It was more substantial than she expected.
The cabin was built from dark timber and stone, larger than a trapper’s shelter but smaller than the prosperous farmhouses she had imagined when reading American newspapers. A barn stood forty yards away. Beyond it stretched fenced pasture, a corral, a smokehouse, and several sheds.
There were horses.
Cattle.
Chickens that immediately scattered when the wagon arrived.
And nothing else.
No neighboring chimney.
No church steeple.
No village road.
No voices.
Maeve climbed down and stared into the enormous quiet.
“How far is the nearest woman?”
Callaway considered.
“Depends whether Mrs. Bell is visiting her sister.”
Maeve turned slowly.
“That is not encouraging.”
“Mrs. Bell lives six miles south.”
“Six miles?”
“She talks enough for four women. Makes up the difference.”
Maeve laughed again despite herself.
Inside, the cabin was warm.
Callaway had prepared for her.
That surprised her more than almost anything.
There were clean sheets on the bed.
A new comb on the washstand.
A blue ceramic cup beside a basin.
Extra hooks had been hammered into the wall for dresses.
Near the stove stood a small wooden crate containing flour, coffee, tea, dried apples, sugar, and two bars of lavender soap.
Maeve picked one up.
She looked over her shoulder.
Callaway was placing another log on the fire.
“You bought lavender soap?”
His back seemed to stiffen.
“Storekeeper said women like it.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Was he laughing when he said it?”
Callaway paused.
“A little.”
Maeve smiled.
“Then I appreciate your sacrifice.”
He looked at her.
Again, that almost-smile.
She turned toward the bed.
There was only one proper bed in the cabin.
A wide wooden frame stood against the far wall, covered with a thick quilt.
Near the fireplace was a narrow cot.
Maeve stopped.
Callaway saw where she was looking.
“The bed’s yours.”
Maeve glanced at him.
“And you?”
“Cot.”
“For how long?”
“As long as you’re here.”
The answer came too quickly.
Maeve folded her arms.
“You wrote that marriage might be discussed.”
“Might.”
“And until then?”
“You have the bed.”
“What happens if we marry?”
Callaway looked at the cot as if the answer might be written on it.
“We’ll discuss that if we get there.”
Maeve studied him.
Most men she had known would have tried to impress her.
Callaway seemed determined to do the opposite.
He did not tell her how much land he owned.
He did not boast about cattle.
He did not stand too close.
He did not look at her body and then pretend he had been looking elsewhere.
He simply pointed toward a second door near the kitchen.
“Privy’s outside. Washroom’s there. Water’s hot if you want it.”
“You heated water for me?”
“I figured trains don’t smell good.”
Maeve stared.
Callaway realized what he had said.
“Not you.”
She raised one eyebrow.
“The trains.”
“Callaway.”
“Yes?”
“You are terrible at speaking to women.”
“I know.”
That first night, Maeve lay awake beneath the quilt listening to him breathe from the cot.
The fire cracked softly.
Wind moved through the pines.