Sitting near walls.
Declining dances before anybody could refuse.
Laughing first when somebody made a joke so people would think she was unharmed.
That morning she did none of it.
She walked down the center of Main Street toward the church.
A man outside the saloon called:
“Mercer better reinforce the bed!”
Laughter exploded.
Abigail’s step faltered.
Mrs. Whitcomb swore softly.
Another man shouted:
“Horse’ll need a week off after carrying her to Black Ridge.”
More laughter.
Abigail’s face burned.
Then the church doors opened.
Caleb Mercer stepped outside.
The laughter died so quickly it seemed physically cut.
He wore black.
Not entirely.
Black trail coat.
Charcoal vest.
Dark hat.
Gray shirt.
Clean but plainly worn.
The scar across the left side of his face looked harsher in sunlight—shiny, twisted skin running from temple to jaw.
He was bigger than Abigail remembered.
Not only tall.
Solid.
A man shaped by years of chopping wood, fixing fences, lifting feed sacks, and refusing help.
His eyes found Abigail.
He looked at her.
For several seconds.
Not past her.
Not around her.
At her.
She waited for surprise.
There was some.
But not the kind she feared.
Something softer.
Almost wonder.
Then his eyes moved toward the saloon.
The man who had shouted about the bed stopped smiling.
Caleb stepped from the church porch.
“Say it again.”
Nobody moved.
The man tried to laugh.
“Come on, Mercer.”
“Say it again.”
His voice was quiet.
That was worse.
Abigail walked faster.
“Caleb.”
He looked toward her.
It was the first time she had used his name.
Something in his expression changed.
“Don’t.”
He glanced toward the saloon.
“They—”
“I heard them.”
“That’s why.”
Abigail stopped in front of him.
“If you fight every man who laughs at me, we’ll never reach the altar.”
His jaw tightened.
“Maybe the town needs fewer men.”
Despite herself, Abigail almost smiled.
Then she remembered the newspaper clipping.
Her expression hardened.
“We need to talk.”
Caleb saw it immediately.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Whitcomb looked toward the packed church.
“Everyone’s waiting.”
Abigail turned.
“They came to watch a disaster.”
“They can wait longer.”
Mrs. Whitcomb nodded approvingly.
Caleb gestured toward the church side door.
“There’s a vestry.”
Abigail followed him.
The whispering started the moment the door closed behind them.
Inside, the little vestry smelled of old wood, candle wax, and dust.
A table stood beneath the window.
One chair.
Caleb looked at it.
Then at Abigail.
He pulled a sturdier bench from against the wall without comment.
She noticed.
Of course she noticed.