Cora Bennett had two nickels to her name when Wyatt Mercer came to ask her to marry him.
That was not the worst thing that had happened to her that week.
The worst thing had been watching the little schoolhouse at the edge of Mercy Creek burn down while twenty-three children stood barefoot in snow and cried because the books inside were gone.
The fire started during the night.
Nobody knew exactly how.
A stove pipe had probably shifted.
By dawn, only black beams remained above the stone foundation.
Cora had taught there for three years.
Reading.
Arithmetic.
Penmanship.
Geography.
History.
Enough manners to prevent the older boys from throwing ink at one another.
Not enough manners to stop them entirely.
The schoolhouse was not impressive, but it had been hers in the way teachers sometimes felt ownership over places where they had given more hours than anyone had paid them for.
She knew which floorboard squeaked.
Which window froze first.
Which desk had Seth Hollander's initials carved beneath it.
Which child needed to sit close because she could not see the slate.
Which boy pretended to be stupid because his father laughed whenever he tried too hard.
Cora knew all of it.
Then fire reduced the room to smoke and wet ash.
The town council met the next morning.
Cora expected discussion about rebuilding.
Instead, Councilman Ezra Pike cleared his throat and told her there would be no school until spring.
No school meant no salary.
No salary meant no reason for the council to continue paying the seven dollars each month that covered her room above Cooper's workshop.
Cora stared.
“You're dismissing me because the school burned?”
Ezra looked uncomfortable.
“We're suspending the position.”
“I still have twenty-three students.”
“No building.”
“I can teach in the church.”
“Pastor Bell says weekday use interferes with meetings.”
“The mercantile storeroom.”
“Mr. Harris refuses.”
“My boarding room.”
Ezra sighed.
“Miss Bennett.”
Cora hated the tone immediately.
“You're a good teacher.”
People always became generous with compliments after taking away money.
“But the council cannot pay wages for a school that does not exist.”
She walked out before she said something that would follow her longer than unemployment.
By noon, nearly everyone in Mercy Creek knew.
By three, people began offering advice.
Go to Denver.
Find another school.
Marry.
Return east.
Teach sewing.
Become companion to an elderly widow.
All suggestions required money, transportation, family, or willingness to attach her future to someone else's.
Cora had none of the first three.
And very little interest in the fourth.
She was twenty-seven.
Parents dead.
One brother somewhere in California, if his last letter could still be trusted.
No land.
No savings.
No husband.
No talent for becoming agreeable merely because life had become inconvenient.
The owner of her room, Tobias Cooper, gave her until Saturday.
“I’m sorry.”
Cora believed him.
That did not create rent.
She sat on the narrow bed Tuesday afternoon with everything she owned arranged around her.
Two dresses.
One winter coat.
Six books.
Hairbrush.
Sewing kit.
Teacher's certificates.
Three letters.
A cracked photograph of her parents.
And ten cents.
She had just begun deciding which books could be sold when someone knocked.
Not politely.
Three heavy knocks.
Cora opened the door.
Wyatt Mercer filled the frame.
She knew him by sight.
Everyone did.
Thirty-nine.
Six-foot-four.
Possibly taller.
Broad through the shoulders.
Dark hair.
Dark beard.
Blue-gray eyes.
Heavy winter coat.
Leather gloves.
Boots carrying snow from outside.
He owned Mercer Ridge Ranch twenty miles north of town.
Three thousand mountain acres.
Timber.
Cattle.
Horses.
A stone-and-log house people spoke of as though it were a fortress.
Some said he was rich.
Others said land-rich and cash-poor.
Cora knew only one thing certainly.
His wife had died four years earlier.
Two sons survived her.
The sons had a reputation almost as strong as their father's.
Wyatt removed his hat.
“Miss Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come in?”
Cora looked at his size.
Then the hallway.
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Why you're here.”
That caught him off guard.
Good.
He answered:
“I heard about the school.”
“So did everyone.”
“I got two boys.”
Cora waited.
