Chapter 1
Chapter 1: THE WOMAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN
Everyone in the hall expected Jacob Mercer to choose Clara Whitfield.
Emma Shaw expected it too.
That was why, when the wealthy prospector walked past the mayor’s beautiful daughter, passed six other carefully dressed women, and stopped beside the curtain where Emma was trying to disappear with a sewing basket in her hands, she assumed he wanted another torn cuff repaired.
Instead, he looked directly at her.
“What’s your name?”
For one terrible second, Emma forgot how to answer.
The gathering hall had gone so quiet that she could hear the small iron stove ticking near the far wall.
Outside, wagon wheels rolled over the frozen ruts of the main street.
Somewhere across town, a blacksmith struck iron against iron.
Inside the hall, more than thirty people seemed to have stopped breathing.
Emma tightened her fingers around the basket.
She was not supposed to be standing there.
She had been hired to mend dresses.
That was all.
Her place was behind the curtain, near the side room where pins, thread, scraps of cloth, and damaged hems were piled across a narrow table.
She had spent most of the afternoon repairing sleeves, tightening bodices, replacing hooks, and pretending not to hear the young women discussing which one Jacob Mercer would prefer.
The mayor’s daughter had been the favorite before he even arrived.
Clara Whitfield was twenty-three, educated in Denver, pretty enough to make men forget what they had been saying, and the daughter of the most powerful man in Red Creek.
Emma was twenty-seven.
She lived above the bakery.
She sewed for a living.
And a childhood fire had left the left side of her neck and cheek marked by pale, uneven scars.
Most people in town had learned not to stare.
Visitors had not.
Jacob Mercer was a visitor.
He had entered Red Creek that morning with three pack mules carrying enough raw gold to make half the town suddenly interested in his future.
The organizer laughed nervously.
“She isn’t available, Mr.
Mercer.”
Jacob did not turn toward her.
“I didn’t ask you.”
Emma swallowed.
“Emma.”
His expression changed slightly.
Not surprise.
Recognition, perhaps.
But that made no sense.
“Emma what?”
“Shaw.”
He repeated the name as if fixing it in memory.
“Emma Shaw.”
Clara stepped closer.
Her burgundy silk dress whispered across the floor.
“Mr.
Mercer, perhaps you misunderstood the gathering.”
Jacob finally looked at her.
“I understand it.”
“You came to meet prospective wives.”
“I was told that.”
The organizer forced a smile.
“And Miss Shaw is only here to help with the clothing.”
Jacob glanced at the sewing basket.
“Only?”
Emma wished the floor would open beneath her.
People were looking at her scars now.
Not openly.
Red Creek had perfected the art of staring without appearing to stare.
Emma had spent twenty years recognizing it.
Jacob reached toward the sleeve of his own coat.
There was a tear at the cuff.
“You repaired this?”
Emma looked at it.
She had.
A ranch hand had brought the coat into the side room an hour earlier, saying its owner wanted the tear fixed before supper.
She had never asked whose coat it was.
“Yes.”
Jacob turned the cuff over.
The stitches were small and even.
“Best stitching I’ve seen in ten years.”
Emma’s cheeks warmed.
“Thank you.”
Clara’s smile hardened.
“You came here for a wife, not a seamstress.”
Jacob looked around the room before answering.
“A woman who can build something with her hands seems a fine place to start.”
Someone coughed.
Another woman lowered her eyes, hiding a smile.
Clara did neither.
Emma looked down quickly, mortified by the attention.
That was when she saw the silver button.
It was fastened near the collar of Jacob’s dark wool coat.
Oval.
Plain except for a small hammered line around its edge.
Emma stopped breathing.
She knew that button.
For twenty years, she had remembered it without understanding why.
Smoke.
Heat.
A ceiling cracking somewhere above her.
A man’s coat wrapped around her face.
A silver button pressed against her cheek while someone carried her through a burning doorway.
Emma’s basket slipped.
Jacob caught it before it reached the floor.
His eyes sharpened.
She stared at the button again.
He looked down.
Then back at her.
And for the first time since entering the hall, his calm expression disappeared.
“You remember me?”
Emma could not answer.
The hall, the women, the organizer, Clara Whitfield—everything seemed to move farther away.
She was seven years old again.
The Shaw farmhouse outside Little Cottonwood had burned in the middle of a winter night.
Emma remembered only pieces.
Her father shouting.
Her mother pushing her toward the kitchen door.
A fallen beam.
Smoke so thick she could not see her own hands.
And a stranger.
She had never known who he was.
Her father had died in the fire.
Her mother had survived long enough to reach the yard but died two days later.
Emma had been found outside, wrapped in a coat that did not belong to anyone in the family.
The coat disappeared before she woke.
No one had known the stranger’s name.
Her uncle had searched for him.
No one found him.
But Emma remembered one detail.
A silver button.
Exactly like the one on Jacob Mercer’s coat.
She lifted her eyes.
“You were there.”
Jacob said nothing.
“You were at our house.”
He nodded once.
Clara frowned.
“At what house?”
Emma barely heard her.
Her voice came out thin.
“You carried me outside.”
“Yes.”
Emma’s knees weakened.
She reached for the curtain post.
Jacob stepped forward but stopped before touching her.
That small hesitation steadied her more than if he had taken her arm.
“You disappeared,” she said.
“I had reasons.”
“For twenty years?”
His jaw tightened.
“Some reasons last longer than they should.”
The organizer moved quickly between them.
“Perhaps this conversation should happen elsewhere.”
Emma looked around.
Every person in the hall was watching now.
The old shame rose through her automatically.
Not shame about the fire.
Not even about the scars.
Shame about being seen.
She had learned young that pity could feel worse than cruelty.
“I need air.”
She pushed through the side door.
Cold struck her face.
The alley behind the hall was narrow and half-covered with snow.
A row of barrels stood beneath the eaves, and beyond them the roofs of Red Creek climbed toward the dark line of the foothills.
Emma pressed one hand against the wall.
The door opened behind her.
She expected Jacob.
Instead, Clara stepped outside.
Emma straightened.
Clara folded her arms.
“What exactly are you doing?”
Emma stared at her.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
Clara gave a short laugh.
“Men do not walk past women like me for women like you without a reason.”
The words landed exactly where Clara intended them to.
Emma had heard variations her whole life.
Usually whispered.
Sometimes spoken.
Rarely by someone with enough confidence to make cruelty sound like simple fact.
Emma looked down at the snow.
Clara stepped closer.
“Did you know he was coming?”
“No.”
“Did you arrange that little story?”
Emma looked at her then.
“My parents died in that fire.”
Clara’s expression flickered.
Only for a moment.
“I’m sorry for that.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“No.
You’re trying to decide whether I cheated you out of something you thought belonged to you.”
Clara’s face reddened.
Before she could answer, the door opened again.
Jacob stepped outside.
His gaze moved between them.
Clara lifted her chin.
“Mr.
Mercer, perhaps you should explain your intentions before this becomes more embarrassing than it already is.”
Jacob looked at Emma.
“Would you walk with me?”
Clara stared.
Emma almost said no.
Then she looked at the silver button again.
Twenty years of unanswered questions stood three feet away.
“Yes.”
They left Clara in the alley.
Red Creek was small enough that walking anywhere meant being observed by somebody.
Emma felt eyes on them before they reached the main street.
Jacob seemed not to notice.
He kept a respectful distance beside her, matching his stride to hers.
For nearly a block, neither spoke.
Finally Emma said, “Why didn’t you tell anyone your name?”
Jacob looked toward the road.
“I was seventeen.”
Emma stopped.
He stopped too.
“You were seventeen?”
“Yes.”
In her memory, the stranger had always been enormous.
An adult.
Someone fearless.
Jacob smiled faintly at her surprise.
“I was bigger than most boys my age.”
“How did you get there?”
“I was riding north with my older brother.
We saw the smoke.”
Emma waited.
Jacob’s expression changed.
“My brother told me not to go inside.”
“But you did.”
“I heard someone screaming.”
Emma remembered.
Not screaming.
Crying.
She had been beneath the kitchen table when the ceiling beam fell.
“You found me.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to your brother?”
The faint smile disappeared.
“He died three weeks later.”
Emma’s anger dissolved.
“How?”
“Fever.”
“I’m sorry.”
Jacob nodded.
They began walking again.
At the end of the street, he stopped near the rail fence beside the livery stable.
Horses shifted behind it, breathing clouds into the cold.
Emma touched her cheek.
“Is this why?”
Jacob frowned.
“Why what?”
“Why you stopped in front of me.”
“No.”
“You recognized me.”
“Not at first.”
“But then?”
“I noticed the scar.”
Emma looked away.
Jacob immediately understood.
“I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t.”
She looked back.
He spoke carefully.
