She was building for survival.
She was measuring a plank when the sound reached her: hoofbeats.
Not the lazy, uncertain beat of a drifter’s horse.
This was a confident rhythm, steady as a clock.
Eleanor straightened, brushing sawdust from her dress with an old reflex of Boston propriety that refused to die quietly. She smoothed her skirt as if a man with money deserved a better version of her.
Then she caught herself and almost laughed.
Money didn’t deserve anything.
She lifted her chin as the rider emerged from the aspens.
Continue on the next page:
