Lightning flashed beyond the foothills.
“My ranch is three miles north.”
Emma immediately stiffened.
Jack noticed.
“The bunkhouse is empty.”
He continued before she needed to object.
“It has a stove.”
“A bed.”
“And a door with a lock on both sides.”
Emma searched his face.
“You expect me to trust you?”
“No.”
That surprised her.
Jack nodded toward the storm.
“I expect you to decide whether staying alone in town tonight is safer.”
The rain hammered harder against the roof.
He continued.
“You can leave tomorrow.”
“Or next week.”
“Your choice.”
Emma folded her arms.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“No man wants nothing.”
Jack’s expression did not change.
“My mother spent one winter sleeping in a church after she lost everything.”
Emma remained silent.
“One stranger opened a door.”
“She survived because of him.”
Jack looked toward the rain.
“I decided a long time ago that if I ever found somebody standing where she once stood, I would open mine.”
Emma felt something inside her loosen slightly.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But the possibility of it.
“I'll pay for meals.”
Jack nodded.
“I expected nothing less.”
“And lodging.”
“No.”
Emma frowned.
“I don't accept charity.”
“Neither do I.”
“The bunkhouse is sitting empty.”
“You using it costs me nothing.”
“That is not the same.”
“Then work tomorrow.”
Emma stared.
“What kind?”
Jack looked toward the livery.
“You wrote Briggs that you know horses.”
Emma’s expression sharpened.
“How do you know what I wrote him?”
“Small town.”
“That fast?”
“This town can spread a marriage failure before the stage dust settles.”
Despite herself, Emma almost smiled.
Jack saw it.
Only briefly.
“Come on.”
He lifted her suitcase.
Emma immediately reached for it.
“I can carry that.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
Jack looked at the mud.
“Because you’re wearing city boots and that puddle is deeper than it looks.”
Emma glanced down.
He was right.
She hated that.
Jack smiled faintly.
Together they crossed the street toward his wagon.
Half of Willow Creek watched from windows.
Before sunrise, the entire town would know the lonely rancher north of town had taken Walter Briggs’s rejected bride home.
The truth was simpler.
And eventually, far more dangerous.
Jack had offered a stranger a locked door.
Nothing more.
The ride took nearly an hour because the storm turned the road into mud.
Emma sat beside Jack beneath a canvas cover.
Neither spoke for several minutes.
The horses moved steadily despite thunder.
Finally Emma asked:
“Why are you alone?”
Jack glanced at her.
“That direct?”
“You asked whether I had a place to sleep within thirty seconds of learning my name.”
“Fair.”
He looked back toward the road.
“I was engaged once.”
Emma waited.
“She died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Long time ago.”
Jack’s answer closed the subject.
Emma respected that.
They continued.
A few minutes later Jack pointed through the rain.
“Cottonwoods.”