Chapter 2
The stagecoach wheel dropped into another rut, and Kate’s shoulder slammed against the side panel hard enough to add another bruise to her collection.
Three months of steamships and ice floes and bone-rattling wagon rides across the frozen prairie, and now this final torture device disguised as a stage. The leather seat had long since stopped providing any cushioning—or perhaps her body had simply run out of places that didn’t already ache.
She shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t press on the worst of the bruises. Nothing helped though. At least the end was in sight.
Butte sprawled ahead through the grimy window, buildings rising from the mountainside like tombstones in a particularly crowded cemetery.
It wasn’t South Carolina. It wasn’t even close.
But it was here, and that meant the end of this nightmare journey.
“Oh, Kate, look!” Clara leaned across her, pointing at something through the window.
Strands of her honey-blonde hair had come loose from their pins hours ago, and dust streaked her traveling dress—the blue one Kate had spent two weeks sewing, with the tiny pearl buttons Clara had fawned over. “Is that a theater?”
Kate followed her sister’s finger to a false-fronted building with peeling paint and a crooked sign. “I think that’s a saloon.”
“Oh.” Clara settled back against the seat, though the disappointment lasted only a moment before her smile returned.
Kate glanced at the bench across from them, where Mrs. Hartwell—Audrey, as she’d insisted they call her—slept on her husband’s shoulder.
Somehow, the woman had managed to remain immaculate despite the journey.
Her traveling suit showed barely a wrinkle, and her dark hair stayed perfectly arranged beneath her hat.
Almost like she had a lady’s maid hidden in her reticule.
Mr. Harwell shifted, and his wife stirred but didn’t wake. He’d proven himself a decent traveling companion despite his obvious wealth—quiet, unassuming, and patient with his wife’s enthusiasm for every landmark they passed. He caught Kate’s eye now and offered a small, friendly nod.
Kate returned the gesture and looked back out the window.
The buildings grew denser as the stage rolled deeper into Butte.
More substantial too—brick and stone replacing the rough lumber of the outskirts.
Signs advertised everything from mining equipment to French millinery, though she doubted the millinery was actually French.
Still. The variety meant opportunity. The wealth pouring out of these mountains had to go somewhere.
Her hand moved to the pocket where she’d tucked Audrey Hartwell’s calling card, just to confirm its presence. The cardstock was thick and expensive beneath her fingertips. Real. Not a dream conjured by exhaustion and desperation.
She had a commission. A real one, from a woman who could afford to pay well and whose recommendation could open doors throughout Butte’s social circles.
The kind of opportunity she’d hardly dared imagine when they’d left South Carolina.
The kind of opportunity her stepmother had made clear was never meant for women like her.
Lord willing, Clara would be well settled with her new husband—a God-fearing rancher, if he turned out to be as he advertised.
And Kate could live in Walnut Springs and build her own business as a seamstress.
She’d only need to travel to Butte once a month or so for fittings and deliveries and such. She could manage that.
The stage lurched again, and her stomach protested. When had she last eaten? That morning’s dried beef and biscuits, probably. Her mouth tasted like dust and something foul.
“I hope we’ll have time to stop at the hotel first.” Clara’s voice sounded bright despite the exhaustion that showed in the shadows beneath her eyes. “We could freshen up. And maybe take a bath?”
Washing sounded like heaven. Kate’s skin itched beneath layers of travel grime, and her hair stiffened with dust. How many days since she’d been properly clean? She’d lost count somewhere between when they’d been forced off the wrecked steamboat on the barren prairie and here.
But would Mr. Balfour be waiting for the stage?
The last wire she’d been able to send had been from Fort Benton, eleven long days ago.
She’d communicated the schedule the stage line posted, which had her and Clara arriving yesterday.
Had he come to meet the stage then? Was he disappointed when the rickety contraption never rolled into town?
When she sent him their arrival date, she’d not realized how challenging this last stretch of the journey would be—and how much better she and her sister would feel after a few minutes’ respite before meeting the man Clara would marry.
The stage slowed, and buildings pressed closer on either side. Men crowded the wooden sidewalks—miners mostly, from the look of them. Rough clothing and thickly bearded faces. A few glanced at the stage as it passed, but most ignored it.
Just another stage. Just another day in Butte.
Except it wasn’t just another day for her and Clara. This was a new beginning for them both.
The stage rolled to a stop, and the driver’s voice carried from above. “Butte! End of the line!”
Mrs. Hartwell stirred, blinking awake with the grace of someone who’d merely been resting her eyes rather than sleeping through the last hour of travel. “Oh, are we here already?”
Her husband smiled and patted her hand. “Indeed we are, my dear.”
The driver appeared at the door, yanking it open with a force that sent cold air rushing into the cramped interior. Kate’s lungs seized at the shock of it—sharp and clean after hours of breathing stale air thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and leather.
“Watch your step, ladies.” The driver offered his hand, his lined face creasing into something that might have been meant as a smile. “Ground’s a bit icy.”
Clara went first, gathering her skirts with the natural grace she’d somehow maintained despite these three months of torture. Kate followed, accepting the driver’s callused hand and stepping down onto—
Her boot hit the frozen ground, and her foot nearly went out from under her. She caught herself on the stage’s doorframe, her fingers screaming protest at the sudden grip. Every joint in her body felt rusted shut.
“Steady there.” The driver’s hand gripped her elbow. She would have shaken him off but didn’t trust her legs yet.
