Hoofbeats sounded in the yard, drawing all their eyes to the window. Thomas pushed back from the table and moved to look out. “That’s James. Looks like he’s got someone with him. Three someones, actually.” Thomas let the curtain fall back into place. “Must have found his workers.”
Rose’s hands tightened in her lap as the sound of boots on the front porch echoed through the house. Voices carried from outside—James’s familiar tone mixed with rougher accents she didn’t recognize.
Her pulse quickened, though she couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was simply the thought of strangers in this place that had begun to feel like sanctuary.
The voices faded, and the brothers went back to eating.
As though he could sense her confusion, Robert added, “They’ll settle the horses before coming in.”
She nodded and picked up her fork, though she couldn’t bring herself to put a bite in her mouth. What if one of these men had seen her before? What if one of them mentioned her presence here to Vincent? The chances surely weren’t likely. She shouldn’t worry. Right?
The front door opened, and James’s footsteps echoed through the front room.
“Sorry I’m late.” He appeared in the doorway. His hair was windblown, his shirt dusty from the road, but his eyes immediately sought Rose’s face across the table. Something flickered in his expression—relief, perhaps. At finding her still there? “The men are getting settled in the barn.”
Enoch gestured to the empty chair. “We saved you a plate. Who’d you find?”
“Three good ones, I think. Pete and Jake Clawson—you remember them—and a fellow named Bill Carter.” James moved to his chair, but his gaze kept returning to Rose with an intensity that made her stomach twist.
“They’ll be in to eat in a few minutes.” James sank back in his seat. Something in his voice carried an edge she couldn’t quite place—tension beneath the casual words. “Mrs. Wang, I hope there’s enough food. They’ve had a long ride.”
“Always enough food in this house.” Bea rose from her chair and marched into the kitchen. “I get more plates ready.”
Rose started to stand as well. “Let me help—”
“No, no. You sit. Eat.” Mrs. Wang waved her down, but Rose had already pushed back from the table. The familiar work would give her something to focus on besides the knot of anxiety forming in her chest.
In the kitchen, she helped Mrs. Wang arrange plates while trying to shake the feeling that something had shifted. The way James had looked at her when he’d walked in—not with his usual warmth, but with something that felt almost like worry.
The sound of boots on the porch interrupted her thoughts, followed by voices as the hired men entered the house. She smoothed her skirt and followed Mrs. Wang back into the dining room, carrying the extra plates.
Three men stood by the doorway, hats in hand, the dust of travel still on their clothes. Two of them she could see were brothers—similar build and coloring, though one was younger. The third fellow looked older, lean and weathered, with sharp eyes that took in everything at once.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” Enoch rose from his chair. “Welcome to the Balfour ranch.”
As the men greeted each other, she placed the plates she carried on the table, then slipped back into the kitchen. The less time she spent around them the better.
But as she reached for more mugs from the cupboard, James appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Rose.” His voice came quiet, careful. “Could I speak with you a minute?”
Her hands stilled on the cups. The gravity in his tone tightened her chest. “Of course.”
Mrs. Wang looked up from ladling potatoes into the bowl, her dark eyes moving between them. “You two go. I finish here.”
Rose followed James back through the dining room, then toward the front door. With every step, her insides twisted tighter.
Once outside, he let out a breath. “It’ll be quieter here.”
More private too. With any other man, she might be worried for her safety or virtue, but this was James.
And even if she didn’t already know deep inside what a good man he was, she’d spent the entire wagon ride from Butte alone with him, and he’d proved himself a gentleman.
Besides, the tense line of his shoulders said he had bad news.
About her, apparently.
James led her to the wooden porch chairs, but he didn’t sit, so she didn’t either. The evening air carried the sharp bite of coming winter, and Rose wrapped her arms around herself, as much for comfort as warmth.
“Rose.” He stopped, running a hand through his hair. In the lamplight spilling from the windows, the conflict in his face showed plain—the way his jaw worked as though searching for the right words.
Her stomach dropped even further. “What is it?”
“There was a notice posted in town today. At Holbrook’s mercantile.” His green eyes found hers. “A missing person notice. For you.”
The world tilted beneath her feet. She gripped the porch railing, her knuckles white against the weathered wood. “What did it say?”
James’s expression grew grim. “Fifty-dollar reward. Posted by Vincent Dunhill in Virginia City.” He watched her face carefully. “Says your family is worried for your safety.”
Her head went light, and the world swayed a little.
Vincent. Of course he would come after her—she was his investment, his prized songbird. Twenty years of her life signed away on a contract, and he wouldn’t let her slip away so easily.
“Rose?” James stepped closer, his hand hovering near her elbow as though he feared she might collapse. “Who is Vincent Dunhill?”
She couldn’t speak past the constriction in her throat.
He was the man who owned her voice, her time, her very existence until she was thirty-five years old.
The man who’d been so generous when Mama lay dying, so understanding about the medical bills and funeral expenses. All she’d had to do was sign her name.
“He’s not family,” she finally whispered. “He’s…”
She couldn’t breathe. The mountain air that had felt so clean and fresh all day now seemed thin, insufficient.
Vincent had found her trail already. Of course he had—he had connections everywhere, men who owed him favors. She’d been foolish to think she could simply disappear.
“I have to leave.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “I have to leave tonight.”
“No.” James’s hand covered hers on the railing, warm and steady. Too solid. “Rose, whatever this is, whatever you’re running from, you don’t have to leave. My family—we’ll protect you. But we have to understand what we’re up against.”
The knot in her middle twisted tighter at his words. Protect her? How could they protect her from a legal contract signed by her own hand? How could they understand what they were facing when she could barely bring herself to speak it?
“You don’t understand.” Her voice came out thin.
“Vincent isn’t just some man looking for a missing girl.
He…” She swallowed hard, forcing the words past the shame that rose in her throat like bile.
“Mama married him after we left here, then he managed our singing performances. He…required us to sing. When Mama was dying, the doctors, the medicines—it all cost so much money. Vincent paid for everything. The funeral too.”
James waited, his hand still covering hers, impossibly still.
“In return, I signed a contract.” The admission felt like tearing something vital from her chest. “Twenty years of performances. I owe him until I’m thirty-five years old.” She looked up at James then, seeing her own horror reflected in his eyes. “He owns me, Jamie. Legally owns me.”
The silence that followed was deafening. James’s hand tightened on hers, and his jaw clenched. Something fierce and protective flashed across his features.
“A twenty-year contract?” His voice was barely controlled. “Rose, you were fifteen when your mother died. That’s—” He stopped himself, but she could see the word he didn’t say written in the hard line of his mouth. Horrible. She’d sold herself, and she was irretrievably horribly dirty.
“I was desperate. Mama was suffering, and the doctors said they could help her, but it cost so much.” Even now, the awful weight of it pressed down over her. Smothering.
“Rose.” James’s voice came out rough, laced with a barely contained fury. “That’s not a contract—that’s slavery.”