Jonas Hargrave knew he had made a mistake the moment Rebecca Hale stepped down from the train at Silver Plume.
He had imagined someone taller.
That was his first ridiculous thought.
His second was worse.
She looked too soft for the mountains.
Steam curled around the black locomotive behind her while snow hissed against the platform boards. Rebecca stood beneath the pale Colorado sky clutching a battered brown traveling bag with both gloved hands, looking as if the wind itself might carry her backward onto the train.
Jonas remained several yards away.
Thirty-eight years old.
Six feet four.
Broad through the shoulders from timber work.
His heavy charcoal coat was dusted with snow, his dark hair needed cutting, and the scar along his chin pulled slightly whenever he clenched his jaw.
Which he was doing now.
Rebecca spotted him almost immediately.
That surprised him.
Perhaps his description in the letters had been more accurate than hers.
She walked toward him carefully.
Her forest-green skirt brushed snow from the boards.
The dark-brown shawl around her shoulders was too thin for the altitude.
Her cheeks were pink from cold.
Dark hair was pinned into a loose bun already losing its battle with the mountain wind.
When she reached him, she stopped.
“You must be Mr. Hargrave.”
Jonas looked at her.
Not rude enough to stare.
Not polite enough to hide the fact he was studying her.
Twenty-seven, according to the marriage agency.
Raised in Missouri.
Experienced with household work.
Able to cook.
Able to sew.
Had worked beside her father in a small mercantile store.
Comfortable around horses.
Strong constitution.
No objection to isolation.
Those were the important phrases.
Jonas remembered every one.
He looked at her hands.
Small.
Even beneath gloves.
Then at her narrow shoulders.
Then her face.
Too pale.
Too beautiful.
Beauty had not been requested.
Beauty was useless when the snow reached the lower windows and firewood had to be split before dawn.
“You lied in your letters.”
Rebecca stiffened.
Jonas saw the hurt before she controlled it.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said you were strong.”
Her brown eyes narrowed.
“I am.”
“You're shaking.”
“It’s seventeen degrees.”
“That is not especially cold here.”
“Comforting.”
Jonas almost smiled.
Almost.
He stopped himself.
“The next train east leaves tomorrow morning.”
Rebecca stared.
“I’ll pay for a room tonight.”
Her fingers tightened around the bag.
Jonas continued.
“And the ticket.”
“You've come a long way.”
“No reason to make the mistake longer.”
For several seconds she said nothing.
Jonas expected tears.
He had been warned mail-order arrangements sometimes ended that way.
A woman arrived.
A man discovered she was not what he imagined.
Or the woman found herself facing a house, a man, or a landscape that frightened her.
Money changed hands.
The woman returned east.
Unpleasant.
Better than a miserable marriage.
Rebecca raised her eyes.
“I’m not going back.”
Jonas frowned.
“You don't understand.”
“I understand exactly.”
“I asked for a woman capable of working.”
“And you decided within thirty seconds that I am not.”
“I have eyes.”
“So do I.”
Her gaze traveled deliberately from his boots to his shoulders.
“And mine tell me you're rude.”
Jonas stared.
Rebecca continued.
“Yet I have not asked for a return ticket.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
He hated that.
“You could die up there.”
“I could die in St. Louis.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It is where I come from.”
Jonas studied her again.
Something had changed.
The trembling remained.
But now he saw what was underneath it.
Not fragility.
Control.
Rebecca was cold.
Afraid perhaps.
But she was not weak.
“Reverend Abbott is expecting us,” she said.
“I know.”
“In twenty minutes.”
“Yes.”
“We gave our word.”
Jonas’s jaw tightened.
That was the wrong argument.
She knew it.
He could see it in her eyes.
His word mattered.
Sometimes more than it should.
Rebecca took one step closer.
“If you tell me you have changed your mind because you no longer intend to honor the agreement, say it plainly.”
Jonas looked down at her.
“You're challenging my honor?”
“I am asking whether you have any.”
That did it.
He laughed.
One short disbelieving sound.
Rebecca’s cheeks reddened further.
But she did not look away.
Jonas leaned toward her slightly.
“You've known me less than two minutes.”
“You knew me less than thirty seconds before calling me a liar.”
“Fair.”
She blinked.
Apparently she had not expected agreement.
Jonas looked toward the church steeple above the roofs.
Then back.
“You still want to marry me?”
Rebecca inhaled slowly.
“I crossed almost nine hundred miles.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
Her eyes met his.
“Yes.”
He held the gaze.
“Why?”
For one heartbeat, something closed behind her face.
Then:
“Because your letters were honest.”
Jonas frowned.
“I was not charming.”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
“You wrote that you needed a wife because you were tired of spending half the day doing work two people could accomplish before noon.”
“I did.”
“You said the cabin had one bed.”
“Yes.”
“But you would build another if I wished.”
“Yes.”
“You said you were not promising affection.”
“No.”
“Only safety, food, a share of the homestead, and respect.”
“That was the agreement.”
Rebecca nodded.
“I believed you.”
Jonas said nothing.
She continued.
“I still do.”
The wind moved between them.
Jonas looked at her lips.
It happened before he could stop himself.
Just a glance.
Her mouth was soft.
Color returning from the cold.
Rebecca noticed.
Of course she did.
His eyes returned immediately to hers.
Her expression changed.
Not amusement.
Something quieter.
More dangerous.
She stepped closer.
The distance between them narrowed.
“You expected a cold marriage,” she said softly.
Jonas stared.
“I expected a practical one.”
“Those are not always the same.”
“They usually are.”
“Do you have much experience with marriage, Mr. Hargrave?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps your certainty is ambitious.”
He nearly laughed again.
Instead he said:
“You're very bold for a woman who looked ready to faint when she stepped off that train.”
“I am terrified.”
That answer stopped him.
Rebecca’s voice softened.
“I don't know you.”
“I don't know those mountains.”
“I don't know whether I will hate your cabin or whether you snore or whether you become unbearable before breakfast.”
“I do.”
“What?”
“Become unbearable before breakfast.”
Rebecca smiled.
The first one.
It transformed her face.
Jonas instantly wished she had not done it.
He had not requested beauty.
He certainly had not requested a smile that made him forget his own argument.
Rebecca noticed that too.
She lifted one gloved hand and placed it against the front of his coat.
Jonas became completely still.
“What are you doing?”
“Testing a theory.”
“What theory?”
“That you're not nearly as indifferent as you'd like me to believe.”
Jonas’s voice dropped.
“Careful.”
“Of what?”
“I've lived alone for three years.”
Rebecca held his gaze.
“So?”
“So a woman should be cautious about putting her hand there while telling me I'm not indifferent.”
Her breath caught.
Good.
At least he was not the only one affected.
But she did not retreat.
Instead:
“Then stop looking at my mouth like you're wondering what your wife tastes like.”
Jonas stared.
A train whistle sounded behind them.
Steam rolled across the platform.
He reached up.
Not roughly.
Closed one large gloved hand around her wrist.
Rebecca inhaled.
Their faces were perhaps eight inches apart now.
Jonas could see tiny snowflakes melting in her hair.
“Careful, woman.”
His voice was barely above the wind.
“I’ve lived alone too long to hear words like that and remain a gentleman forever.”
Rebecca’s eyes lowered briefly to his mouth.
Then rose again.
“Good.”
Jonas’s hand tightened slightly around her wrist.
“Good?”
“I didn't cross half the country to marry a man who plans to spend every night sleeping on the floor.”
That broke him.
Jonas laughed.
Actually laughed.
Rebecca smiled again.
And for the first time since seeing her step from the train, Jonas wondered whether the marriage agency had made a mistake in his favor.