“I won't marry you.”
The street went strangely quiet.
Even the men who had laughed seemed embarrassed now.
Walter reached toward her suitcase.
Emma pulled it back before he could touch it.
His hand stopped.
“I only meant to give it back.”
“It never left my hand.”
Walter looked irritated.
“You understand what I mean.”
“No.”
Emma’s voice remained calm.
“I understand what you wrote.”
“I understand what I wrote.”
“And I understand what you just said.”
Walter looked away.
Emma waited one second longer.
Part of her wanted him to change.
To recognize what he had done.
To say he was nervous.
Foolish.
Afraid.
Anything.
He said nothing.
Emma turned.
Rain began falling harder.
The stagecoach had already gone.
Her last connection east would not return for three days.
She carried thirty-two dollars.
Two dresses.
One heavy coat.
A Bible that had belonged to her mother.
A photograph of her parents.
And nowhere to sleep.
She walked toward the hotel.
Behind her, Walter disappeared into the saloon.
That hurt more than she expected.
Emma reached the hotel porch.
The innkeeper had been watching through the window.
When she approached the door, he turned the vacancy sign.
NO ROOMS.
Emma stared through the glass.
The man looked away.
She knocked.
Nothing.
Again.
The innkeeper disappeared into the hallway.
Rain soaked the shoulders of Emma’s coat.
She moved beneath the narrow awning of the general store.
Two women inside whispered.
One looked directly at her.
Then quickly turned away.
Emma placed her suitcase beside her boots.
She had promised herself years ago that nobody would ever watch her beg.
Not for food.
Not for shelter.
Not for affection.
Her father used to tell her pride should never keep a person from accepting kindness.
Emma agreed.
But kindness had to be offered first.
She received none.
Then a voice came from behind her.
“You picked a hard day to arrive.”
Emma turned.
A broad-shouldered man stood near the hitching rail.
She recognized him.
He had been outside the blacksmith shop during Walter’s humiliation.
Unlike the others, he had not laughed.
He wore a dark brown hat, weathered coat, work trousers, and boots covered in honest mud.
His face was sun-darkened.
His dark hair had grown too long around his ears.
A short beard covered his jaw.
His eyes were blue.
Steady.
And importantly, they stayed on her face.
The man removed one glove.
“Jack Dawson.”
Emma shook his hand.
“Emma Carter.”
His grip was firm without becoming a contest.
“You have family here?”
“No.”
“Friends?”
“No.”
“A place to sleep?”
Emma glanced toward the hotel.
Jack followed her eyes.
“They're lying.”
She looked back.
“What?”
“Hotel has rooms.”
Emma’s mouth tightened.
“Apparently not for me.”
Jack glanced toward the saloon.
“They don't want trouble after what Briggs did.”
“I am not trouble.”
“I know.”
That answer came too quickly for flattery.
Jack looked toward the clouds.