A Mail-Order Groom for the Determined Heiress (Preview)

Chapter One

Chester, Wyoming

October 1871

Maggie de Loughrey sank into the cracked leather chair and tried not to let her relief show. It was shocking how long she was taking to recover from being ill. The scarlet fever that had made her so sick had swept through the small town of Chester in central Wyoming. She knew of two other families who had experienced death due to the terrible disease in addition to her own.

To be fair, Maggie knew that her recovery had been hampered by the death of both her parents in quick succession. Her mother had succumbed one day, and her father only two days later. Maggie had been so sick that she’d only been vaguely aware of what was happening around her. As soon as she was able to stand, they’d buried her parents. Maggie had returned to her bed, heartbroken and exhausted.

The door to the office opened, and Mr. Dale Slater, attorney at law, bustled into the room. Maggie had known the man all her life. He was practically a member of the family. Mr. Slater wore his customary faded waistcoat and pocket watch with the golden fob stretching across his rotund middle.

He gave her shoulder a commiserating squeeze before taking his seat. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you up and around again, Maggie,” he said with a sad smile. “Mrs. Slater was almost frantic when she learned that you’d been laid low.”

Maggie found that she only had the energy to nod. She couldn’t bring herself to engage in pleasantries or any lighthearted conversation. Since she’d lost her parents, Maggie felt as though she’d been sucked into a deep, dark hole. It was possible that she’d never smile again. All the kind condolences that the elderly population of Chester sent her way were little more than painful reminders of all that Maggie had lost, no matter how kindly they were meant.

But Mr. Slater did not seem to be bothered by her lack of response. He merely straightened the papers in front of him and cleared his throat.

“We’re just waiting for a few people. Witnesses and…” He trailed off as he shuffled the papers again.

Maggie had only enough time to register that the lawyer was hiding something before the door burst open. Her eyes grew wide, and her stomach clenched at the sight of the man who entered the room.

“Good morning, Mr. Slater. Maggie.” Her older brother, Tucker de Loughrey leered at her as he took the farthest chair, dropping into it ungracefully before crossing one booted foot over his knee.

“Tucker? What are you doing here?” Maggie’s brain stuttered as she tried to make sense of it.

Tucker narrowed his eyes at her. “Slater’s reading our parents’ will, Maggie. Of course, I should be here.”

Maggie blinked her eyes rapidly as she tried to align her brother’s presence with her expectations of how this event was supposed to go. She tried again, “I suppose that’s so, but I haven’t seen you in…in a year at least. How did you even know to come today?”

“I took out an ad in the Cheyenne Daily Leader,” Mr. Slater explained. Maggie felt sure that there was a note of self-justification in his voice. “It was necessary for me to do my due diligence in finding your brother.”

Tucker winked obnoxiously at Maggie, and she clenched her fists under the table. As if things weren’t bad enough with her parents’ dying and the weight of running their cattle ranch falling heavily on a still-sick Maggie, now she had to deal with her estranged older brother. If she hadn’t been tired before, this would have been enough to wear her out.

Tucker was ten years her senior, and the two de Loughrey children had never been close. From what Maggie had been able to piece together, Tucker had become frustrated with their parents and the work on the ranch. He’d argued that he wanted adventure, freedom to make his own choices, and rejected the life their parents had built. Tucker had hired on with a man from a nearby town who offered a more exciting life. The then-fifteen-year-old Tucker had ridden away, leaving his parents bereft and his little sister wondering what had happened.

The office door opened again, and in shuffled a dusty pair. Miss Luella Henderson was the postmistress, the librarian, and the organist at the local Methodist church. Miss Easter Anderson was Mr. Slater’s legal secretary and general town busybody. Miss Henderson was gray, stooped, and wore wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Miss Anderson was gray, hunch-backed, and kept a pair of pince-nez on a worn ribbon pinned to her blouse. It was easy to mix up the pair.

“Hello, dear,” wheezed Miss Henderson, smiling gently at Maggie.

“Hello…Oh, my.” Miss Anderson’s greeting was cut short at the sight of Tucker de Loughrey skulking nearby. The little woman jumped at the sight of him, putting a hand to her sloping bosom, and drawing back as though he was poisonous.

Aside from her brother’s appalling posture, there were plenty of other reasons to justify Miss Anderson’s response. Tucker’s clothes were dusty, wrinkled, and none too clean. He looked as if he’d ridden hard in order to arrive in Chester for this meeting. His hair was a little too long and a bit matted from wearing his bowler hat. If he’d had a shave lately, Maggie judged it had been done inexpertly. Additionally, a telltale odor wafted off her brother, which bore testament to his long ride.

