She Wrote Letters for Every Lonely Man in Town—Then a Rancher Asked for One Addressed to Her
Chapter 11
By morning, the fire was out.
Only the stone chimney remained.
Clara sat on the steps of the bakery wrapped in a blanket.
Thomas brought her coffee.
“You should sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“You should eat.”
“I can’t.”
He sat beside her.
For several minutes they watched smoke rise.
Then Clara said, “I think I love you.”
Thomas turned.
She looked embarrassed.
“I didn’t plan to say it.”
“I know.”
“You’re supposed to say something.”
“I am thinking.”
She smiled weakly.
“That is dangerous.”
“I love you too.”
Her smile grew.
“How long?”
“Three years.”
“You have been keeping that secret for three years?”
“Yes.”
“That is absurd.”
“I know.”
She leaned against his shoulder.
Then a rider came from the eastern road.
It was Amos Bell.
He dismounted slowly.
“I found Whitlock.”
Thomas stood.
“Where?”
“His warehouse.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then why aren’t you arresting him?”
The sheriff looked ashamed.
“Because the magistrate is involved.”
Clara stood.
“Then we go above them.”
“There is no one above them here.”
Thomas looked toward the road.
“There is.”
“Who?”
“The governor’s representative in Hartford.”
Clara stared.
The journey would take weeks.
But it might be their only chance.
She looked at the ruins of her shop.
Then at Thomas.
“I’ll go.”
He nodded.
“I’ll take you.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“I don’t want you protecting me.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why?”
“Because I’m going with you.”
She smiled.
“That’s different.”
“Yes.”
“Very.”
He offered his hand.
She took it.
Behind them, the people of Bellmere began rebuilding.
