The stagecoach did not stop so much as hesitate.
Its wheels sank into the brown Colorado mud at the bottom of Fletcher Mountain, the driver cursed beneath his breath, and Beatrice O’Reilly had just enough time to climb down before her trunk came tumbling after her.
It landed on one corner with a wet thud.
“My apologies, ma’am,” the driver called, though his expression suggested very little regret.
Beatrice stared from the trunk to the steep trail disappearing between snow-heavy pines.
“You said the Fletcher place was nearby.”
“It is.”
“How nearby?”
The driver pointed upward.
Beatrice followed his finger until her neck hurt.
Somewhere far above, smoke curled between the trees.
Her stomach dropped.
“That?”
“That’s him.”
“You could take me farther.”
“Not with these roads.”
“You brought me from Denver.”
“And I intend on getting back there alive.”
Before Beatrice could answer, he snapped the reins.
The horses lurched.
Mud splashed the bottom of her skirt.
“Wait!”
The driver glanced back.
“Stage comes through again Thursday!”
Then the coach disappeared around the bend.
For several seconds Beatrice simply stood there.
Five dollars remained in the small purse beneath her coat.
A trunk containing almost everything she owned rested in the mud.
The November wind blew against her cheeks.
And somewhere at the top of that mountain lived Boone Fletcher, the man whose name had been written beside hers on a marriage agreement arranged through a matrimonial agency in Denver.
Her husband.
Technically.
She had never seen his face.
He had never seen hers.
That arrangement had sounded less alarming when she was sitting safely in an Omaha boardinghouse with six unpaid weeks of rent and a landlady threatening to put her belongings on the street.
Now it seemed completely insane.
Beatrice pulled the letter from her pocket.
The paper was already soft from being read too many times.
BOONE FLETCHER.
THIRTY-FOUR.
LANDOWNER.
MOUNTAIN CABIN.
TIMBER AND TRAPPING INCOME.
SEEKING PRACTICAL WIFE.
NO DELICATE TEMPERAMENT.
That final line had offended her the first time she read it.
It offended her even more now.
“Practical,” she muttered.
She grabbed the handle of her trunk.
“Let’s see how practical he thinks this is.”
The first hundred yards nearly killed her.
The trail was steeper than it appeared from below. Her boots slipped on wet stones, her long skirt caught on frozen brush, and the corset beneath her dress seemed determined to squeeze every useful ounce of air from her lungs.
Beatrice had always been a large woman.
Her mother had called her “sturdy” when she was a little girl.
Her sisters had called her “soft.”
Men in Omaha had used less charitable words.
At twenty-six, Beatrice weighed close to 280 pounds. She had broad hips, thick arms, a full face, and a body society seemed determined to interpret before anyone bothered asking what she thought about anything.
She had spent years being advised to become smaller.
Eat less.
Speak less.
Take up less room.
Expect less.
Apparently marriage had not improved the situation.
After twenty minutes she stopped beside a pine and pressed one hand against the trunk.
Her lungs burned.
“Fine,” she told the mountain. “You’ve made your point.”
The mountain remained unimpressed.
She continued climbing.
Half an hour later she fell.
Her knee struck frozen earth.
Pain shot through her leg.
For one terrifying moment she thought she had injured herself badly enough to be trapped.
Then anger arrived.
Anger had always been more useful to Beatrice than fear.
She pushed herself upright.
“You are not dying three miles from a husband who hasn’t even had the privilege of disappointing you yet.”
She resumed climbing.
Snow began falling.
Not heavily.
Just enough to make everything more difficult.
By the time the cabin finally appeared through the trees, nearly two hours had passed.
Beatrice stopped.
It was larger than she had imagined, built from dark timber and stone, with a steep roof and a chimney pouring smoke into the gray afternoon.
A barn stood nearby.
Stacks of split wood formed high walls beside a work shed.
And in the middle of the clearing stood a man with an ax.
He noticed her immediately.
Beatrice noticed him too.
Boone Fletcher was nothing like the respectable frontier farmer she had pictured.
He was tall—very tall—with shoulders made broad by labor rather than tailoring. His dark brown hair reached his collar. A heavy beard covered most of his face. His shirt sleeves were rolled above muscular forearms, and there was something almost feral about the way he stood among the snow and timber.
He looked like a man who had been left alone in the wilderness long enough for civilization to become optional.
He planted the ax in a stump.
“You’re the new one.”
Beatrice blinked.
Not hello.
Not welcome.
Not even her name.
“The new one?”
He looked toward the trail behind her.
“You came from Denver?”
“Omaha originally.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
She tightened her grip on the trunk.
“And you must be Boone Fletcher.”
He nodded once.
“Beatrice O’Reilly.”
“I know.”