The street stretched before her, wider than she’d expected.
Buildings rose on either side, most two stories tall with painted signs advertising wares she couldn’t quite make out through the film of exhaustion coating her vision.
Men moved along the wooden sidewalks, their voices a low rumble beneath the sharper sounds of hammering somewhere in the distance and the creak of wagon wheels.
So many people. After weeks of empty prairie, the sheer mass of it all made her head spin.
“Kate?” Clara touched her arm, concern flicking across her face. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” The word came out too sharp. She worked for a smile. “Just finding my legs.”
The Hartwells had already descended, Mr. Hartwell directing a porter about their luggage, clearly a man accustomed to being obeyed.
Mrs. Hartwell turned back to them, her face bright despite the journey. “Katherine. Now, you have my card, yes? You must come call on me once you’re settled. We’ll discuss the designs for the winter gowns, and I can introduce you to some friends who are simply dying for a skilled dressmaker.”
“Of course.” Kate forced another smile through her stiff face. “Thank you again, Mrs. Hartwell. For everything.”
“Audrey, please.” The woman squeezed Kate’s hand, and the gesture felt genuine. “I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends.”
Friends. The word sat strange in Kate’s chest. She didn’t have friends—just Clara, the one grace that came from her father’s remarriage.
Friends required trust, and Kate had learned the steep cost of that particular commodity. Still, Audrey Hartwell’s recommendation could mean the difference between scraping by and actual success. She had to nurture the connection, even if friendship felt like too generous a word.
“I look forward to it.” This time, the smile felt more real.
Mr. Hartwell tipped his hat. “Ladies. Best of luck to you both.” He offered his arm to his wife, and they swept away toward a waiting carriage, its roof already loaded with an impressive stack of luggage.
As she turned to scan the street, the cold bit through her traveling dress—layers of wool that had seemed adequate in the heated confines of the stage but now proved laughably insufficient. Her teeth wanted to chatter. She clenched her jaw against it.
Somewhere in this chaos of people and commerce, a rancher would be coming to meet Clara.
Thomas Balfour. The name signed on the letters Clara had shown her. Letters that promised stability, faith, and a home in the mountains.
She could only pray he would be the man he seemed. Reality had a way of disappointing.
“Do you think he’s here?” Clara’s fingers twisted in her skirt, betraying the nerves her bright smile tried to hide. “Mr. Balfour?”
Kate studied the crowd of men moving along the sidewalk. Most paid them no attention, intent on their own business. A few glanced their way—the kind of looks that made her want to wrap her cloak tighter.
Then a woman appeared through the bodies, striding with intention toward them. A tall lady in a deep green dress—a simple cut, but the color brought out the rich auburn in her hair. Beside her walked a man—broad-shouldered and dark-haired, his hand resting at the woman’s back.
Kate’s stomach tightened. Something about the way they moved, the deliberateness of their approach, spoke of purpose.
That couldn’t be Mr. Balfour though, right? Not with the possessive way he touched the lady.
The woman’s eyes found Kate’s, and she smiled—warm and genuine in a way that didn’t quite belie the tension visible in the set of her shoulders.
“Miss McKinney?” The woman’s voice carried clearly despite the noise of the street. “Miss Clara McKinney?”
Clara stepped forward, her chin lifting in that way she did when nerves threatened to overwhelm her. “Yes, I’m Clara McKinney. And this is my sister, Kate.”
The woman’s face broke into a smile that looked genuine enough, though Kate had learned long ago that smiles meant nothing. She stepped forward beside Clara and waited.
“I’m Rose Balfour.” She gestured to her companion. “And this is my husband, James. We’re Thomas’s brother and sister-in-law.”
Brother and sister-in-law.
Not Thomas himself.
The knot in her middle pulled tighter. A man who sent his relatives to meet his mail-order bride—what did that say about him? Nothing good. Nothing that made her want to hand Clara over to his keeping.
“It’s wonderful to finally meet you both.” Rose’s words tumbled out. “We’ve been so looking forward to your arrival. Thomas is—he’s waiting at the hotel. We thought it might be easier this way, given the crowds and all the luggage.”
Kate’s jaw tightened. Easier for whom? Not for Clara, who’d traveled three months to meet this man. Not for Kate, who needed to assess this Thomas Balfour with her own eyes before she’d let her sister anywhere near him.
“How thoughtful.” The words came out a bit too flat. She couldn’t usually manage warmth when her instincts screamed warning.
Rose’s smile faltered at the edges. “I know this must seem—well, unconventional. But Thomas is just—he’s been—” She glanced at her husband, maybe for help.
James Balfour offered a smile their direction, and he motioned back the direction the couple had come. “My brother’s looking forward to meeting you. The hotel’s just down the street. We have rooms reserved for you also.”
As she and Clara followed the pair toward the boardwalk, she kept her hand firm on Clara’s elbow. Whoever this Thomas Balfour turned out to be, and however excited Clara was about this new life gleaming before her, Kate wouldn’t turn her sister over to him without proof he deserved her.
If he turned out to be another disappointment—another man who promised one thing and delivered another—then she and Clara could make their own way right here in Butte. Kate’s sewing could support them both.
The commission from Audrey Hartwell was just the beginning. She’d build a clientele, establish a reputation, and Clara would never have to marry anyone out of desperation.
The thought settled deep in her chest. A backup plan. An escape route if Thomas Balfour proved unworthy.