The stagecoach had not completely stopped when Clara Bennett realized she had made a mistake.
Not because Colorado looked wrong.
That was the problem.
It looked too much like freedom.
The land stretched farther than anything she had known in Massachusetts, pale grass rolling toward blue-gray mountains beneath an enormous September sky. Cottonwoods shook beside the stage station. Horses stamped in the dust. Somewhere behind the small wooden building, a pump squeaked every few seconds.
There were no brick walls.
No crowded sidewalks.
No narrow Boston streets where every carriage wheel seemed to announce that someone was coming for her.
There was nowhere to hide here.
Clara gripped the edge of the coach door.
Pain tightened along her left side.
She froze.
Breathed through it.
Waited.
The bruise beneath her ribs had changed from purple to yellow around the edges, but the deeper ache remained whenever she twisted too quickly.
Nobody inside the coach noticed.
Good.
She had become skilled at making pain invisible.
The driver jumped down.
“Cross Creek stop!”
Clara lifted her battered valise.
A woman opposite her smiled sympathetically.
“Your husband meeting you?”
Clara almost corrected her.
Not husband.
Not yet.
The arrangement with Samuel Cross had been made through Reverend Albert Haines, who matched respectable western men with eastern women willing to marry after a supervised period of introduction.
Samuel's letter had been precise.
Thirty-eight years old.
Cattle rancher.
Widower? No.
Never married.
Owns four hundred eighty acres.
No children.
Needs wife willing to live forty miles from town.
No demand for dowry.
No expectation of immediate marriage if either party finds the arrangement unsuitable.
That final sentence had made Clara answer.
She stepped down.
Pain caught her again.
Her boot struck the ground awkwardly.
For one horrible second her knees almost folded.
A hand moved toward her.
Then stopped.
“Ma'am?”
The voice was deep.
She looked up.
Samuel Cross stood several feet away holding his hat against his thigh.
He was taller than she expected.
Broad.
Weathered.
Dark-brown hair pushed back from a sun-marked forehead.
Short beard.
Blue-gray eyes.
Cream work shirt.
Dark vest.
Brown trousers.
Boots coated with dry earth.
A cowboy, though not in the exaggerated way Boston dime novels portrayed them.
No theatrical gun belt.
No swagger.
He simply looked like a man who had spent most of his life outdoors and had learned that the weather did not care how important he felt.
His hand remained halfway between them.
He had seen her stumble.
Yet he did not touch her.
“Clara Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Samuel Cross.”
“I assumed.”
Something almost like amusement moved through his expression.
Then his eyes went toward her side.
“You hurt?”
Her stomach tightened.
“No.”
“You nearly fell.”
“Three days in a stagecoach would make a fence post walk crooked.”
That earned the faintest smile.
Samuel stepped back instead of closer.
“Wheel broke near Plum Creek?”
Clara stared.
The driver answered for her.
“Yesterday.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“No.”
Samuel looked toward the passengers.
Not merely Clara.
“Good.”
It was a small thing.
A question asked without performance.
But Clara noticed.
The man who had arranged for a potential bride to travel thousands of miles had not first complained that she was late.
He had asked whether anyone had been hurt.
That unsettled her more than impatience would have.
She knew impatience.
Anger.
Suspicion.
Ownership.
Kindness required a language she no longer spoke easily.
Samuel reached toward the valise.
“May I?”
Clara tightened her grip instinctively.
He stopped.
“Or you can carry it.”
She looked at his hand.
Then at his face.
No offense.
No irritation.
She released the handle.
“You can.”
He lifted it.
Heavy.
His eyebrows rose.
“You bring bricks?”
“Books.”
“That explains it.”
“What?”
“Bricks would've been lighter.”
Clara almost smiled.
Almost.
He led her toward a plain wagon.
No flowers.
No sign.
No crowd.
That relieved her.
A few people at the station looked over.
A woman beside the post office whispered something.
Clara heard only:
“That's her?”
Then another:
“Cross ordered himself a wife?”
Her spine stiffened.
Samuel heard too.
He placed her valise in the wagon.
Turned.
Looked toward the women.
They immediately became interested in the post office wall.
He did not say anything.
Clara preferred that.
She climbed onto the wagon bench before he could offer assistance.
He sat beside her.
Not too close.
Gathered the reins.
Then said:
“Before we leave.”
Clara waited.
“I prepared two bedrooms.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“One for me.”
“One for you.”
Her face must have betrayed something because Samuel's expression changed.
He continued carefully.
“The agreement isn't a marriage.”
“Not yet.”
“I know.”
“I want to make sure you understand I know.”
Clara stared ahead.
The horses started walking.
Samuel continued:
“Your room has a lock.”
“Key's yours.”
“I won't enter without asking.”
“Mrs. Birch comes by twice a week.”
“She lives five miles east.”
“If you'd rather she stay the first few nights, she will.”
Clara looked at him now.
“Why?”
Samuel frowned.
“Why what?”
“Why would you arrange all of that?”
“Because you're coming to live with a strange man.”
She almost laughed at the simplicity.
“Yes.”
“That is the arrangement.”
“No.”
Samuel turned slightly.
“You crossed three thousand miles.”
“You should know the door locks.”
Clara stared.
He added:
“And a mail-order marriage doesn't mean I purchased anything.”
Her throat tightened.
Samuel looked toward the road.
“You're a person, Clara.”
“Not livestock.”
“Not a contract.”
“You don't owe me affection.”
“You don't owe me obedience.”
“You don't owe me your body.”
Her fingers closed around the edge of the wagon seat.
Samuel continued as though discussing fence posts.
“If after a month you decide you hate me, I'll pay your fare to Denver.”
“If after three months we want to marry, we marry.”
“If not, we don't.”
“You'll still have wages for whatever work we agree on.”
Clara's voice came quieter than she wanted.
“You would pay for me to leave?”
“If I brought you here, yes.”
“Even if I refused to marry you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Samuel glanced at her.
“Because otherwise it isn't much of a choice.”
Clara looked away quickly.
Her eyes burned.
No.
Not here.
Not on the first hour.
She watched the plains.
The wagon wheels moved through dust.
Samuel said nothing.
That mattered too.
Silence from a man had once meant a storm gathering.
With Samuel, silence seemed to mean he had nothing to demand.
She did not know what to do with that.
The ranch lay almost two hours from the stage stop.
Cross Ranch appeared beyond a low ridge.
A large weathered barn.
Two corrals.
A long one-story house with an upstairs addition.
Windmill.
Cattle grazing farther west.
Cottonwoods beside a creek.
Not wealthy.
Not poor.
Working.
Samuel drove toward the house.
A woman stood on the porch.
Sixties.
Gray hair.
Strong posture.
Blue dress beneath a brown shawl.
She waved.
“That is Mrs. Birch.”
Clara looked at Samuel.
“You really called someone.”
“I said I did.”
“I thought perhaps you were trying to reassure me.”
“I usually prefer reassuring people with facts.”
Clara looked at him.
Something inside her shifted.
Very slightly.
The older woman came down the steps.
“Clara Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“Eleanor Birch.”
She embraced Clara before Clara could stop her.
Not hard.
Motherly.
Clara stood stiff.
Eleanor released her immediately.
“Too much?”
Clara blinked.