“That’s why?”
“No.”
He almost smiled.
“You also told your father to stop kicking the dog outside.”
She blinked.
“That was you?”
“I was by the stable.”
Her eyes widened.
She remembered a large stranger repairing a saddle strap.
She had barely seen his face.
The mountain man continued.
“Your father raised his hand.”
“He didn’t hit me.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because I stood up.”
The memory came back.
Her father’s hand had risen.
Then stopped.
His eyes had moved beyond her.
He lowered it.
She had assumed someone from town was watching.
It had been this man.
The bride looked away.
“That doesn’t explain marriage.”
“No.”
“Then explain it.”
He rubbed his thumb along one scarred knuckle.
“I wanted a home with somebody in it.”
She looked toward the carefully stacked firewood.
The scrubbed table.
Two cups hanging beside the stove.
The thick blankets.
He continued.
“I’m bad at town.”
She nearly smiled.
“That much I heard.”
“So did I.”
“What else did they say?”
“Depends who was drinking.”
The bride’s mouth twitched.
The mountain man noticed but did not comment.
“I knew your father had been looking for someone willing to take what he called his burden.”
The word hit.
Her face closed.
The mountain man cursed softly.
“Poor choice.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“That is what he calls me.”
“I know.”
“And you still came.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to ask you.”
She laughed bitterly.
“You never asked me.”
His expression changed.
“No.”
“You spoke to him.”
“Yes.”
“Then the reverend.”
“Yes.”
“Then I was put in a wagon.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re standing here telling me this was about choice?”
The mountain man looked toward the floor.
“You’re right.”
That stopped her.
He continued.
“I told myself I was getting you away from a bad house.”
“I told myself if I asked in front of your father, you’d never be able to answer freely.”
“I told myself once you got here, I could explain.”
His jaw tightened.
“That was cowardly.”
The bride stared.
“I should have found a way to speak to you first.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
“You frightened me.”
“I know.”
“You let me ride six hours believing I had been sold to a savage.”
He almost smiled at the last word.
She glared.
“Do not.”
His face sobered.
“I’m sorry.”
Her anger had nowhere to go.
She had spent the entire ride preparing for a brute.
Brutes were easier.
You feared them.
Hated them.
Survived them.