“Ranch is behind them.”
The property emerged slowly through the storm.
It was not grand.
Emma noticed that first.
Weathered house.
Large barn.
Several corrals.
A bunkhouse.
Blacksmith lean-to.
Pastures reaching toward low hills.
Dozens of horses gathered close to windbreak fencing.
Everything looked used.
Maintained.
Necessary.
Nothing existed merely to impress.
Emma liked it immediately.
That worried her.
Jack drove the wagon beneath the barn roof.
He climbed down.
Before offering his hand, he paused.
“Can I?”
Emma looked at him.
It took her a moment to realize he meant help.
“Yes.”
Jack held his hand out.
Emma stepped down.
He did not grip her waist.
Did not use the moment to pull her close.
He simply steadied her until both boots reached the ground.
Then released her.
The barn smelled of hay, leather, horses, and damp wood.
Animals lifted their heads when Jack entered.
None shied.
One chestnut mare walked toward him immediately.
Jack scratched between her ears.
“She thinks every person entering the barn owes her something.”
Emma touched the mare’s nose.
“She’s correct.”
Jack looked at her.
There it was again.
That almost-smile.
He led Emma toward the bunkhouse.
Inside stood one iron bed.
A wood stove.
Washbasin.
Small table.
Chair.
Shelf.
Hook for clothing.
Simple.
Clean.
Jack put her suitcase near the bed.
“Blankets there.”
“Pump outside.”
“Stove draws well unless the wind comes directly east.”
He pointed toward the door.
“Lock.”
Emma tested it.
Solid.
Jack stepped outside the room.
“I’ll bring supper.”
Emma frowned.
“You're not eating here?”
“I can if you want company.”
“And if I don't?”
“I’ll leave the bowl.”
That answer mattered.
“Company is fine.”
Jack nodded.
He disappeared into the rain.
Emma sat on the bed.
For the first time since arriving, nobody was watching her.
That should have made her feel better.
Instead, Walter’s words returned.
Too tall.
Too strong.
Not a wife.
Emma looked down at her hands.
They were red from cold.
Callused.
Her left palm still carried a pale scar from barbed wire when she was sixteen.
Those hands had held her mother during fever.
Built a coffin beside her father.
Repaired a broken wagon axle thirty miles from home.
Delivered a calf during a February storm.
Now she looked at them and wondered whether Walter was right.
Not because she believed weakness made a woman.
But because rejection reached places reason could not protect.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Emma?”
Jack.
“Come in.”
He entered carrying two bowls.
Steam rose from beef stew.
Emma immediately stood.
“I can take mine.”
“I know.”
He placed both on the table.
“I dislike eating alone.”