He was thirty-one and built the way the land demanded, broad through the shoulders, lean through the waist, the kind of man who did not carry extra weight because nothing in Wyoming Territory let you keep it. His Stetson cast a shadow over eyes that had learned to watch for weather, cattle, and trouble. His jaw was freshly shaved except for a neatly trimmed beard that still felt unfamiliar beneath his fingers. He kept checking his pocket watch like time could be persuaded to behave.
Fourth time. Fifth.
A man didn’t send for a wife and then pretend he wasn’t waiting.
The driver hopped down from the coach, stretched his back with a groan, and spat into the dirt like he wanted to leave the whole east-to-west business behind him.
“Tough run from Cheyenne,” he muttered, swinging the door latch loose. “Your… mail-order bride’s aboard. Ain’t said a word the whole trip.”
Carrick nodded once. His throat had gone desert-dry.
He remembered her letters. Amelia Foster, twenty-two, schoolteacher, Boston. Neat handwriting, careful phrasing, a kind of disciplined warmth between the lines. She’d asked practical questions about winters, about household expectations, about distance to town, about whether he drank. She had not asked about romance. That had been a relief, and also, if he were honest, a small disappointment he hadn’t permitted himself to name.
Carrick had answered plainly.