“Well, we’re all here now,” Mr. Slater said, clearing his throat. “Let’s begin.”

Maggie felt numb. As the attorney began to read, she drew her handkerchief from her sleeve, then clutched it in her hand, ready for the inevitable tears. Memories of her tall, hardworking father and her pretty, determined mother came to mind. It took great effort to keep from remembering them when they were sick. Rather, Maggie determinedly focused on her memories of her father riding his favorite horse and her mother embroidering intricate designs in her hoop.

“Now, this part is a bit unusual.” Mr. Slater’s voice cut through Maggie’s foggy brain.

She noticed that Tucker’s eyes were focused intently on the lawyer. Despite his casual posture, her brother was eager to learn of his inheritance.

“It is, I assure you, legal. Here it goes, ‘In the event of my wife’s untimely death, I leave all of my property and assets to our daughter, Margaret Elise de Loughrey.’”

Tucker sprang to his feet, outraged. “That’s a lie! He wouldn’t disinherit me!”

Miss Anderson had cowered away from him, a look of terror on her face. Even Mr. Slater was clearly surprised by Tucker’s reaction.

Still, he put out his hands as though to calm Tucker. “Now, now, Mr. de Loughrey. There’s more that I need to read. Please take your seat.”

Tucker glowered around at them all for a moment before he sat down again, this time with his elbows propped on his knees.

“Ahem, where was I? Oh, yes. ‘I leave all of my property and assets to our daughter, Margaret Elise de Loughrey, so long as she is married. In the event of her failure to secure a husband, my estate will be left to my son, Tucker Leroy de Loughrey.’” Mr. Slater looked over the top of his glasses at the two de Loughreys.

For the second time in less than ten minutes, Maggie’s brain scrambled to make some sense of the new information. Her parents had left her everything provided that she marry? What in the world had they been thinking? If she’d been alone, Maggie would have clutched her head.

Then Tucker hooted. “Ha! Maggie isn’t married. I get the ranch!”

Maggie’s eyes grew wide as the lawyer’s words settled into a sensible pattern. She inherited the ranch provided that she marry. Otherwise, Tucker would take over. Tucker, who had never wanted the ranch, would inherit everything. Tucker, who had declared that he wanted to travel the world, would have the right to send her away.

“That is an important point,” Mr. Slater said regretfully. “Maggie, is there any chance you have a beau on the horizon I don’t know about?”

Desperately, Maggie grasped at this. “Yes,” she said immediately.

This declaration caused a definite ripple around the table. Miss Anderson looked at Miss Henderson, and the pair looked equally shocked to hear it. Mr. Slater’s eyebrows were practically in his hairline. And Tucker was most satisfyingly silenced.

Then her brother’s brow furrowed. “It doesn’t matter if you have some fellow you go to the barn raising with. You have to be married in order to inherit. And you ain’t married.”

Swallowing her discomfort at telling a blatant lie, Maggie said, “I am promised to be married.”

“You’re engaged?” Miss Anderson gasped.

Maggie nodded, praying for forgiveness even as she did so. Surely she was justified in this deception.

“Engaged ain’t married either!” Tucker spluttered. “You have to be married to inherit!”

“Well, now,” Mr. Slater demurred. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I believe that there would be legal precedence for allowing Maggie, er, Miss de Loughrey, a reasonable amount of time to arrange for her marriage.”

Steam practically poured out of Tucker’s ears at this. Maggie wondered absently if she would have found humor in this situation if she wasn’t so discombobulated by the proceedings.

“Would two weeks be long enough to arrange for your wedding?” Mr. Slater directed the question at Maggie.

She blinked a few times, feeling entirely put on the spot. “Well, I…That is…”

“I suppose you need to speak to the groom. Let’s make it a month. Today is the second of October. So, if you are married by October thirty-first, you will inherit your parents’ estate. If not, it will all go to Mr. de Loughrey.” Mr. Slater nodded as though satisfied by this. He didn’t bother even looking at Maggie as he got to his feet and gathered his papers.

The Misses Henderson and Anderson followed his lead, clearly eager to be away from Tucker.

Maggie made herself stand up. Immediately, her red-faced brother hissed, “This isn’t the end of the matter, Maggie. I’m the one who should inherit the ranch.”

