Her cheeks were rosy from the cold.
Her hazel eyes were alert.
Chestnut hair was pinned neatly beneath a modest bonnet.
She carried one trunk.
And when two boys near the depot snickered, she heard them.
The rancher knew because he saw her chin lift slightly.
She did not look toward them.
That should have been the first thing he noticed.
Instead, shamefully, what he noticed first was disappointment.
The woman looked across the road.
Her eyes found him.
“Are you the rancher from Broken Spur?”
He removed his hat.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She approached.
“You wrote that you would meet the afternoon coach.”
“I did.”
A pause.
He realized she was waiting for something.
“Welcome to Wyoming.”
One corner of her mouth moved.
Not quite a smile.
“Thank you.”
He looked toward the trunk.
“That everything?”
“Yes.”
“That all you brought?”
“Yes.”
He immediately regretted the question.
She noticed.
“I was told space on the coach was limited.”
“Right.”
He lifted the trunk.
It was heavier than expected.
The woman reached instinctively as though to help.
He adjusted his grip.
“I’ve got it.”
She lowered her hands.
“Of course.”
They placed it in the wagon.
The boys at the depot were still watching.
One whispered something.
The other laughed.
The woman climbed into the wagon without reacting.
The rancher’s jaw tightened.
He turned toward the boys.
“Something funny?”
They stopped smiling.
“No, sir.”
“Then find somewhere else to stand.”
They left.
When he climbed onto the bench, the woman was looking at him.
He faced forward.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The road to Broken Spur took nearly three hours because frozen ruts had hardened beneath the wagon wheels.
The October wind crossed the open country with nothing to stop it.
The woman pulled her shawl tighter.
“The wind is fierce.”
“Gets worse.”
“I assumed it would.”
The rancher glanced toward her.
She was studying the land.
Not complaining.
Just observing.
He cleared his throat.
“You said in your letters you worked in boardinghouses.”
“For nearly eight years.”
“Cooking?”
“Cooking, cleaning, ordering supplies, keeping accounts when the owners trusted me enough.”
He looked at her.
“Accounts?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you mostly cooked.”
“I mostly did whatever needed doing.”
He nodded.
Then silence again.
The woman looked toward him.
“You seem different from your letters.”