Free The Horseman's Bride by Elizabeth Lane

“It’s all right. I’m here.”
    His eyes opened to stare into hers. He looked startled, almost as if he’d expected to see someone else. Then he drifted back to sleep, more peacefully this time.
    Clara was shivering in her wet clothes. This was no time to be particular. If she needed to go out, she could put her damp things back on. Right now, she had to get warm.
    Leaving Tanner, she went into her grandmother’s room and found a thick flannel nightgown in the drawer. Stripping down, she pulled it over her head. The fabric was soft and warm, a comfort against her chilled skin. In the kitchen she hung her wet clothes over the backs of the chairs and lined them up in a half circle around the stove. Hopefully everything would be dry in an hour or two. Meanwhile, she could settle in the parlor, listen to the rain and explore the contents of the mysterious packet.
    Curling up on the couch with a knitted afghan, she unfolded the crumpled end of the packet and let the letters drop into her lap. There were perhaps a dozen, none of them opened. They scattered as they fell.
    Each envelope was rubber-stamped with the word UNCLAIMED . Evidently the postal clerk had decided to return them all together. Picking one up at random, Clara recognized her mother’s neatly rounded schoolgirl handwriting. Her brows met in a puzzled scowl as she read the address.
     
    Mr. Quinton Seavers
General Delivery, Skagway, Alaska
     
    Strange, Clara thought. Uncle Quint had never mentioned being in Alaska. And why would her mother have written him so many letters? The two were close to the same age, so it was natural to assume they’d been friends. Still, it seemed odd.
    With a prickle of foreboding, Clara worked herfinger beneath the flap of the envelope. Crumbly with age, the glue gave way easily. Unfolding the letter, she began to read.
    May 19, 1899
    Dear Quint,
    There’s no easy way to say this. We’re going to have a baby, my dearest. It should be born in December. I know how much you want to find your fortune in Alaska. But we have to think of our child now. You need to come home so we can get married, the sooner the better…
    Clara reread the first paragraph word by word, as if looking for some mistake. For the space of a long breath she sat in frozen silence, her eyes staring into space. Then her frantic hands began scrambling for other envelopes, ripping them open, pulling out the letters and arranging them by date. The earliest ones were simple declarations of love and longing. Most of the others were pleas for Quint to return, or at least to write back. Finally, one of the latter ones held the answer to the question screaming in her mind.
    June 6, 1899
    My Dearest Quint,
    Judd has offered to marry me in your absence, to make our baby part of the Seavers family. With nowhere else to turn, I have accepted his offer. Please understand, the marriage is to be in nameonly. Your mother’s lawyer will draw up divorce papers that need only be signed to become legal. When you return, we’ll be free to wed. Please understand, my love, I’m only doing this for the sake of our child…
    Hands stilled, Clara stared at the photographs on her grandmother’s wall, at the faces she’d come to know as her family. Everything had changed in the light of one inescapable truth. Quint Seavers—her darling, dashing uncle Quint—was not her uncle at all.
    He was her father.

Chapter Five
    H e was dreaming again, the nightmare as real as when he’d lived it. He could see Hollis’s body sprawled half-naked on the bedroom floor, his blood soaking like spilled wine into the peacock-blue Persian carpet. He could see Ruby’s bloodied cheek and purpled eye and feel the hot weight of the pistol as he slid it into his pocket.
    His sister, clad in a torn mauve silk dressing gown, had been in shock. “Go to your girls, Ruby,” he’d ordered her. “Make sure they don’t see this. Give me a ten-minute head start. Then call the police. You know what to