“Why do you even want it, Tucker?” she asked, flustered.

Tucker leaned forward, knuckles on the table between them. “I am the oldest son. I should inherit it,” he spat.

Maggie shook her head, at a loss for words. It made no sense.

So, when Tucker turned and stalked out, banging the door in his wake, she could only watch him go and fret about what she was going to do.

***

“You have to be married by the end of the month?” Priscilla Rawlins squeaked, her eyes huge. “Maggie, has it escaped your notice that you are not, in fact, engaged, and you do not, in fact, have any possible suitors?”

Maggie flopped on the red velvet settee in Priscilla’s parlor and groaned. “I know, Priss, I do. But it was the only thing I could think to say to keep Tucker from getting everything.”

Priscilla and Maggie had known each other all their lives. They were more like sisters than cousins. Additionally, they were the only two young, unmarried women in the vicinity. Both had bemoaned the lack of eligible men on many occasions, finding great solace in their shared hardship.

Priscilla sat more primly in her horsehair chair, though that might have been due to how uncomfortable it was rather than the young woman’s etiquette. She cocked her head, her brown eyes flashing. Maggie knew her cousin to be faultlessly pragmatic. Priscilla Rawlins was never one to fall victim to flights of fancy.

“If you have to be married to inherit, then you need to find a husband. It’s logical,” Priscilla stated calmly.

“Eligible men don’t exactly grow on trees, you know,” Maggie shot back.

Priscilla’s nose wrinkled as she replied dryly, “I’m aware. Listen, Maggie, it can be done.”

Maggie threw her hands up in the air. “How? This town is full of old married men, young married men, ranch hands with questionable prison records, and the rest I’m related to. Believe me, I’ve considered them all in the past ten minutes.”

“How did you consider them all so fast?” Priscilla asked, partly teasing.

“Sheer desperation,” moaned Maggie. She fell back against the pillows and threw an arm over her eyes.

“I have an idea,” her cousin said.

Maggie peeked out from under her arm.

Priscilla looked her over smugly. “You could put an ad in the newspaper,” she said, a note of triumph in her voice.

Maggie’s nose wrinkled. “An ad in the newspaper? Why would I do that?”

Priscilla waved a hand airily. “Men do it all the time. They take out advertisements in major newspapers describing the sort of woman they want to marry. ‘Hardworking, sturdy, no red heads or drunks need apply,’ that sort of thing. The women write to them and they write back. If the pair decides to marry, the men send them a train ticket. Then the woman comes out, and they are married. It’s called being a mail-order bride.”

There was something entirely unsavory about calling a woman a “mail-order” bride as though she was a pair of shoes or a packet of seeds. Maggie was tempted to laugh off Priscilla’s suggestion.

“It’s the only thing to do,” her cousin insisted. “You need a husband. Put an ad in the Cheyenne Daily Leader since you’re short on time. That way, the men who respond will not have so far to travel. You can exchange letters more quickly, and he could be here in a few days. A week at the most.”

“Why do you think any man would respond to such a message?” Maggie scoffed. It felt entirely ridiculous that she was in the position at all.

Priscilla’s face became stern. “You don’t have a choice, Maggie. Unless you’re willing to marry one of the ranch hands, you have to do this.”

With a sinking heart, Maggie had to admit that she knew it to be true. Her family’s ranch was large, and there were half a dozen men working there who were unmarried. However, she wasn’t even sure that any of them bathed more than once a year. As for marriage? They were good men, but, for the most part, entirely ineligible. Maggie might be desperate, but she had to maintain some standards for her husband, didn’t she? Most of the ranch hands she knew didn’t believe in bathing more than once a year, chewed tobacco, and didn’t know what to say to a woman if it didn’t involve cattle.

“What would I write in the advertisement?” She sighed heavily.

Always one to enjoy a challenge, Priscilla’s face lit up. She considered it before saying, “Well, you would want to list the things you value most. God-fearing, church-going, no gamblers, convicts, or smokers need apply. Oh, and you should probably mention that you are an independent woman who owns a ranch. Perhaps you could say that you prefer marrying someone with ranching experience.”

As Priscilla went in search of paper and pencil, Maggie sank back on the pillows, exhausted. This day had certainly taken a strange turn. What in the world was going to come of this?

