As if the drawer didn’t now contain a woman’s future.
Claire turned to the window.
Outside, her father had already mounted his horse. Earl Whitaker adjusted the reins, the motion practiced, quick, as if speed could outrun guilt.
She stared at him, waiting for the moment he would turn, would see her, would crack open in some human way.
He didn’t.
He kicked his horse forward and rode off, hooves striking the street in a rhythm that felt like a sentence.
Claire’s hands shook so badly she had to curl her fingers into fists against her belly.
The baby shifted. A small, stubborn roll, as if reminding her: I’m still here. You’re not alone.
Nathan Cain held out a hand, not touching her unless she chose it.
Claire swallowed. Her pride was already bruised, but it was still alive enough to bleed.
