“You’re very kind, sir.” She took the handkerchief with a trembling hand. “I… I fear I may have made a terrible mistake.”
Carrick felt something tighten in his stomach, not anger, not exactly, but the old reflex that came from bad news delivered in a soft voice.
He’d heard stories. Men out here traded them the way they traded weather predictions. A mail-order bride steps off the coach, takes one look at her prospective husband, and vanishes on the next eastbound ride with her pride and his money both in her pocket.
He was not a vain man. He knew what he was: weathered, sun-browned, scarred at the knuckles, a face carved by wind and work. But his mother had always said he was handsome in a straightforward way. He’d kept himself clean for this day. He’d even trimmed his beard like a fool.
He swallowed.
“Is it me?” he asked directly. “If I’m not what you expected…”
She interrupted so quickly it startled him.
“No, Mr. Montgomery. It’s not you.” She looked genuinely surprised by the idea. Then her gaze darted around as if the station itself had ears. “May we speak somewhere more private?”
Carrick nodded. He retrieved her trunk himself, ignoring the driver’s grunt of protest. He carried it to his wagon parked near the hitching rail, set it down, and helped her climb onto the wooden seat. He settled beside her, reins in hand, and snapped them gently. The horses started forward, hooves clopping on packed earth.
“My home is about four miles outside town,” he said. “We can talk freely there. Or I can take you to the hotel if you’d prefer.”