Chapter Two

Gideon Winslow watched his seven-year-old niece, Clara, from out of the general store’s big picture window. Between the stacks of cans and bolts of fabric on display, he could see the little girl playing stickball with a few of the other town children. Gideon couldn’t keep back a smile as Clara gave the ball a smack with her stick, then pelted off toward first base.

“That girl needs to be taken in hand,” Mrs. Craft said, causing Gideon to jump.

He hadn’t realized the proprietress had come up behind him. The owner of the gen-eral store was almost as wide around as she was tall, and Gideon had to look down quite a distance at her. The woman glowered up at him, and he sighed inwardly.

“She needs a mother,” Mrs. Craft clarified. “You ought to get married.”

“Yes, but I doubt your husband would allow it.” Gideon couldn’t resist teasing her.

As he’d hoped, Mrs. Craft spluttered, hands coming to her hips. Her eyebrows plunged even deeper as she scolded, “Don’t you try your charms on me, young man. That girl’s skirt is too short, her stockings need mending, and her shoes are practically falling apart. Besides, her hair is disgraceful! Without a woman’s care, Clara Burke will soon be beyond help!”

Gideon looked back out to where his niece was now standing toe-to-toe with a boy at least a head taller than she was. A month ago, she’d decided she didn’t like braids any-more and had hacked her hair off with the kitchen scissors. When Gideon had come upon her, the seven-year-old had calmly informed him of her decision. Unfortunately, the result was choppy, uneven, and beyond Gideon’s ability to fix. So, the pair had been forced to find a neighbor lady who could even it out. The result was that Clara’s white-blonde hair was now chin-length with a straight line of bangs across her forehead. Gideon thought this framed her big blue eyes beautifully, but now, upon reflection, he could admit that it wasn’t the most feminine of hairstyles.

“I’ll take that into consideration,” he promised.

Mrs. Craft looked up at him, her head bending back quite a ways in order to man-age it. Finally, she decided he was serious, nodded decisively, and the pair were able to work on Gideon’s shopping list.

Despite his best intentions, Gideon couldn’t put the conversation out of his mind. He and Clara sat down for the simple supper he’d prepared a few hours later, and Gideon kept watching the girl, wondering if she was too much of a tomboy.

“And I said, ‘That ball was fair!’ And then he said, ‘Was not!’ And then I said…” Clara was so intent on repeating the argument she’d had during the game that she hardly noticed her uncle wasn’t paying much attention.

Gideon had taken custody of Clara a little over a year before after the death of her mother. Clara’s father had died when she was just a baby. Gideon had helped support his sister, Dorothy, as much as he could. Since he earned his living driving cattle, he’d been in and out of Clara’s life, never staying for long and always marveling at how much she’d grown since he’d last seen her.

When he’d returned home from the summer’s drive last year, Gideon had been hor-rified to find that his sister’s front door had been kicked down. He hurried inside only to find Dorothy lying on the floor in a spreading puddle of blood.

Gideon remembered falling to his knees, begging Dorothy to tell him what had happened and who had done this. She’d gasped a name he’d never heard before. Gideon still had nightmares about how Dorothy’s eyes had grown vacant as she’d died in his arms. Only then had Gideon thought to go in search of his niece.

As the girl’s only living relative, Gideon had been required to care for Clara. Fortu-nately, he’d just completed his summer’s work and was able to rent a small set of rooms in town for the two of them. At first, Clara had been too frightened to even speak. She’d struggled to sleep peacefully for weeks and even now had the occasional nightmare. Still, the little girl had never told anyone what had happened with her mother. Gideon and the sheriff could only piece together a few details, nowhere near enough to go in search of Dor-othy’s killer. This past summer, Gideon had not wanted to leave his niece, so he’d hired on with some local ranches instead of going on a long cattle drive.

Until today, Gideon had been under the impression that he was caring for his niece well enough. Sure, he couldn’t sew her a new dress, and he was only a passable cook. Clara was doing better in recent months. She was back to being her clever, feisty self. For the first time, though, Gideon realized that Clara probably needed a woman’s care, too.

“And then, I said, ‘I don’t care if you’re bigger and older. I’ll punch you right in the nose if I want to!’” Clara beamed up at him, the gaps in her smile from her missing teeth making her look like a jack-o-lantern.

Maybe too feisty, Gideon amended inwardly.

“It’s your turn to do the dishes,” was all he said, though.

Clara sighed dramatically before standing up and clearing their plates. Gideon sipped water from his tin mug, watching her with a small smile. Considering that it was only the two of them, the “pile” of dishes was quite small. Clara could easily manage their two plates, two forks, and two spoons with ease. Still, she made it all too clear that she was none too happy about her evening chore.

