She stared at him.
He misread the silence.
“You don’t have to. I only thought the road’s icy and—”
“Take it.”
He did.
One hand.
The trunk that had pulled painfully against her shoulder all morning rose as if it contained feathers.
He did not comment on how light it was.
That mattered too.
Everything she owned fit inside that box.
Two dresses.
One wool shawl.
Her mother’s thimble.
A comb.
A handful of letters.
And a piece of paper describing a marriage to a man she had never met.
He walked beside her toward the wagon.
Not ahead.
Not close enough to steer her.
Beside.
He placed the trunk in the wagon bed and offered his hand.
Palm up.
Waiting.
The bride looked at it.
Large.
Calloused.
Capable of hurting someone easily.
He kept it perfectly still.
She finally placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed only enough to support her weight.
The moment she reached the seat, he released her.
No lingering touch.
No squeeze.
No claim.
That frightened her almost as much as anything else.
Because she did not understand it.
The wagon left Bitterroot beneath a gray sky.
For the first mile, the cowboy said nothing.
The bride had prepared herself for questions.
Men always asked questions.
Where had she worked?
Had there been other men?
Why would a woman leave Baltimore alone?
Was she really twenty-eight?
Could she cook?
Could she have children?
Was she obedient?
She had answers ready.
Carefully shaped ones.
Answers that disclosed nothing useful.
The cowboy asked none of them.
Snow creaked beneath the wagon wheels.
The horse breathed clouds into the cold.
The valley opened around them, enormous and white, mountains rising like stone walls in the distance.
Finally, he cleared his throat.
“The cabin’s not much.”
She looked over.
“There’s a stove.”
He paused.
“A good one.”
Another pause.
“The roof doesn’t leak anymore.”
“Comforting.”
He glanced at her.
“I fixed it.”
“I hoped that was what you meant.”
His mouth twitched.
Not quite laughter.
“There’s another room.”
“For what?”
“You.”
She turned more fully.
He immediately looked uncomfortable.
“I added it last fall.”
“Why?”
“I thought you might want your own room.”
The bride stared.
He continued hurriedly.
“The door locks from inside.”
That made something inside her chest tighten.
He looked at the road.
“I didn’t know what you’d be comfortable with.”
“Most husbands don’t ask.”
“We’re not married yet.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“So tomorrow you stop asking?”
His head snapped toward her.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly to be rehearsed.