“I noticed it because I remember where the burning wood struck you.”
Emma’s throat tightened.
Jacob continued.
“But that is not why I walked over.”
“Then why?”
“Because I watched you for almost an hour.”
Emma blinked.
“I was behind a curtain.”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“You came out six times.”
She stared at him.
Jacob counted with one gloved hand.
“Once to fix Mrs.
Bell’s sleeve.
Twice because Miss Riley tore the same hem after stepping on it.
Once because the stove needed wood and everyone pretended not to notice.
Once because the woman in green spilled tea and looked ready to cry.”
Emma tried not to smile.
“And the sixth?”
“You gave your supper to the girl washing plates.”
Emma remembered the girl.
Fourteen years old.
Thin.
Her mother had been sick for weeks.
“She was hungry.”
“I know.”
“That does not make me extraordinary.”
“No.”
Emma’s smile vanished.
Jacob continued.
“It makes you someone who notices.”
The words unsettled her more than flattery would have.
Emma had spent years becoming useful because useful women were tolerated in places where beautiful women were welcomed.
She knew how to repair torn cloth.
How to make old dresses fit growing girls.
How to turn flour sacks into curtains.
How to sit quietly when customers spoke as though the scars made her deaf.
But no man had ever described what she did as if it mattered.
“You don’t know me,” she said.
“I know.”
“You spoke as if—inside that hall—”
“I spoke too quickly.”
That surprised her.
Jacob looked toward the livery.
“I’m good at finding gold.
I’m less skilled with rooms full of women staring at me.”
Emma laughed before she could stop herself.
Jacob smiled.
It changed his entire face.
Then he grew serious again.
“I didn’t come to Red Creek to purchase a wife.”
“No?”
“My partner married last year.”
“And that convinced you?”
“It convinced me I was tired of eating beans alone.”
Emma laughed again.
Jacob looked almost pleased with himself.
“I own land north of here.
I have a house.
A working mine.
Horses.
More money than I expected to live long enough to earn.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It has disadvantages.”
“Such as?”
“Everyone suddenly finding me fascinating.”
Emma glanced toward the gathering hall.
“I imagine.”
“I wanted to meet someone who could live where I live.
Someone practical.
Someone who understood work.”
“And you believed a bride gathering was the best place?”
“My partner’s wife arranged it.”
“That explains poor judgment.”
Jacob gave her a look.
Emma covered a smile with her hand.
He noticed.
His gaze briefly touched the scarred side of her face.
Not with discomfort.
Not with pity.
Simply looking.
Emma lowered her hand.
Jacob said, “I would like to speak with you again.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Because I enjoyed speaking with you this time.”
“You’ve known me ten minutes.”
“Fifteen.”
“You counted?”
“I find counting useful.”
She almost laughed again.
Then the old caution returned.
“What happens when you remember that everyone in that hall thinks you lost your senses?”
“I remember now.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Jacob leaned one shoulder against the fence.
“No.
It isn’t.”
He looked toward the town.
“When I was eighteen, I worked in a silver camp where men laughed because I spent two months digging into a wall everyone said was worthless.
I found the vein on the sixty-third day.”
Emma folded her arms.
“You’re comparing me to a mine?”
Jacob winced.
“That sounded better before I said it.”
Despite herself, she smiled.
He tried again.
“I mean that I’ve never been especially troubled by what a room full of people thinks.”
“You should be.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes the room is right.”
“Was it right about you?”
Emma had no answer.
Jacob pushed away from the fence.
“I’ll be staying at the hotel three days.”
“Why three?”
“Because that is how long I intended to stay before I entered that hall.”
“And then?”
“I return to my property.”
Emma nodded.
He did not ask her to come.
He did not make a grand promise.
He simply said, “If you’re willing, I’d like to have supper with you tomorrow.”
“Alone?”
“In the hotel dining room.”
Half of Red Creek would see.
Jacob seemed to understand her thought.
“You can bring someone.”
“I don’t have someone.”
He paused.
“Then I’ll sit where everyone can watch me behave.”
Emma laughed.
She could not help it.
“All right.”
Jacob’s eyebrows rose.
“All right?”
“One supper.”
His smile returned.
“One supper.”
Emma walked home believing she had agreed to nothing important.
By morning, the entire town disagreed.
The baker downstairs knew before Emma came down for tea.
Mrs.
Hale from the dry goods store arrived at eight with no clothing to mend.
At nine, two women brought dresses that did not require repair.