Gideon rented two rooms from the local blacksmith. He and Clara shared the sec-ond-floor apartment on the edge of town. The larger of the two rooms had a sofa, chair, table and two chairs, and a tiny kitchen. The bedroom had a creaking brass bedframe com-plete with a lumpy mattress, a rickety dresser, and a chipped washstand. Gideon used this room for himself, and Clara slept on the sofa. He would have felt guilty about taking the bedroom if the sofa hadn’t been far more comfortable than the bed.

Soon, Clara was up to her elbows in soapy water, chattering away as she pretended to be a pirate while she worked. Chuckling at how quickly the child had gotten over her dislike of the chore, Gideon reached for the newspaper. He crossed one long leg over the other and shook the paper open.

There was nothing of much interest today. Gideon checked the date. Well, make that yesterday, he corrected himself. His eyes scanned the personal ads one last time, his mind already moving on to going over Clara’s lessons, when a name snagged his attention. Gideon froze. Had he been imagining it? His eyes found the name once more, and he read the advertisement slowly.

Female ranch owner urgently seeks clean, church-going man with ranching experi-ence to marry. Correspondent should be sober, pious, clean, and serious about matrimony. Write to M. de Loughrey, Chester, Wyoming.

De Loughrey. Instantly, Gideon’s mind flew back to when he’d cradled Dorothy in his arms. She’d whispered something and he’d leaned forward, trying to understand what she was saying.

“Who did this to you, Dorothy?” he’d demanded again, praying she could com-municate with him still.

Dorothy’s eyes had focused on his face as she worked the words from her strug-gling lips. “De Loughrey…Chester…” was all she managed before she died.

Gideon had wondered if he’d heard the name wrong. Even now, looking at it, he couldn’t swear that this was what Dorothy had meant. He had never before heard of anyone with the last name de Loughrey, and he could only guess at the spelling. Daloffry? Del Of-frey? He’d guessed that he was looking for someone named Chester de Loughrey. But this advertisement shed new light on the matter. What if Dorothy had meant that her killer was someone named de Loughrey from the town of Chester?

“Uncle Gideon, do I have to do my arithmetic?” Clara’s wheedling voice drew him back.

Gideon blinked at his niece. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Miss Clark set you a lesson to practice, didn’t she?”

Clara slumped and moaned, “Yes.”

“Well, then. Get your slate and your arithmetic book.”

Somehow, Gideon managed to keep his mind halfway engaged with Clara’s lessons. However, he couldn’t have told anyone what she’d read about in her primer if his life de-pended on it.

It wasn’t until after he’d tucked her into bed and gotten her two drinks of water, then scolded her to stop stalling and go to sleep, that he was able to retire to his own room and give the matter proper consideration.

The bed groaned as he perched on the side. Gideon rubbed his chin, his mind al-ready spinning.

After Dorothy’s murder, Gideon had worked closely with the sheriff. Sheriff Peters had investigated but found no leads. The name Chester de Loughrey hadn’t presented any results. Gideon knew that his sister’s property was valuable. A railroad had reached Chey-enne in southeastern Wyoming a few years back, and there was much speculation about its expansion. Some people swore that it was sure to take one path or another. Land prices rose between the railroad and other towns. In fact, when Gideon sold the Burke farm, he’d been amazed at what it had brought when he’d sold it to a local rancher he trusted. He’d tucked the money away in the bank for Clara to use when she grew older.

But was there someone greedy enough to kill Dorothy for her land? It seemed un-likely to Gideon. He knew his sister didn’t keep cash on hand, and she’d had few valuables. Nothing had been missing, in fact, when the sheriff searched. Gideon was forced to wonder if someone unsavory had attempted to attack Dorothy.

Gideon wasn’t a violent man. On the contrary, he was often gregarious and given to easy talk with anyone he met. Growing up, he’d driven his sisters crazy with his teasing and joking. But the thought of Dorothy’s violent death had hardened something inside him. Gideon had sworn that he would find her killer and get his revenge.

That felt a bit harsh, he decided. No, he wouldn’t avenge his sister, but he would make sure that Dorothy’s killer was brought to justice.

He looked down at the newspaper again. Someone from Chester with the last name de Loughrey was looking for a husband. It would be absurd for Gideon to write back, surely. Agreeing to move to another town and marry a woman he didn’t know in the hopes of finding Dorothy’s killer was madness! Wasn’t it?

