Tomorrow. No regrets? She thought about it honestly. I'm terrified, but no, no regrets. This feels like the right kind of wrong decision, if that makes sense.
He laughed, which turned into a cough. When he recovered, he said, "You're going to be fine, Lydia girl. Better than fine. You're going to surprise yourself with how strong you really are. " " I learned from the best. " "
Your mother? Both of you? " She kissed his forehead, memorizing the feel of his papery skin. The smell of camphor and sickness that had become so familiar. Tomorrow she'd be married.
Tomorrow she'd leave everything she'd ever known. Tomorrow her entire life would change. But tonight, for a few more hours, she was still just Lydia Hail, daughter of Thomas and Margaret, standing in the cabin where she'd grown up, making peace with the woman she was about to become. Dawn came cold and gray, the sky the color of old iron. Lydia dressed in her best dress, dark blue wool that her mother had made 3 years ago, still serviceable, if not fashionable.
She pinned her dark hair up in a simple style, looking at herself in the small mirror above the wash basin. The face that looked back was familiar, but somehow changed. The same blue eyes, the same straight nose, the same firm mouth. But there was something different in the set of her jaw, the directness of her gaze. This was a woman who'd made a choice, for better or worse.
That kind of decision left its mark. Margaret insisted on making breakfast, though none of them could eat much. They moved through the morning rituals with exaggerated care, as if by performing each task perfectly, they could hold back the inevitable moment of departure. Finally, there was nothing left to do but go. Lydia picked up her bag, heavier than she'd expected with her mother's additions.
Margaret wrapped the blue shawl around her shoulders, her hands lingering on Lydia's arms. You write to us, she said. Whatever happens, you write. Even if it's just a line to let us know you're alive. I will, mama.
I promise. And if things go wrong, if he's not what he seems, you come straight home. We'll figure something out. I know. They looked at each other, both knowing that home might not exist by the time any letter could arrive.
The bank draft had been delivered to Samuel Garrett yesterday afternoon with instructions to clear the Hail family's debts, but that only bought them time, not a future. Eventually, the land would still fail them. The cabin would still decay. Lydia leaving didn't solve everything. It just solved the most immediate crisis.
Thomas was too weak to rise, but he called out as she passed his door. Lydia, she stopped, fighting tears. Be brave, but not reckless. Be kind, but not soft. And remember, you always have value, no matter what anyone else says.
You hear me? I hear you, Papa. Good. Now go, and don't look back. Looking back never helped anyone.
She walked out of the cabin without glancing behind her, her father's words ringing in her ears. The north crossroads were exactly a mile from the hail property, where the main trail split into paths leading deeper into the mountains. It was a lonely spot, marked only by a weathered signpost in a car of stones that some long ago traveler had built for reasons now forgotten. Ethan Crowe was already there. He stood beside two horses, his own mountain-bred gelding, and a smaller mare with intelligent eyes and a calm demeanor.
He'd cleaned up since their first meeting. His beard was trimmed, and he wore what might have passed for formal clothes in the back country. A clean shirt, a dark vest, trousers without patches. Miss Hail, he said as she approached. I wasn't certain you'd come.
I almost didn't. What changed your mind? I ran out of better options. He almost smiled. Honest, I appreciate that.
From his saddle bag, he produced a small book and a piece of paper. I took the liberty of having a circuit preacher draw up a marriage certificate. He's waiting a quarter mile up the trail. If you're still willing, we can make this legal right now. Lydia's heart hammered against her ribs.
This was it, the last moment she could turn back. After this, there would be no undoing what came next. She thought of her father dying by inches in that dark bedroom, her mother's hollow cheeks, the debt collector's satisfied smile, the cabin that was really just a pile of wood waiting to collapse. She thought of Ethan's gray eyes, the way he'd stood in their cabin without fidgeting or false sympathy. The bank draft that had appeared like magic, the promise of something, anything different from the slow death she'd been living. "
I'm willing, " she said. They wrote in silence to where the preacher waited. An elderly man with kind eyes and arthritic hands, who asked no questions beyond the legal necessities. The ceremony, if it could be called that, took less than 5 minutes. Lydia repeated words she barely heard, her mind strangely distant as if this were happening to someone else.
Do you, Lydia Anne Hale, take this man? Did she? Did she really? I do. Then by the power vested in me by the territory, I pronounce you man and wife.
The preacher signed the certificate with shaking hands. Ethan signed. Then he handed the pen to Lydia. Her hand was steady as she wrote her name. Her old name for the last time.
When she finished, she was Lydia Crowe, a wife, a stranger to herself. Ethan paid the preacher with gold coins that caught the weak morning light. Then it was just the two of them, married now, standing at a crossroads in more ways than one. " The mare is yours, " Ethan said, gesturing to the smaller horse. " Her name is Slate.
She's sure-footed and good-tempered. You'll need both where we're going. Lydia approached the horse slowly, letting Slate smell her hand before stroking the soft nose. The mare nickered softly, and Lydia felt an unexpected rush of affection. At least she'd have one friend in whatever came next. "
How far? " She asked. " 2 Days if the weather holds, three if it doesn't. " " And where exactly are we going? " " North and up into the high country? " "
That's not an answer. It's the only one I'm giving until we get there. His voice wasn't unkind, but it was firm. I need you to trust me, Mrs. Crow. Can you do that?
Mrs. Crow. The name sounded foreign, like words in a language she'd never quite learned. I can try, she said. They mounted their horses and turned north toward the mountains that rose like teeth against the gray sky. Behind them, the last wisps of smoke from morning cook fires marked the settlement that had been Lydia's entire world.