James and Clara arrived at the hotel astride a weary horse, its hooves dragging heavily upon the ground. Both looked utterly spent; the distance had proven far greater than James had calculated. No sooner had they dismounted than they were met by Samuel Thomson, who rushed toward them, his brow furrowed with concern.

“What happened?!” he cried, alarmed. “You’re a day late for the meeting.”

James, still struggling to catch his breath, looked at him with weary eyes.
“I’m sorry… Clara was kidnapped on the train. I had to leap from the carriage and chase the abductor on horseback. In the end, I caught him—he confessed who had sent him.”

Samuel turned his gaze upon Clara. She lowered her head, trembling. Silent tears traced down her face, twisted with fear. Thomson stepped forward gently and drew her into an embrace.
“You are not alone,” he whispered.

Then, with equal fraternal warmth, he embraced James as well.
“Neither are you. Now tell me—who was it?”

James swallowed hard.
“Henry Blackwell,” he answered firmly.

Samuel adjusted his spectacles, lost in thought.
“And what else did you do?”

“I considered bringing the kidnapper with us, so that one of the lodge’s lawyers could question him. But I feared he might escape or raise the alarm. I had no solid evidence. Henry could simply deny everything.”

“I understand,” said Samuel quietly. “Come into the hotel. I’ll send a telegram to the lodge’s attorneys. They will know how to proceed.”

A month passed after the incident. Clara continued to practice shooting every day, almost with fury. One afternoon, James watched her hone her aim.

“Wait here—I’ll fetch some wood,” he told her.

Clara nodded. Though she had regained some strength, her eyes still carried old resentments, shadows of the past.

They decided to travel to a nearby town. James explained that better wood could be found there. They climbed into the carriage, and the horse Pegasus set off. Clara sat in silence, lost in thought. Memories of abandonment haunted her: the feeling of being invisible, of never being enough.

Upon reaching the town, James stepped into a shop to make his purchase, leaving Clara in the carriage. As she looked about, a scene caught her eye—and shook her to the core. A little girl, no older than seven, was being struck and humiliated by her own family. Clara leapt down at once.

“Stop! Leave that child alone!” she cried, her voice fierce with courage.

A woman of haughty bearing, with reddish hair and cold eyes, turned on her.
“And who are you to meddle in matters that do not concern you? This girl is a disgrace—she was not born of pure blood. We despise her!”

Clara stood her ground.
“Introduce yourselves, if you dare speak so.”

An older man, proud and arrogant, interjected with a lofty voice.
“I am Sir Albert Madrid, and this is my wife, Rose Schwarz. We are of pure lineage. You, madam, are no one. Leave us be, or we shall call the sheriff.”

At that moment, James appeared, carrying the bundles of wood.
“What is going on here?” he asked.

“They are beating their daughter!” Clara exclaimed without hesitation. “There ought to be laws to protect children.”

James placed a hand gently on Clara’s shoulder.
“We mustn’t intervene more than necessary…”

“How can you not love your own daughter?” Clara protested, fighting back tears. “Then I’ll take her myself!”

Albert’s voice rose, dripping with contempt:
“Take her if you wish! She is unworthy of our name. Let her join the other wretches of this world.”

From her hiding place, the little girl peered out. Blonde, fair-skinned, with blue eyes full of sweetness—her gaze stood in heartbreaking contrast to her parents’ cruelty. James, visibly uneasy, murmured:
“Clara… you know I do not want children… nor do you…”

Clara looked at him, her eyes brimming.
“Life… has no meaning,” she whispered, before rushing back to the carriage without another word.

James glanced at the girl, gathered the wood, and returned silently to the carriage.

From that day onward, Clara was no longer the same. She abandoned her shooting practice. She cooked without soul, sold without enthusiasm. James could not find a way to bring the light back into her eyes.

One morning, Samuel Thomson entered the shop with a proposal.
“James, I have a mansion on the outskirts of Texas. Good climate, privacy. Perhaps a change of air would do Clara some good. Remember—she was kidnapped, extorted by a degenerate… and we still do not know why her family disowns her.”

James pondered a moment, then sighed.
“Very well… if she agrees, she may go with you.”