The letter had mentioned that she was “a woman of unusually substantial build.”
The rancher had interpreted that politely vague phrase as perhaps two hundred pounds.
Maybe two hundred fifty.
The woman standing beside the baggage cart was close to four hundred kilograms.
Nearly nine hundred pounds.
He stared.
She noticed.
“Finished?”
The rancher blinked.
“With what?”
“Trying to calculate whether your wagon survives me.”
Her voice was calmer than he expected.
He looked at the wagon.
Then at her.
Then back at the wagon.
“That thought occurred.”
“At least you’re honest.”
A porter stood beside an enormous reinforced chair with small iron-rimmed wheels.
The rancher frowned.
“What’s that?”
“My traveling chair.”
“You can walk?”
The woman’s expression hardened.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I can walk short distances. I cannot walk ten miles through Montana because a man is disappointed by geometry.”
The rancher almost smiled.
He stopped himself.
The porter cleared his throat.
“There’s also this.”
One battered carpetbag.
“That’s everything?”
The woman nodded.
“Yes.”
“Nothing else?”
“Were you expecting a piano?”
“No.”
“A wardrobe?”
“No.”
“Then we’re making progress.”
The rancher looked toward his wagon.
He had reinforced the rear axle before coming to Helena.
Not for her.
For supplies.
Now he was grateful.
They had already married by proxy agreement through the agency, with the final ceremony scheduled that afternoon.
Backing out remained possible.
Technically.
The woman knew it.
So did he.
She looked directly at him.
“You can refuse.”
The rancher said nothing.
“I won’t beg.”
“I didn't ask you to.”
“You've been staring for two minutes.”
“One.”
“Two.”
He looked at her face rather than her body.
Freckles.
Gray-blue eyes.
A tired expression.
No embarrassment.
Only readiness.
As if she had endured this moment before.
“How long was the train ride?”
“Four days.”
“Did you sleep?”
“Very little.”
“You hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Then we eat.”
Her eyebrow lifted.
“That’s your decision?”
“No.”
He picked up the carpetbag.
“That’s lunch.”
For the first time, she smiled.
It transformed her face.
The rancher immediately disliked how much he noticed.
They ate in a small hotel dining room.
A reinforced bench had to be brought from the back.
People stared.
The woman ignored them.
The rancher did not.
When a pair of young men whispered and laughed at the next table, his jaw tightened.
His future wife noticed that too.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Fight strangers because they look at me.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You were considering it.”
“I consider many things.”
She cut into her roast.
“I survived Chicago. I can survive two idiots in Montana.”
One of the young men laughed again.
The rancher looked over.
The laughter stopped.
His future wife sighed.
“I said don't.”
“I didn't do anything.”
“Your face did.”