I'm listening. Charles Whitmore is my cousin by marriage. When my father died and the debts were discovered, Charles offered to help. He said he'd pay everything if I She paused, gathering courage. If I agreed to become his mistress.
Ethan's face darkened dangerously. He what? He's married. Has been for 10 years. But he said he'd always wanted me.
That this was my chance to save my father's reputation and have security. When I refused, he started spreading rumors that I'd been my father's assistant in more than medical matters, that I was improper with male patients. He made it impossible for me to stay in Boston, and now he's here. He must have tracked me down when I accessed my inheritance. He probably thinks she stopped, unable to voice her fears.
He thinks he can still claim you somehow. Ethan's voice was deadly quiet. He's wrong. He stood and Clara saw him check the gun at his hip. Ethan, no.
Violence won't solve this. Maybe not, but it'll make me feel better. Please. She caught his hand. Let me handle this my way first.
If Charles is here, he wants something. Money, probably, or just to torment me. But I'm not the same woman who ran from Boston. I have you now and Sophie in this place. I have ground to stand on.
Ethan pulled her to her feet, his hands gentle on her arms. You don't have to face him alone. I know. That's what makes me brave enough to face him at all. Charles arrived at the ranch the next afternoon in a hired carriage, dressed in a black suit that probably cost more than most ranch hands made in a year.
He was handsome in that polished eastern way, smooth-featured, carefully groomed, with pale hands that had never known hard work. Clara watched from the window as he stepped down, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves with fidious care. "That's him?" Ethan asked beside her. "That's him? He looks like a weasel." Despite her anxiety, Clara almost smiled.
"He rather does, doesn't he?" They met him on the porch, Ethan slightly behind Clara, but unmistakably present, his hand resting casually on his gun belt. Charles's eyes flicked between them, taking in Ethan's protective stance. Clara's simple but neat appearance, the ranch spreading behind them. "Clara, my dear," Charles said, removing his hat with a flourish. "How rustic you've become, Charles?" She didn't invite him in.