She Wrote Letters for Every Lonely Man in Town—Then a Rancher Asked for One Addressed to Her
Chapter 2
Clara had heard many strange requests in her six years as Bellmere’s letter writer.
A man once asked her to write to his wife explaining why he had spent their savings on a horse that died two days later.
Another wanted a letter that would make his sweetheart believe he had been wounded in battle, though he had never served in any army.
One elderly widower had paid Clara two shillings to write the same letter every Christmas to his dead wife’s grave.
But never had she heard a request like Thomas Reed’s.
“To me?” she repeated.
He nodded.
Clara stepped aside.
“Come in before you catch cold.”
Thomas entered, removing his hat.
The shop smelled of beeswax, ink, damp wool, and lavender.
He looked strangely large among the narrow shelves and little writing tables.
Clara closed the door.
“You want me to write a letter addressed to me.”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
“Me.”
She stared.
Thomas seemed almost uncomfortable under her gaze.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know.”
That answer nearly made her laugh.
“Then perhaps you should explain.”
He placed a small leather pouch on her desk.
It struck the wood with a heavy sound.
Coins.
Clara frowned.
“What is that?”
“Payment.”
“For a letter?”
“For your time.”
“My usual fee is one penny per page.”
“I know.”
“There must be another reason.”
“There is.”
He looked toward the rain-covered window.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Finally, Thomas said, “Every man in this town comes to you when he wants words he cannot find.”
Clara lowered her gaze.
“That is my business.”
“I know.”
“And?”
“I have spent three years trying to find the right words.”
Her fingers tightened around the quill.
Three years.
She suddenly remembered every time she had seen him.
Thomas Reed standing silently near the door.
Thomas Reed waiting while she wrote.
Thomas Reed watching her seal letters.
She had always assumed he was simply impatient to leave.
“You’ve been thinking about this for three years?”
“Yes.”
“What changed tonight?”
His jaw tightened.
“Your name was mentioned at the tavern.”
Clara blinked.
“My name?”
“They were talking about you.”
“People always talk.”
“They were laughing.”
The warmth in Clara’s face vanished.
“What did they say?”
Thomas looked directly at her.
“They said you were a woman who knew how to write every man’s heart but had no one of your own.”
Clara swallowed.
“And you believed them?”
“No.”
His answer came so quickly that she looked up.
“No?”
“I came because they were wrong.”
He pushed the leather pouch slightly closer.
“Write this one carefully, Miss Vale.”
Clara’s voice was quiet.
“What should it say?”
Thomas looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
For the first time in years, Clara did not know what words to offer.
