Old Pete sat on the bench, hunched into his coat, beard rimed with ice. Beside him sat a bundled figure, wrapped in wool so thick it swallowed her shape.
“This has to be her,”
Daniel muttered to himself, though he already knew.
Pete pulled the horses to a stop with a grunt of relief. “Mitchell!” he called, voice cracking with cold. “Got your bride here. And I’m tellin’ you, this is the roughest run I’ve made since ’09. Weather’s turnin’ bad. Real bad.”
The bundled figure climbed down carefully.
Not clumsy. Not frantic. Steady and sure, like she’d measured the ground before trusting it.
When she turned toward Daniel, he saw her face.
A woman with dark, thoughtful eyes and cheeks reddened by wind. Her mouth was set in a line that looked more like determination than fear. She was bigger than the brides who’d come before, yes, but she carried her body like it belonged to her, like she had no intention of apologizing for taking up space in a world that constantly tried to shrink people.
She studied Daniel, taking him in like a seamstress taking measurements. Broad shoulders. Weathered hands. A scar near his jaw. Eyes that had learned to be careful with wanting.
“Mr. Mitchell,” she said. Her voice was level and warm, not timid, not sharp. “I am Ruth Gutierrez. I have come as we arranged.”