At ten, Emma finally locked her door.
She sat beside the window, surrounded by thread and half-finished work, and tried to sew.
Her hands would not remain steady.
At noon someone knocked.
Emma ignored it.
The knock came again.
“Who is it?”
“Clara Whitfield.”
Emma almost laughed from exhaustion.
She opened the door.
Clara stood in the hallway wearing a gray wool cloak.
She entered without waiting for invitation.
“I owe you an apology.”
Emma closed the door slowly.
“That’s unexpected.”
“I was rude yesterday.”
“Yes.”
Clara frowned.
“You could make this easier.”
“I could lie.”
Clara almost smiled.
Almost.
She walked toward the window.
“My father is furious.”
“With me?”
“With Mercer.”
“Why?”
“Because my father believes Red Creek needs investment.
Mercer has money.”
“And you were part of the investment?”
Clara’s mouth tightened.
“No.”
But the hesitation answered.
Emma felt something inside her shift.
She had assumed Clara wanted Jacob because he was wealthy.
Perhaps she did.
But Emma suddenly saw another possibility.
A young woman wearing an expensive dress because her father had spent weeks telling everyone she would become Mrs.
Mercer.
A daughter expected to secure something for a town.
Or a family.
Or a father.
Clara turned.
“I wanted him to choose me.”
Emma nodded.
“I know.”
“For my own reasons.”
“I believe you.”
Clara studied her.
“What do you want?”
Emma looked toward the unfinished dress on her table.
“I want to finish Mrs.
Talbot’s sleeves before Friday.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Clara’s frustration returned.
“Do you want Mercer?”
Emma stared at her.
The question felt enormous.
“I met him yesterday.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
Clara seemed disappointed.
Emma added, “But it is the truth.”
Clara walked toward the door.
Before leaving, she stopped.
“My father may speak to him.”
“About me?”
“About you.
About business.
With my father, the difference is often small.”
The door closed.
Emma stood alone.
For the rest of the afternoon, she thought about canceling supper.
She nearly did.
Then Jacob arrived at six wearing the same coat.
The silver button gleamed beneath the hotel lamps.
He did not mention the mayor.
Not until after the stew arrived.
“Whitfield visited me.”
Emma put down her spoon.
“Clara warned me.”
“He offered land rights.”
“For what?”
“A road to my mine.”
“That seems useful.”
“It would be.”
“And?”
“He suggested our families could strengthen the arrangement.”
Emma stared.
Jacob drank his coffee.
“What did you say?”
“That my family currently consists of a mule named Abraham and a cook who threatens to quit every Tuesday.”
Emma choked on her tea.
Jacob pushed a napkin toward her.
“You’re laughing.”
“I noticed.”
“You should do it more.”
Emma’s smile faded slightly.
Jacob did not apologize.
He simply continued eating.
That made the compliment easier to accept.
After supper, they walked.
The streets had emptied early because the cold had deepened.
Lamps glowed behind store windows.
Emma asked about his mine.
Jacob told her.
Not in the way men usually spoke of fortunes.
He spoke about timber supports.
Water pumps.
Frozen ground.
Mules.
Men who lied about knowing explosives.
Emma listened.
“You like it,” she said.
“The mine?”
“The work.”
Jacob considered.
“Yes.”
“Not the gold?”
“The gold is useful.”
“For buying beans?”
“Exactly.”
Emma smiled.
“What would you do if the mine stopped producing?”
“Raise horses.”
“You know horses?”
“No.”
“That seems like a problem.”
“I would learn.”
They reached the bakery.
Emma stopped at the stairs.
Jacob removed his hat.
“I leave the day after tomorrow.”
The words caused an unexpected emptiness.
Emma disliked herself for noticing.
Jacob continued.
“I would like to see you tomorrow.”
“Again?”
“That was my intention.”
“What would we do?”
“You could show me Red Creek.”
“You’ve seen Red Creek.”
“I’ve seen the hotel, gathering hall, livery, and this street.”
“That is most of Red Creek.”
“Then it will be a short tour.”
Emma smiled.
“All right.”
The next day, she showed him the town.
The church with the crooked bell.
The schoolhouse.
The creek that flooded every spring.
The narrow bridge everyone complained about but no one repaired.
The cemetery above town.
Emma had not intended to take him there.
Her feet did.
Her parents were buried beneath a cottonwood tree.
Jacob stopped several yards away.
Emma brushed snow from the top of the headstones.
“My mother lived two days after the fire.”
