“I’m Carrick Montgomery.” He extended his hand.
She took it with reluctance, her fingers cold even through gloves.
“Welcome to Willow Creek.”
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks like her body hadn’t gotten the message that she wanted to stop. She wiped them quickly with a handkerchief that was already damp with prior surrender.
“I apologize, Mr. Montgomery,” she whispered, voice cracking right down the middle. “This is not how I intended our first meeting to be.”
The station bustled around them. Men laughed. A woman scolded a child. A trunk thumped onto the platform. And yet a small hush hovered close, created by curious glances and the instinct people had to stare at someone’s grief like it was a rare animal.
Carrick did not like that.
He guided her, gently but firmly, away from the prying eyes toward a bench at the far end of the platform, where a stack of empty crates formed a kind of accidental wall. Once she sat, shoulders hunched as though she could fold herself into something smaller, Carrick reached into his pocket and offered her a clean handkerchief.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly. “Whatever’s troubling you, Miss Foster… I reckon you’ve had a long journey to think on it. No need to force a smile on my account.”
Her eyes widened, and for a moment, the tears paused as if surprised by the words.
