The way Clara Hankins figured it, Emma Dalton must have been just about the finest lady west of the Rockies.
Had to be some sort of saint if a man like Rick Dalton would go through so much trouble just to make her happy.
What Rick wanted when he walked into Clara’s dance hall was waltzing lessons. His fifth wedding anniversary was in six months, and he’d long ago promised his bride they’d dance together on that night.
He intended to honor his vow.
Truth be told, Rick was clunky to start, but Clara was a skilled teacher. Before long, he glided with a grace that belied his rough-and-tumble stature as a rancher.
And, though it filled her soul with guilt, Clara grew quite fond of the man. In her heart, she held out secret hope that, somehow, there was no wife. That Emma didn’t really exists.
But on the big night, she told Rick, “You’re ready.”
He touched the brim of his hat and disappeared into the night. Seconds later and overcome by impulse, Clara followed.
The autumn air was crisp, and a pale moon hung low and massive in the sky. The ghostly light made it easy for Clara to keep Rick in sight.
It also made her fear being caught, but she could no more turn back than stop breathing.
After what seemed like hours, Rick wound his way through the iron gate of a remote cemetery.
A strange mixture of sorrow and exhilaration clawed at Clara’s throat when she spied the stone where he stopped ...
“Emma Dalton 1861-1882”
Tears spilled out of Clara’s eyes as she watched Rick dance gracefully over the grave of his dead wife.
Her spine froze when she realized that two shadows waltzed beneath the bone-white moon.
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