Jacob’s hat remained in his hands.
“I didn’t know.”
“She asked about the man who found me.”
Jacob looked at her.
“What did you tell her?”
“That I didn’t know.”
He stepped closer.
“I’m sorry.”
“For leaving?”
“Yes.”
Emma looked at the headstones.
“Why did you?”
Jacob’s silence lasted long enough that she turned.
He stared toward the mountains.
“My brother was sick by then.
I thought he had a cold.
We reached Leadville two days later.
He got worse.”
“And you forgot about us.”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“I never forgot.”
Emma watched him.
“He died with me owing money for medicine and lodging.
I worked wherever I could after that.”
“You could have written.”
“I didn’t know your name.”
“Shaw was on the mailbox.”
“It burned.”
That was true.
Emma remembered the blackened post.
Jacob crouched near her father’s grave.
“I came back.”
Her heart stopped.
“When?”
“Two years later.”
Emma stared.
“The house was gone.
The neighbors had moved.
Someone told me the surviving girl had been taken east by relatives.”
“My uncle lived six miles east.”
Jacob gave a humorless laugh.
“I was nineteen.
Six miles might as well have been Boston if no one told me.”
Emma sat on the low stone wall.
“All these years…”
“I wondered whether you lived.”
She touched her scar.
“I did.”
“I see that.”
Emma looked at him sharply.
Jacob’s expression softened.
“I’m glad.”
No pity.
That was what undid her.
Not pity.
Relief.
They walked back to town slowly.
That evening, Emma lay awake hearing his words.
I came back.
The following morning, Jacob was supposed to leave.
Instead, snow closed the northern pass.
He remained in Red Creek.
One day became three.
Three became six.
The snow stopped, but a freight wagon broke an axle across the road.
Jacob stayed.
Emma suspected he could have left if he truly wished.
He never said so.
They saw each other every day.
Sometimes for supper.
Sometimes only ten minutes.
Once Jacob appeared at her workroom carrying a pair of torn gloves.
Emma examined them.
“These are not worth repairing.”
“I like them.”
“They have holes in four fingers.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“The lining is gone.”
“Still comfortable.”
Emma looked at him.
“You needed an excuse to come here.”
Jacob sighed.
“I thought the gloves were convincing.”
“They’re terrible.”
“I’ll try harder tomorrow.”
She repaired them anyway.
A week later, he brought a blanket.
“No.”
“It has a tear.”
“You own a mine.”
“I’m aware.”
“Buy a blanket.”
“This one is comfortable.”
Emma pointed toward the door.
Jacob left laughing.
The town noticed.
Of course it noticed.
Customers became more curious.
Some kinder.
Some crueler.
Emma hated both.
Mrs.
Bell told her she was fortunate.
“You’ll never have to sew again.”
Emma looked at the dress in her lap.
“I like sewing.”
Mrs.
Bell blinked.
“But if you marry a rich man—”
“If.”
“Of course.”
That afternoon Emma asked Jacob whether everyone near his mine assumed his wife would spend her days sitting in a parlor.
“I don’t have a parlor.”
“That helps.”
“I have a room with two chairs.”
“What luxury.”
“One chair has a broken leg.”
“Jacob.”
He smiled.
Then saw she was serious.
“What happened?”
Emma explained.
Jacob listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he said, “I don’t want you to stop working.”
“You say that now.”
“I would probably ask you to repair my gloves.”
“You already do.”
“And you refuse.”
“Because they are hopeless.”
“That seems healthy.”
Emma shook her head.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me.”
She looked at her hands.
“My work is mine.”
Jacob’s amusement disappeared.
“Yes.”
“I earned it.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to become someone people speak about as if the useful part of my life ended because a man chose me.”
Jacob was quiet.
Then he said, “Emma, if you ever come north with me, it will not be because I chose you. It will be because we chose each other.”
She looked at him.
The words stayed between them.
Neither mentioned marriage again.
Not then.
A few days later, Jacob finally prepared to leave.
The road had cleared.
His mules were packed.
Emma stood outside the hotel with her hands buried in her coat pockets.
“I could stay another week,” Jacob said.
“No.”
“You say that quickly.”
“You have a mine.”
“I have foremen.”
“You have a mule named Abraham.”
“He’ll survive.”
Emma smiled.
“Go.”
Jacob looked disappointed.
She added, “Then come back.”
His face changed.
“Come back?”
“In spring.”
“That is three months.”
