For one long, airless moment, Rowan Vale thought the woman was dead.
The rain had stopped, but the earth still remembered it. Mud sucked at his boots as he slid down the bank toward the ditch where the freight road bent around a stand of black cottonwoods. Broken wheel tracks carved deep scars into the road above. A trunk lay split open beside the creek, its contents dragged through the muck like someone had searched it in a fury.
Then he saw the hand.
A woman’s hand, pale beneath a glove torn at the wrist, clutched a flat oilskin packet against her chest so tightly her fingers had cramped around it.
Rowan dropped to one knee.
“Miss Hart?”
The woman did not answer.
Her dark traveling coat was ripped across one shoulder. Wet hair covered half her face. Blood had dried near her temple and fresh mud streaked her cheek. One boot was missing. The other foot lay at a wrong, painful angle that made Rowan’s stomach tighten.
He reached toward her.
Her eyes snapped open.
In the same breath, she drove the heel of her hand into his chest and tried to crawl backward.
“Don’t.”
Her voice was raw. Not weak. Raw.
Rowan raised both hands. “Easy. I’m not here to hurt you.”
“That is what men say when they want a woman to stop fighting.”
The words came out in pieces, but they came out sharp.
Rowan studied her face. Even hurt, even soaked, even half buried in a ditch, she looked at him as if he were a problem she intended to solve.
“My name is Rowan Vale,” he said. “Three Pines Ranch. You were supposed to arrive in Cinder Creek by noon.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You are late,” she whispered.
“I’m late?”
“The train was late. The wagon driver was drunk. The road washed out. Then someone tried to kill me.” She blinked slowly, fighting dizziness. “So yes, Mr. Vale. Everyone is late.”
Against his will, Rowan let out one stunned breath that was nearly a laugh.
The woman in the mud glared at him.
“I apologize,” he said. “That was not amusement.”
“It sounded like amusement.”
“It was surprise.”
“Surprise is often rude.”
“So is bleeding in my drainage ditch when I was expecting a bride at the depot.”
That made her still.
Not softer. Just still.
“I am not your bride yet,” she said.
“No,” Rowan answered. “You are not.”
Something in her expression shifted, as if she had expected either offense or possession and found neither. She drew one shallow breath, then another.
“Can you tell me how badly you’re hurt?” he asked.
She closed her eyes. “Head wound. Not deep. Left ankle badly twisted, possibly broken. Shoulder strained. Two ribs bruised. Cold. Thirsty. Furious.”
“Furious made the list?”
“Furious is currently doing most of the work.”
Rowan looked at the packet in her arms. Oilskin. Tied with red cord. No bigger than a ledger book, but she held it like a heart.
“You’ll need both hands to climb.”
“I will manage with one.”
“You may not.”
“Then you may drag my corpse uphill and complain about my judgment afterward.”
Rowan stared at her for a second.
“Mara Hart,” he said quietly, “you are the most difficult woman I have ever found unconscious.”
“I was not unconscious.”
“You did not answer when I spoke.”
“I was deciding whether you were real.”
“And?”
“The jury is still out.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. He stood, then bent enough to offer his arm.
“Keep your packet,” he said. “But hold on to me with the other hand.”
“I dislike needing help.”
“That’s fortunate. This is not about what you like.”
She looked at him then, really looked. The rain had made his hat limp, had soaked through his shirt, had turned dust and sweat into dark streaks across his jaw. He was broad, sun-browned, and tired around the eyes. Not old, but marked by work and loss.
“You wrote shorter sentences in your letters,” she said.
“You wrote kinder ones.”
“I had more ink and less pain then.”
He waited.
At last, with visible hatred for the necessity, she put one muddy hand on his forearm.
Getting her up the bank took almost half an hour.
Mara did not cry out. Not when her injured ankle slipped. Not when her bad shoulder struck the dirt. Not when Rowan finally had no choice but to lift her the last few feet and set her on the road beside his horse.
She only said, through clenched teeth, “If you tell anyone I fainted, I will deny it.”
“You did not faint.”
“I know.”
“You nearly did.”
“Nearly is a country where many useless things live.”
Rowan helped her into the saddle. She went rigid when he mounted behind her, so he kept his arms careful and his hands visible on the reins.
“My daughter’s name is June,” he said, because he could feel fear tighten every muscle in her back. “She is eight. She has been waiting on the porch since breakfast and pretending she is not.”
Mara’s breathing changed.
“The girl from your letters.”
“Yes.”