Gideon pushed the idea aside and began to ready himself for bed. But once he’d blown out the candle, he lay in the dark and couldn’t stop thinking about it.

No, he decided as he turned over. It was too risky to bring Clara to what might be her moth-er’s killer’s home. He would not put the girl in danger.

Still, his mind argued as he flopped back to his other side, Clara deserved to have answers to this mystery. This was the first clue he’d found to the dozens of questions he had.

Besides, it was highly unlikely that the female ranch owner who took out this advertise-ment was a cold-blooded killer. Ranch owners weren’t at liberty to run around nearby towns because they had work to do that kept them close to home.

This M. de Loughrey might know something, though, Gideon decided. It couldn’t hurt to write her a letter. Maybe she was innocent of this crime, but had information about the killer. He had to write to her. Gideon knew he would never rest easy unless he investigated this lead.

He got up and moved around as quietly as possible so as not to awaken Clara, who was sprawled on the sofa, snoring gently. Once he returned to his room with paper, pen, and ink, he lit the candle again. He sat for a long minute, considering what to write. It was in-credibly important that he not show his cards just yet. As unlikely as it seemed, this wom-an might, in fact, be involved in Dorothy’s death.

***

Gideon posted the letter the next day after walking Clara to school. Then, he couldn’t resist checking in at the small post office each day until finally, a week later, he received the re-ply he’d been waiting for.

Dear Mr. Winslow,

Thank you for your letter and for the thoughtful inclusion of the note from your local minister. It certainly did set my mind at ease.

Would you be able to come to Chester as soon as possible to meet me? I understand if this seems too quick to actually consider matrimony. However, there are some extenuating cir-cumstances, and I do not have time to waste.

To help you make up your mind, I will share some facts about myself. My name is Margaret de Loughrey. Most people call me Maggie. I am twenty years of age. I have brown hair, green eyes, and I am tall and slender. My parents were Leroy and Ruth de Loughrey, though they have recently passed away. My mother was a lady. She insisted upon teaching me to be re-fined, too, by playing the piano, embroidering, and reading the Classics. Despite my love of the outdoors and desire to spend every minute in the saddle, she managed to make something of a lady of me, too.

I now run the family cattle ranch. I have a good foreman, and together we run about four hundred head. It isn’t a large operation, but we do well. I was very glad to learn that you have experience driving cattle. We would certainly be glad to have a drover here on the ranch.

If you are willing to come to Chester to meet and possibly marry, please respond quickly. We have a telegraph here, if that is convenient. Otherwise, I will check the post daily in the hopes of your response. We could meet at the local boardinghouse which has a nice dining room for lunch. Let me know what day and time, if you are coming.

Yours,

Maggie de Loughrey

Gideon hadn’t been able to resist stopping and reading the letter as soon as he cleared the post office door. Now, he leaned against the wall, pushed his hat up, and scratched his forehead contemplatively. Was he willing to uproot Clara and marry this woman?

Surely, it was a crazy idea. He would take this information to Sheriff Peters and try to convince the man to investigate. That was far more rational, Gideon decided. So, he turned and headed toward the sheriff’s office, where he explained what he’d learned.

Sheriff Peters leaned back in his chair, put his hands in his pockets, and whistled tunelessly as he mulled over this new information.

“I suppose I could reach out to their sheriff’s department, if they have one, that is. Some small towns in these parts don’t have a lawman at all.”

Gideon absorbed that information. “Would you be able to ride over there yourself and ask questions?”

The older man gave that further consideration, jingling coins in his pocket. “Well, now. That’s a thought. I’d hate to get your hopes up, Winslow. There might not be any-thing to find.”

Gideon knew that this was true. He did. It had been a year, after all, since Dorothy died. Evidence might be hard to come by. Still, he was beginning to believe at the deepest part of himself that the answers lay in Chester with Maggie de Loughrey.

And so, when the sheriff failed to give a definite response one way or the other, Gideon made up his mind. Clara needed a woman’s hand to help raise her up properly. Well, this Maggie de Loughrey seemed like she had the upbringing to manage the little girl’s feminine education. Even if Gideon didn’t get answers, this would be a way to do right by Clara.

He made his way back to the post office and sent a telegram to Chester, which read: To Margaret de Loughrey. I will come Monday, October thirtieth, at noon. From Gideon Winslow.