He seemed to believe that sentence explained something.
Finally:
“Congratulations.”
Wyatt frowned.
“They're seven and ten.”
“I see.”
“Their mother died.”
Cora's expression softened despite herself.
“I know.”
“Four years ago.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the room behind her.
Then back.
“They need teaching.”
“You came to hire me as governess?”
“No.”
Cora waited.
He shifted his hat between his hands.
“They need more than lessons.”
“What?”
“A woman.”
Cora's eyes narrowed.
Wyatt realized how that sounded.
“A mother.”
Worse.
He tried again.
“They're turning feral.”
Cora stared.
He said it with the same tone a farmer might use describing calves breaking fences.
She almost laughed.
Instead:
“You came to town to find someone willing to mother two feral boys?”
“Yes.”
“And you picked the unemployed teacher.”
“You know children.”
“That does not make me their mother.”
“No.”
“Then what are you asking?”
Wyatt looked directly at her.
“I’m asking you to marry me.”
Cora honestly thought she had misunderstood.
She stared for several seconds.
Then laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because otherwise she might have slapped him.
“You walked into my boarding room because you heard I lost my job and decided poverty made me available for purchase?”
His face did not change.
“No.”
“It sounds remarkably close.”
“You need a roof.”
Cora's jaw tightened.
“A fire.”
Her fists clenched.
“Food.”
“Mr. Mercer.”
“And I need someone capable of raising boys who haven't listened to me since 1884.”
“That is not marriage.”
“No.”
He said it so simply that Cora stopped.
Wyatt continued:
“It would be legal marriage.”
“But I am not asking for romance.”
“Or affection.”
“I can give you your own room.”
“Door locks.”
“You keep the key.”
“My bedroom is opposite end of the house.”
“You teach the boys.”
“Run household if you want.”
“Don't if you don't.”
“You get thirty dollars quarterly for personal money.”
“Food.”
“Clothes within reason.”
“A horse when weather permits.”
“If after one year you want out, I'll pay travel anywhere in Colorado Territory and sign whatever legal separation can be arranged.”
Cora stared.
Wyatt added:
“I won't expect wife duties.”
His gaze stayed level.
“Not unless you want them.”
Silence.
Her empty stomach growled.
Loud.
Both heard it.
Cora wanted the floor to open.
Wyatt did not smile.
That almost made the humiliation worse.
He looked away slightly, giving her privacy she did not possess.
Cora folded her arms.
“You planned this.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Since yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Mrs. Shaw told me the council fired you.”
“Mrs. Shaw talks too much.”
“Yes.”
“You don't know me.”
“I've heard you teach.”
“When?”
“Last harvest.”
“You stood outside the school?”
“My youngest threw a stone through your window.”
Cora's eyes widened.
“That was Seth Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“You made him replace it?”
“I made him work two Saturdays.”
“He told me Indians attacked the building.”
Wyatt's mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
“He lies creatively.”
Cora sat on the edge of her bed.
The situation was absurd.
Insulting.
Practical.
Dangerous.
Possibly her only option.
“What if your sons hate me?”
“They will.”
She looked up.
Wyatt said:
“They hate most people.”
“Comforting.”
“They loved their mother.”
There it was.
Pain beneath the bluntness.
“They think liking someone else means betraying her.”
Cora studied him.
“You understand that?”
“I understand it.”
“You haven't fixed it?”
His face hardened slightly.
“I don't know how.”
That was the first honest weakness he had shown.
Cora looked at the trunk.
The ten cents.
Snow outside.
Saturday approaching.
Then Wyatt.
“What happens if I say no?”
“I leave.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“You won't tell Cooper to throw me out?”
“No.”
“You won't withdraw some secret offer?”
“No secret offer.”
“You simply leave?”
“Yes.”
Cora believed him.
That was dangerous too.
Men who allowed refusal made acceptance easier.
She stood.
“Give me an hour.”
Wyatt nodded.
“I’ll wait downstairs.”