“I can count.”
Jacob stepped closer.
“Three months.”
“Yes.”
“And if I come back?”
Emma’s courage nearly failed.
“We’ll see.”
Jacob studied her.
Then he held out one gloved hand.
The terrible repaired glove.
Emma looked at it.
“You wore those?”
“They’re comfortable.”
She laughed and placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed gently.
No kiss.
No declaration.
Just warmth through worn leather.
Jacob released her.
“I’ll come back.”
Emma watched him ride out of Red Creek beneath a pale winter sky.
She believed him.
That frightened her more than if she had not.
Winter passed slowly.
At first, Jacob wrote once a week.
His handwriting was poor.
His letters were worse.
Mine operating.
Pump froze.
Abraham bit Thomas.
Hope you are well.
Emma read each one twice.
She wrote back with equal restraint.
Mrs.
Talbot still dislikes her sleeves.
The school roof leaks.
Clara has begun helping teach reading classes.
Your gloves remain terrible.
By February, Jacob’s letters became longer.
He told her about the men at the mine.
Thomas, the cook who threatened to quit every Tuesday and never did.
Caleb, a miner who sang badly underground.
Abraham, the mule who apparently hated everyone equally.
He described his house.
Three rooms.
A wood stove.
A porch facing west.
He admitted one wall leaned slightly.
Emma wrote:
You are rich enough to repair a wall.
Jacob replied:
I hoped to find someone skilled with thread.
Emma laughed so loudly the baker downstairs came to check on her.
Clara visited occasionally.
Their relationship became something neither would have predicted.
Not friendship at first.
Respect.
Clara had started teaching at the school because, as she told Emma, she had become tired of waiting for her father to arrange her life.
“My father says I embarrassed him.”
Emma threaded a needle.
“Did you?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Good.”
Clara smiled.
Then she noticed Jacob’s latest letter beside the window.
“He still writes?”
“Yes.”
“You still answer?”
“Yes.”
Clara was quiet.
“Do you love him?”
Emma’s needle stopped.
“I don’t know.”
“That sounds like yes.”
“It sounds like I don’t know.”
Clara sighed.
“You are exhausting.”
“So I’ve heard.”
In March, the letters stopped.
One week passed.
Then two.
Emma told herself mines were busy.
Three weeks.
No letter.
By the fourth, she began waking before dawn.
She remembered fires.
Cave-ins.
Winter storms.
She hated her imagination.
Then a rider arrived.
Not Jacob.
A young miner named Caleb.
He carried a package.
Emma opened the door before he knocked twice.
“Mr.
Mercer is alive.”
Her knees weakened.
Caleb smiled.
“Thought I should say that first.”
“Yes.”
“He was hurt.”
Emma gripped the door.
“How badly?”
“Broken arm.
Cracked ribs.
Mine support failed.”
“Why didn’t he write?”
“He tried.”
Caleb handed her a folded paper.
The writing looked as though a chicken had stepped through ink.
Emma stared.
Caleb explained.
“Right arm’s broken.”
Emma looked at the letter.
It contained three words.
Still coming back.
She pressed it against her chest.
“When?”
“Soon as he can ride.”
“That’s foolish.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He should heal.”
“That’s what Thomas said.”
“Then tell him.”
“I did.”
Emma looked at Caleb.
“What did Jacob say?”
“That Thomas should stop burning biscuits and mind his own affairs.”
Emma laughed and cried at the same time.
Caleb pretended not to notice.
Jacob returned to Red Creek in April.
His arm was still in a sling.
Emma saw him from her window.
He dismounted badly in front of the hotel.
She ran downstairs.
She had planned a composed greeting.
Instead she crossed the street and struck him lightly against the uninjured shoulder.
Jacob blinked.
“Ow.”
“That did not hurt.”
“I’m injured.”
“You rode eighty miles with broken ribs.”
“They’re mostly healed.”
“You are an idiot.”
“I missed you too.”
Emma stared at him.
Jacob smiled.
She wrapped her arms around him before she could reconsider.
His good arm closed around her.
People watched.
Emma knew.
For once, she did not care.
Jacob’s voice was quiet beside her ear.
“I told you I’d come back.”
Emma closed her eyes.
Then she felt the silver button against her temple.
Twenty years earlier, he had carried her out of fire.
Now she was holding him because he had returned.
The difference mattered.
The first time, she had needed saving.
This time, she had simply wanted him.
May you like
And that frightened her in an entirely new way.
