The bride looked away.
Interesting.
They rode another mile.
The cowboy said:
“I know what the arrangement says.”
She waited.
“I know what marriage usually means.”
Still she said nothing.
“But I don’t want you thinking a train ticket and a roof means you owe me anything.”
She almost laughed.
Men loved pretending transactions were not transactions.
She had heard versions of that speech before.
You don’t owe me.
Until she said no.
Then suddenly the debt appeared.
Dinner.
Rent.
Protection.
A gift.
A favor.
A ride.
The cowboy continued:
“If tomorrow you decide this was a mistake, I’ll take you back to the station.”
She looked at him sharply.
He kept his eyes on the road.
“You’d lose the money.”
“I’ll earn more.”
“The advertisement fee.”
“Yes.”
“The train fare.”
“Yes.”
“The Reverend’s arrangements.”
“Yes.”
She studied his profile.
“And you’d simply let me leave.”
His jaw tightened.
“I wouldn’t like it.”
At least that sounded honest.
“But yes.”
“Why?”
He looked confused.
“Why what?”
“Why agree to a mail-order marriage if you aren’t going to demand a wife?”
His ears reddened again.
He stared forward for so long she wondered if he would answer.
Finally:
“I wanted someone to come home to.”
That was all.
Not a cook.
Not children.
Not a woman to warm his bed.
Someone to come home to.
The bride turned toward the mountains before he could see her expression.
The cabin appeared near sunset.
It sat beneath tall pines several miles from town, smoke rising from a stone chimney. A forge and small barn stood nearby. Split firewood covered one entire exterior wall.
The cowboy helped her down.
Again he offered his hand.
Again he released it immediately.
Inside, warmth hit her face.
A cast-iron stove glowed.
A pot of venison and potatoes simmered.
A narrow table held two bowls.
His bed stood against one wall.
The new room was easy to identify.
Different timber.
Fresh hinges.
A real door.
She opened it.
Small bed.
Quilt.
Washstand.
Window.
And exactly as promised, a heavy latch on the inside.
The bride touched it.
The cowboy remained outside the doorway.
“Is that all right?”
She looked at him.
“You built this?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“September.”
“You ordered the catalog advertisement in October.”
His face changed.
She had caught something.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I was thinking ahead.”
“For any woman?”
He hesitated.
“For the possibility.”
The bride looked around the room again.
A room built before he knew what face would sleep inside it.
A door that locked from within.