Reality doesn't care about your pride, Miss Hail. You have two weeks. " After that, this conversation is over. The door slammed behind him. Margaret sagged into a chair, her hands covering her face.
Lydia stood frozen, her mind racing through impossible calculations. $300, Two weeks. There was no combination of work, no miracle, no prayer that could bridge that gap. She was still standing there when she heard the second horse. This one approached slowly, the hoofbeats measured and deliberate.
Lydia moved to the window, her curiosity briefly overriding her despair. The rider was tall, dressed in worn canvas and rough wool that marked him as a mountain man, someone who lived in the high country where civilization thinned out to nothing. His hat was pulled low, and a dark beard obscured most of his face. The horse he rode was nothing special. A sturdy mountain-bred animal built for endurance rather than show.
He dismounted with the fluid economy of someone who'd spent more time on horseback than on foot, tied his reins to the fence post, and walked toward the cabin. Margaret lifted her head. Who on earth? The knock came firm, but not aggressive. Lydia opened the door.
Up close, the man was younger than she'd initially thought, perhaps 30, with gray eyes that seemed to catalog everything in a single glance. His face was weathered, but not old. His hands calloused but clean. There was something about the way he held himself, a kind of contained alertness that reminded her of the hunting cats that sometimes appeared at the forest's edge. " Miss Hail? "
His voice was deep, roughened by wind and altitude. Yes, my name is Ethan Crowe. I have a proposition for you. Lydia's mother appeared at her shoulder. Sir, if this is about charity, we don't accept it's not charity.
Ethan's eyes never left Lydia's face. It's a business arrangement. May I come in? Every instinct told Lydia to refuse. Strange men didn't appear at isolated cabins with business propositions, especially not for unmarried women.
But desperation was a powerful solvent, dissolving caution the way water dissolved salt. 5 Minutes, she said, stepping aside. He entered, removing his hat to reveal dark hair shot through with premature gray. He didn't sit when offered a chair, instead remaining standing with his back to the far wall, a position Lydia noted that let him see both the door and the windows simultaneously. I'll be direct, Ethan said.
I need a wife. You need money. I'm prepared to pay off your family's debts in exchange for marriage. The silence that followed was profound. Margaret found her voice first.
That's That's outrageous. Are you suggesting my daughter is for sale? I'm suggesting a contract. Ethan reached into his coat and produced a leather wallet. From it, he extracted a bank draft and handed it to Lydia.
$400, Enough to clear your debts and leave you with money to spare. In exchange, you marry me and come live at my home in the high country. Lydia stared at the draft. The number seemed to swim before her eyes. $400.
More money than she'd seen in her entire life. Why? She asked. Why? What?
Why do you need to buy a wife? You seem capable. Surely there are women who would marry you willingly. Something that might have been amusement flickered across Ethan's face. Perhaps I value honesty over romance.
A business arrangement is clear. No false expectations. No disappointment. And what exactly would you expect from this arrangement? A wife in name and function.
Someone to manage a household. Someone, he paused, choosing his words carefully. Someone who understands that some things are worth more than money. That's not an answer, Lydia said. It's the only answer I'm offering today.
Margaret stepped between them. Absolutely not. Lydia, put that draft down right now. This is insane. Is it?
Lydia didn't look away from Ethan's gray eyes. More insane than watching Papa die knowing we'll be homeless before he's even buried. More insane than being thrown off our land with nothing? There has to be another way. There isn't, Mama.
You know there isn't. Ethan remained silent, letting them argue, his expression unreadable. You don't know anything about this man, Margaret insisted. He could be anyone. He could be dangerous.
So is poverty, Lydia said quietly. So is watching everything we've ever worked for get sold to strangers. She turned back to Ethan. I'll need to see your home first. I'm not agreeing to anything blind.
That's not possible. Then neither is this. She held the draft out to him. For a long moment, Ethan didn't move. Then slowly he nodded.
Fair enough. I can tell you this. The home is remote, but it's substantial. You won't lack for shelter or food. You'll have your own space, your own privacy if you want it.
I'm not looking for a servant, Miss Hail. I'm looking for a partner. A partner in what? In survival. In building something that lasts.
He took the draft back, but instead of pocketing it, he laid it on the table. I'll leave this here. You have until tomorrow evening to decide. If you agree, bring one bag of personal items and meet me at the North Crossroads at dawn the day after. If you don't come, I'll understand.
And the money? " Margaret asked sharply. " If she agrees, it's hers regardless. The debt gets paid whether the marriage works or not. I keep my word, " Mrs. Hail. "