Placed them together.
The scratches matched.
Same maker.
Same age.
No doubt.
She turned the dead brother’s locket over.
The carved star.
Two lines.
The rancher frowned.
“That wasn't there.”
“What?”
“The mark.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
The bride looked closer.
The carving seemed deliberate.
Not decorative.
A symbol.
She remembered the ledger.
Freight entries contained small marks beside certain shipments.
She rushed downstairs.
The rancher followed.
She opened the ledger.
Found the same symbol.
A star.
Two lines.
Beside three entries.
All shipments routed through a place called Black Pass.
The giant leaned over her shoulder.
“What is it?”
“Not a family mark.”
“No.”
“Then somebody added it after your brother received the locket.”
She traced an entry.
Black Pass.
Three years after the fire.
Same symbol.
Another.
Six years after.
Same.
The bride’s heart beat faster.
“This may be a route mark.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Money.”
“Documents.”
“People.”
The giant touched the locket.
“My brother may have been alive for years.”
“Yes.”
The word hurt him.
She saw it.
“If he was…”
He could not finish.
She did not tell him it would be all right.
Steady did not mean false.
She reached across the table.
Placed her hand over his.
His huge fingers went still beneath hers.
“I’m sorry.”
He looked at their hands.
Then at her.
For a moment, danger disappeared again.
He turned his palm upward.
Slowly.
Giving her time to move away.
She did not.
His fingers closed around hers.
Careful.
Warm.
He whispered:
“Thank you.”
That night, she wore another dress.
Not pink.
Simple blue.
The bloodstained dress soaked in a basin.
They ate stew at the kitchen table.
The ranch hands talked too loudly because they were pretending not to notice the quiet intimacy between the couple.
After supper, the giant walked her to her room.
He stopped outside.
“You need a lock?”
She looked at the door.
“Against you?”
“Against anyone.”
She smiled.
“No.”
“If you change your mind—”
“I’ll put a chair beneath the handle.”
“Efficient.”
He started to leave.
She spoke.
“Wait.”
He turned.
The woman stood in the doorway.
For all her courage at the station, suddenly she looked uncertain.
“Did you mean what you said earlier?”
“Which part?”
“That I didn’t owe you marriage.”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“And if I decide I do want it?”
The rancher’s eyes softened.
“Then I’ll be there Sunday.”
The woman smiled.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
She closed the door.
Then leaned against it.
Her heart was beating much too quickly for a woman who had broken a stranger’s nose less than a day earlier.
The next morning began before sunrise.
The rancher expected his bride to sleep after the journey.
Instead he found her in the kitchen kneading bread beside the cook.
He stopped.
The bride looked up.