The stagecoach came into town at eleven minutes past three on a Thursday afternoon, trailing a pale ribbon of dust that hung above the road long after the horses had slowed.
By then, nearly everyone on Main Street had already heard that Silas Creed was coming to meet his bride.
In a town where the newest newspaper was three days old and the telegraph office worked only when the wire behaved itself, news traveled with remarkable speed. A ranch hand mentioned something in the livery stable, a shopkeeper repeated it at the mercantile, a woman heard it while buying flour, and before supper the entire town knew.
Silas Creed was getting married.
That alone would have been enough to make people curious.
Silas was thirty-eight years old, wealthy enough to own a large cattle spread in the foothills west of town, stubborn enough to have survived three winters that had killed better men, and solitary enough that most people could not remember the last time they had seen him dance.
He had been married once.
That marriage had lasted less than two years.
His wife, Rebecca, had died of fever seven years earlier, and Silas had never spoken about the circumstances except to say that there had been nothing anyone could have done.
Since then, he had built fences, bought cattle, broken horses, buried men, hired ranch hands, survived blizzards, and acquired a reputation for being a man who preferred the company of livestock to people.
So when he announced that he intended to marry again, the town had immediately developed opinions.
When it was learned that he had placed an advertisement in a matrimonial circular back East, those opinions became louder.
When it was learned that he had specifically requested a woman who was practical, plain, accustomed to hard work, and uninterested in city luxuries, the opinions became almost unbearable.
And when the stagecoach finally rolled into town carrying a woman who looked as though she belonged in a governor's mansion rather than a Wyoming ranch, every person within fifty yards understood that something had gone terribly wrong.
Silas Creed stood beside the hitching rail outside the Wells Fargo office, staring at her.
For several seconds, he did not move.
The woman stepped down from the coach with one gloved hand resting against the polished wooden frame.
Her dress was blue.
Not merely blue.
Sapphire blue.
The color was so deep and rich beneath the afternoon sun that it seemed almost black in the folds, then flashed brilliantly when the fabric caught the light.
Her gown was tailored close through the bodice, with rows of tiny covered buttons running from her throat to her waist. A fitted traveling coat rested over her shoulders, its long lines emphasizing the graceful shape of her figure. The layered skirt brushed the dusty street without ever appearing dirty. Black gloves covered her hands, pearl earrings caught the light beside her face, and polished ankle boots disappeared beneath the hem of her dress.
Her hat was equally elegant, decorated in the same deep sapphire shade.
Her dark-brown hair was arranged in a careful Victorian updo, though a few strands had escaped the long journey and curled softly near her cheek.
She looked neither tired nor embarrassed.
She looked amused.
That was the first thing Silas noticed.
The second was her eyes.
Hazel.
Clear, steady, intelligent.
They found him immediately.
And stayed there.
Silas slowly removed his black hat.
He had imagined many things about the woman he was going to marry.
He had imagined a quiet woman.
A sturdy woman.
A woman who could milk a cow without complaining, ride in bad weather, mend clothes, tolerate dust, and understand that a ranch was not a drawing room.
He had imagined someone who would arrive carrying two practical trunks and perhaps a Bible.
He had not imagined this.
He looked at the sapphire dress.
Then the pearl earrings.
Then the hat.
Then the woman wearing all of it.
His mouth tightened.
Behind him, one of his ranch hands made a strangled sound.
Silas did not look back.
“Don't,” he muttered.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was only going to say she ain't plain.”
Silas turned his head just enough to glare.
The ranch hand, Amos Pike, immediately became fascinated by a horse's bridle.
The woman stepped fully onto the street.
The stagecoach driver climbed down and opened the rear compartment.
A young boy whispered something to his mother.
An old man standing outside the mercantile leaned forward.
Two ranch hands from the neighboring spread stopped unloading a wagon.
A group of children gathered near the hitching post.
The entire street seemed to hold its breath.
The woman glanced at them.
Then back at Silas.
She smiled.
It was not a shy smile.
It was the smile of a woman who had just discovered that the man standing in front of her was exactly as interesting as the letter had promised.
“Mr. Creed?”
Her voice was smooth and warm.
Silas cleared his throat.
“Miss?”
One of her eyebrows rose.
“You know who I am.”
“I know you're Miss Eleanor Vale.”
“Then why did you call me miss?”
“Because I wasn't sure what else to call you.”
Her smile deepened.
“That is disappointing.”
Silas frowned.
She stepped closer.
“After all, you wrote me six letters.”
A murmur passed through the crowd.
Silas's jaw tightened.
“Those letters were private.”
“So was my reply.”
“And yet here we are.”
“Indeed.”
She extended her gloved hand.
“Eleanor Vale.”
He stared at her hand for one second longer than necessary.
Then he took it.
Her glove was cool.
His hand was rough and calloused.
The contrast was almost absurd.
Her fingers rested lightly in his palm.
His eyes met hers.
Something shifted.
It was small.