His gray eyes moved over her.
Not lecherously.
Not even critically.
He seemed to be calculating something.
Her size.
Her exhaustion.
The steepness of the mountain.
Whatever conclusion he reached apparently disappointed him.
“The stage returns Thursday.”
Beatrice waited.
Boone pointed toward a smaller building.
“You can sleep in the shed until then.”
For several seconds she thought she had misunderstood.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You won’t last.”
“You’ve known me approximately thirty seconds.”
“Long enough.”
His tone remained maddeningly calm.
“The last one made it five days. One before her stayed three. First one lasted almost two weeks.”
Beatrice stared.
“You’ve had three brides?”
“Depends what you mean by had.”
“What else could I mean?”
“None stayed long enough for it to matter.”
He picked up the ax.
Beatrice's humiliation turned slowly into rage.
“Were you this charming with them?”
Boone brought the ax down.
Wood split cleanly.
“They were half your size.”
The words struck harder than she expected.
Years of laughter returned in an instant.
Men whispering at church socials.
A shopkeeper suggesting a particular dress would not be “flattering.”
Her aunt telling her that a woman with Beatrice’s appetite should not expect romance.
Boone continued.
“Couldn’t haul water without crying.”
Beatrice’s cheeks burned.
He nodded toward the mountain below.
“You’ll want to leave before the snow gets worse.”
Something inside her settled.
She released the trunk.
Then she walked directly past him.
Boone watched her climb the porch.
“Where are you going?”
“Inside.”
“That’s my house.”
Beatrice stopped with her hand on the door.
She looked back.
“We signed papers, Mr. Fletcher.”
His jaw tightened.
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It means exactly what both of us agreed it meant.”
She opened the door.
The cabin was warmer than outside but barely.
A stone fireplace held a fading flame. Tools covered one wall. A rough table stood near a small kitchen. There was one bedroom doorway and, most importantly, a heavy wooden chair beside the hearth.
Beatrice crossed the room.
She lowered herself into it.
The chair creaked.
Boone entered behind her.
His expression changed slightly.
Perhaps he expected her to apologize for the sound.
She did not.
Instead she removed her wet gloves.
“I’m not getting on that stage.”
“You haven’t seen winter.”
“I’ve seen Nebraska.”
“Not the same.”
“I’ve seen poverty.”
Boone said nothing.
“I’ve seen landlords,” she continued. “Factory supervisors. Church matrons. Men who thought a woman should be grateful because they spoke politely before insulting her.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“And I’ve survived every one.”
She pointed at the fire.
“So unless you intend on freezing your new wife to death during her first afternoon here, build that fire before I lose a toe and cooking your supper becomes difficult.”
Silence.
The fire snapped.
Something strange happened around Boone’s eyes.
For half a second Beatrice wondered if the terrifying mountain man might actually laugh.
He did not.
He added two logs.
That evening she cooked potatoes, salt pork, and onions.
Boone ate without complimenting her.
Beatrice did not need one.
When she asked where she should sleep, he nodded toward the only bedroom.
“You take the bed.”
“And you?”
“Chair.”
The same chair Beatrice had occupied.
She studied him.
“You have only one chair?”
“Hadn’t needed another.”
“You had three prospective wives.”
“They didn’t stay.”
There it was again.
Stay.
Everything Boone said seemed to orbit that word.
That night Beatrice lay beneath heavy blankets listening to the mountain wind.
She should have been frightened.
Instead she kept thinking about the man sleeping upright beside the fire.
Why would someone advertise for a wife repeatedly while appearing convinced every woman would leave?
Morning gave her the first clue.
She opened the door and found two empty buckets.
The creek was downhill.
Far downhill.
Boone was already chopping wood.
She looked from him to the buckets.
“Those mine?”
“Water’s everybody’s.”
“Interesting philosophy.”
She picked them up.
The trip down was manageable.
Coming back nearly destroyed her.
Each bucket grew heavier with every step.
Her arms trembled.
Her chest burned.
Halfway up, she dropped to her knees.
The water sloshed onto the snow.
Her stomach rolled violently.
She turned her head and vomited.
Boone stood fifty yards above.
Watching.
Humiliation nearly broke her.
Nearly.
She wiped her mouth with her sleeve.
Then she lifted the buckets again.
One step.
Another.
And another.
By the time she reached the cabin Boone’s expression was impossible to read.
Beatrice set both buckets at his feet.
“Next time,” she gasped, “you bring them up.”
Boone glanced at the water.
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, you drink your coffee dry.”
Then she walked inside.
The following morning Beatrice opened the door.
The buckets were full.
She smiled despite herself.
The war between Beatrice O’Reilly and Boone Fletcher had begun.
And neither of them understood yet that the mountain was quietly changing the rules.