Ellis leaned back in his chair, eyeing her in an interesting way. Almost as if he was cautious or surprised. Even without his thick coat and big brimmed hat, he was a large man. As he folded his arms, the dark brown shirt stretched over the bulk of chest, straining the buttons holding it together.
He didn’t offer an acknowledgment. Her mouth had gone dry, she wet her lips before continuing, “I would like to explain my situation, and hopefully work out an agreeable arrangement.”
One dark brow, the same rich shade as his hair, arched, but he quickly relaxed it. Ellis was good at hiding his emotions, and reactions, but she’d already seen that. “I—” she started again.
“Excuse me, Miss Jennings,” he interrupted, “where exactly are you from?”
She wasn’t surprised. He’d want facts not justifications. “I was born and raised in Richmond, Virginia. My family owned a tobacco plantation. Prior to the war, that is.”
“And afterward?”
“There was nothing left afterward.” She’d never been back to Virginia, but had heard everything was gone and believed her source.
“Your family?”
“Nothing left, Mr. Clayton. They all—my father, mother and three brothers—perished in the war. My brothers died on the battlefields and my parents during the raid that left our home nothing more than ashes.”
“I’m sorry,” he said respectfully.
She nodded. Years had eased the pain, but the loss would forever live in her heart. Memories of a happy childhood helped. As did her belief someday she’d find a place she could call home again.
He leaned forward and rested both elbows on the edge of his desk. “How did you survive? If you don’t mind my asking?”
“I survived because I wasn’t there. When the war broke out, my parents sent me to England. I had two great aunts in residence there and I lived with them.”
“When did you return to the United States?”
So this is how it would be, him asking questions, her answering. It wasn’t as she had planned, but it might be better. Once in a while she tended to ramble and could accidentally say more than she meant to. She’d already done that once today. “A few months ago.”
“Really? The war ended a dozen years ago.”
“I know. After my family perished, there was no reason for me to return. Besides, my aunts were elderly and depended on me to care for them. One died in December of last year. The other in January of this year.” Constance hoped that was enough to satisfy his curiosity, but not so much that he’d want to know more.
“I see,” he said. “It’s my understanding you lived in New York?”
A quiver rippled her spine. Ashton must have shared that bit of information. Keeping her chin up, she nodded. “Yes, that’s where I saw Mr. Kramer’s request and responded to his call for a wife.”
His expression said he wasn’t satisfied with her answer, but once again, he didn’t ask specifics. Instead he offered, “I’m sorry about Ashton’s untimely accident.”
“Thank you. I am, too. Though I had never met him, I mourn his loss.” It was the truth. Without Ashton, her future looked pretty bleak. “Could you share with me how he—it happened?”
“Angel didn’t tell you?”
Fighting the urge to fidget, Constance refolded her hands in her lap. “No, but then I didn’t ask her to. I apologize, Mr. Clayton, Angel is a wonderful girl. Very bright and compassionate and understanding, but I do not feel it would be appropriate for me to ask her about such things.”
A faint grin curled the corners of his lips and a shine appeared in his eyes. “Don’t apologize, Miss Jennings. Angel can appear more mature than she is. I appreciate you recognizing she is still a child.”
This man loved his daughter above and beyond all. Constance remembered a time when she was such a daughter. History made her warn, “She won’t be a child for much longer though.” She often wondered if she’d “grown up” the instant she’d arrived in England.
His smile increased, but was accompanied by a somber nod. “Unfortunately, I’m aware of that.”
Her heart pitter-patted, acknowledging the brief connection she and Ellis Clayton shared. There would come a time when this man would have to say goodbye to his daughter, and it would affect both him and the girl—deeply. The only time Constance had seen tears in her father’s eyes was the day he’d set her on the ship to sail for England. Though she had many other memories—happy and good ones—that was the one that stuck in her mind like a splattered drop of paint. No matter how hard she tried, it wouldn’t dissolve. It had barely faded over the years.
With one hand, Ellis wiped his face, as if erasing the smile. It worked, because when his hand went back to rest on the desk his face was serious. “I guess I should tell you, since you’ll no doubt hear it from half the territory.”
She frowned, utterly confused for a moment.
“About Ashton’s death,” he said, eying her critically.
“Oh.” Her cheeks stung. She wiped her palms, which all of a sudden had grown clammy, on her skirt. “Yes, Mr. Kramer’s death. How did it come about?”
“He took a fall off a horse.” Ellis’s gaze settled over her shoulder for a moment. When it returned to her, he added, “Doc said a broken rib punctured his lung.”
She pressed a hand to the thud behind her breastbone. “Oh, my.”
“He was bedridden for three days before he died. Some may tell you he hung on because he knew you were on your way.”
She gulped. Ellis Clayton certainly didn’t mince words. Sorrow that she’d never meet Ashton Kramer, nor get to know a man who’d awaited her arrival made her sigh heavily. “The poor man.”
Ellis didn’t linger nor stay on one subject for an extended length. “So, are you going back to New York? Or Virginia perhaps?”
His question caught her slightly off guard. Her mind was still processing Ashton Kramer’s untimely death. “No.” She shook her head. “No, I left New York for good. And I haven’t been back to Virginia since I was eleven.”
“Eleven?”
“Yes, that’s when I went to live with my great aunts.”
His frown was back, tugging his brows deeply together. “So you’re twent—”
“Six. I’m twenty-six.” There were days when she felt a hundred and six. Hoping to avoid any further questions about herself, she asked, “Have you always lived in the Wyoming Territory?”
“No, my wife, Christine, Angel’s mother, and I came out here shortly after we married. Before the war broke out. She died when Angel was six.”
“How?” She bit her lip at how fast the question shot out.
“Childbirth.” He pushed away from his desk and walked to the fireplace where he removed the grate, stirred the flames with a gold-handled poker and then added a couple split logs. He replaced the poker and the grate before he turned back around. “What are your plans, Miss Jennings?”
He still mourned the loss of his wife. Constance easily saw it—for it was the same thing she’d seen in the mirror for years. She’d already witnessed enough to understand Ellis’s depth and character. He must have treasured his wife. Once, not so long ago, Constance had thought she might have that—a husband who’d cherish her, and had married the man. But Byron hadn’t treasured her, nor had he bothered to tell her he was already married. The truth, and the way she’d discovered it, had been demoralizing and humiliating.
The