Rancher To The Rescue. Barbara Phinney

tears to spring into his eyes.

      But what could he have done to comfort her? Helplessness weighed on him and he prayed hastily for some guiding words.

      Anything that would help her.

      He shivered. Initially, the day had promised a bit of warmth, but the sky had clouded and the wind had turned, now bearing down from the north and chilling Proud Bend.

      He knocked, grimacing at the harsh sound. Then he waited. And waited. Finally, Clare opened the door.

      She was wearing a frilly, spotless apron over her work clothes and had pushed up her long sleeves almost to her elbows. Whatever she was doing, she’d either just started it, or it was a clean task. He noticed, however, that her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy and a crumpled handkerchief bulged out the apron’s dainty pocket. Her task had been punctuated with tears.

      All he wanted at that moment was to draw her into his arms and hold her there, to somehow transfer his own strength to her, the strength he’d learned—

      Noah cleared his throat. This wasn’t about him, nor was it the time to think about his own situation. Clare needed him. “I’m sorry for dropping by unannounced. I closed the office early because I wanted to check on you.”

      She looked dismayed and quickly wiped her eyes. “I’d fully planned to return after lunch, but by the time I’d left the bank, I knew I couldn’t go back to work.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I needed to tidy up anyway. I expect I’ll have visitors as soon as word gets out, and I didn’t want them to faint at the mess.”

      It was a small attempt at humor, and Noah offered her an equally small smile for her effort. “Where I come from, they put a black wreath on the front door. It stops people from visiting.”

      Clare looked thoughtful. “I haven’t heard of that custom before. Where do you come from?”

      “A small town west of New York City. It was always easy to get a hold of a black wreath. I don’t think we can say the same here in Proud Bend.”

      “It wouldn’t matter. People would only stop by and ask why I have a black wreath hanging on my door.” Clare stepped back. “Come in.”

      Noah crossed the threshold, all the while removing his Stetson. The inside was cool and dark, appropriate for a house of mourning.

      Unexpected indignation rose in him. There couldn’t be any mourning yet. No one knew where her parents were. So there shouldn’t be a need for an unheated house. Clare was being forced into accepting a fate that might not exist.

      Noah dug out the telegram, as Clare had not taken it when she’d walked out. All she’d taken was that letter that the bank’s errand boy had delivered. “I thought you would want this.”

      She accepted it slowly. “Thank you.” But instead of reading it again, she set it on the small table near the front door. “I should keep it, but frankly, I want to burn it.”

      “Understandable.” Noah cleared his throat as he removed his coat. “Is there anything more I can do, Clare?” Her Christian name slipped from his lips without forethought and he glanced away.

      She shut the door and hung his coat on a half-filled tree beside her. “Come into the parlor.”

      If Noah expected an answer to his question, he needed to follow her there. Like the rest of the house, this room was chilly. It didn’t help that the front window offered only the dullest of daylight. Today, there was no warm April sunshine to heat the room. Clare dropped with precious little grace into one of those fussy, high-backed chairs every parlor seemed to have. They were often too short for Noah’s long legs, so he remained standing.

      “My mother’s arthritis worsened the month before they left,” she began, as if expecting him to understand wherever she was starting her story. “She doesn’t travel well by train, or else my father would have made arrangements to take it all the way to the port of Halifax in Nova Scotia.” She looked up at him. “Or to travel to St. John’s in Newfoundland. But that would require a sea crossing to the island, also.”

      Noah listened patiently. Clare was good at reading maps, he’d learned since she’d started working for him six months ago. She must have excelled at geography in college to know the port city of St John’s in England’s Newfoundland was the closest North American port to Europe. Some of the steamships must stop there before beginning their transatlantic voyages.

      “The doctor said that breathing the sea air would do her good, so they wanted to leave from New York City, but I wonder if it might have made a difference if they’d left by one of those other ports.”

      “What do you mean?”

      She rose and walked to the long table against a far wall. There, she picked up several pamphlets. “I was tidying up today and found these. They have information on the different steamships and their ports of call. Perhaps if they’d taken one of the other lines, they might have arrived safely. These ships are newer.”

      “Why didn’t they take one of them?”

      “Mother gets nauseated on trains, so they went only as far as New York City and took Governor. It has the longest sea voyage. Honestly, I cannot see how breathing damp sea air is supposed to help arthritis, but I’m not a doctor.” Sighing, she set down the pamphlets again. “Governor is the oldest ship and also the most expensive, which I realize now was not good for the family finances. Although Father didn’t mind spending money.” She looked up at him, her expression resigned. “He could be a bit cavalier about that, I’m afraid.”

      Noah cleared his throat. “Speaking of finances...today, you received a letter from the bank.” He’d seen the bank’s errand boy deliver it. He’d caught Clare’s sinking expression as she read the single page. But shortly after, that awful telegram had arrived, and he’d forgotten all about the letter.

      Clare looked away. “I’m sure you can guess what the bank said. Father paid all the bills for March, but that’s it. His payments were always due the first banking day of the month.” She rubbed her forehead and groaned. “Let me think. Father paid March’s mortgage before they left six weeks ago. So April’s payment is now two weeks overdue.”

      “Did he leave you access to his accounts?”

      With lifted brows, Clare shook her head. “There was no need. They’re empty.”

      Noah cocked his head, a frown deepening. “I don’t understand. Your father paid March’s mortgage at the beginning of the month, but didn’t expect to be in Europe until the end of the month. Surely, he would have realized that it would take a month to get the money back to you? That would automatically leave you a month behind in your payments, and yet he emptied his account, anyway?”

      Clare looked like she was getting a headache. “He was afraid Mother would need extra time to recuperate from either the train ride or the sea voyage. He wasn’t sure she’d be able to travel to Baden-Baden—that’s where the Kurhaus is—right away. The transatlantic trip is said to be awful, and once in Liverpool, they’d need another short steamship voyage to Rotterdam before going upriver to the Rhine. He said he planned to send back enough money to pay the bills. I had assumed he’d paid at least two months, but I hadn’t asked.”

      Clare flicked up her hands. “My father didn’t always consider the finances first. He often said that there would always be bills.”

      Except it was irresponsible to make those bills worse, Noah grumbled internally. It might be wrong to condemn Clare’s father, and Noah did know of Mrs. Walsh’s ill health, but he didn’t feel like crushing the uncharitable thoughts rising unbidden in him. “There are more in his family than his wife.”

      His clipped words cut crisply through the cool air. Yes, that was true, he decided firmly. And yes, there was more to life than earning money.

      Noah tightened his jaw. People needed to look past their own needs to the needs of others. People needed—

      He shut