Chapter 4
The streets of Butte City teemed with more desperate souls than James remembered from the last time he’d been here three years ago. He’d forgotten how rough mining towns could be.
He eased his wagon along the muddy ruts, eyeing the men slouched against doorways or gathered in knots near the saloons. The mining boom had drawn fortune-seekers from every corner of the country, and most of them looked like they’d sell their own mothers for a decent claim.
This was no place for a woman alone.
Just picturing Rose out here, picking her way through these streets with no one to watch her back, set his jaw tight.
He’d known there would be little reliable transport she could find from here to Walnut Springs.
The stage line didn’t run that far into the mountains.
And the freight wagons that did were hardly meant for a lady.
There hadn’t been time to respond to her last telegram. He’d just come knowing she’d need help.
A painted sign in the window of Loeser’s Dry Goods read Stage Stop Inside. He reined his team to a halt before the building. The horses stamped at the muck, tossing their heads, eager to be away from the racket and press of bodies. He didn’t blame them.
The bell over the door jingled as he stepped in. He took in the cramped space, barrels of flour stacked beside bolts of calico.
And then he saw her.
Even with her back turned, it had to be Rose.
That auburn hair, not so bright as the coppery tangle she’d worn as a child, was gathered beneath a plain traveling hat, a single red feather tucked into the band.
Her dress was a simple blue, the skirt dulled by dust but still somehow refined.
When she shifted, he caught the profile that had haunted his sleep for years.
She was more beautiful than he remembered, more than he’d let himself imagine. No longer the skinny girl with freckles and grass stains on her pinafore. In her place stood a woman, grown and graceful. The gentle curve of her cheek, the line of her neck above the collar—it left him breathless.
She spoke to a grizzled man in worn buckskins, her voice low and musical even in conversation. James couldn’t make out the words, but that voice…
…that voice.
It still carried the same sweet cadence that had lulled him to sleep on sunny days during those long-ago summers at the ranch.
He moved closer, finally catching her words.
“—to Walnut Springs.”
The man she spoke to scratched his beard and answered with a rough voice.
“Walnut Springs, eh? That’s a fair piece into the mountains.
I could get you as far as Deer Lodge. That’s half the distance, maybe.
Eight dollars, and you’d be riding in the back of a freight wagon, with supplies for the mining camps. ”
Her shoulders stiffened. “Eight dollars? For halfway?”
“Take it or leave it, lady. Ain’t nobody else heading that direction for another week, maybe two.”
James stepped forward before he could second-guess himself. “Excuse me, miss. I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m headed to Walnut Springs myself—could give you a ride for nothing. All the way there.”
Rose turned, and when those green eyes met his, he braced himself for recognition.
Up close, she was even more striking—those familiar freckles still dusted her nose, though fainter now, and her skin had the pale quality of someone who spent her days indoors.
But it was her expression that caught him off guard.
Wariness flickered across her features, quick as a bird taking flight.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr…?”
“James.”
She showed no sign of knowing him, not even after hearing his name. No warmth chased away that careful distance in her voice. She simply looked at him with polite hesitation, as though he were any stranger offering assistance.
The grizzled man shrugged and spat into a nearby spittoon. “Suit yourself, miss. Makes no difference to me.”
Rose hesitated, her gloved hands fidgeting with the straps of her traveling bag. “I don’t wish to impose—”
“No imposition. I’ve got a comfortable wagon that won’t be overloaded, and the weather looks fair.” James kept his tone easy, though his heart beat fast enough to power a mill wheel. “Safer than traveling with freight wagons, I’d wager.”
Still she hesitated, and something like calculation entered her eyes. Like she was weighing the risk of accepting help from a stranger against the alternatives Butte had to offer.
Finally, she nodded, though her smile remained cautious. “Very well. Thank you, Mr. James.”
He wanted to correct her—to tell her his full name, to see if that might stir a memory—but something held him back. Perhaps it was the careful way she braced herself, like she’d learned not to trust too quickly. Or perhaps not trust at all. What had happened to her these past eleven years?
“My wagon’s just outside.” He nodded toward the door. “We can load your things and head out.”
“This is all I have.” She lifted her carpet bag.
He kept from raising his brows and motioned for her to precede him to the exit.
They made their way outside, where his wagon waited between two freight haulers. He cupped her elbow to help her up onto the bench seat, and even through the fabric of her traveling dress, she was so delicate—all bird bones and careful grace.
Once they were settled and he guided the team through the crowded streets, she spoke. “I’m Rose. Rose Prescott.”
At least she still used her real name. That had to mean something. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Prescott.”
He guided the horses around a particularly deep rut, stealing glances at her profile.
The years had refined her features, but he could still see traces of the girl who used to race him through the meadows behind the ranch house.
The stubborn set of her chin when she was determined about something.
The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when she was thinking.
“Are you from Walnut Springs?” She gripped the handles of her bag like it might slide out of the wagon.
“Near there. My family has a ranch in the mountains.” He kept his voice casual, though every word felt loaded with significance. “What brings you there, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Employment.” The single word carried a finality that discouraged further questions. She really must not have even an inkling of who he was.
Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. She’d not expect her new employer to pick her up in Butte. And she still didn’t know the Balfour family had placed the advertisement. So she wouldn’t be looking for her old friend.
Yet still… He’d have known Rose anywhere. Right? Maybe he’d changed more than she had.
They rode in silence for a while as the buildings of Butte City gave way to rolling hills dotted with scrub pine.
The road wound upward, and he gave the animals enough rein to set their own pace on the steady climb.
Rose sat straight-backed beside him, her traveling bag clutched in her lap like armor.
The horses settled into a steady rhythm, and finally she seemed to relax a little, though she still held herself with that careful reserve.
He stole an occasional glance at her—those same delicate fingers that used to help Mrs. Wang knead bread dough, now gloved in worn leather that had seen better days. Everything about her spoke of genteel poverty, of someone who’d learned to make do with less while maintaining her dignity.
Her eyes softened when they passed a meadow dotted with wildflowers. And when the road carried them through trees again, she lifted her face to the sun filtering through the pine boughs.
“It’s beautiful country.” She spoke softly, and something in her voice made him think she’d been starved for beauty.
“It is.” He wanted to say more—wanted to tell her about the mornings when mist rose from the valleys like prayers, about the way the mountains looked when they wore their first snow. Instead, he tried for something casual. “Have you spent much time in mountain country?”
“Some.” She fell quiet again, like she’d revealed more than she intended.
Her silence weighed heavy between them. She parceled out information like it was precious currency.
The Rose he remembered had been full of chatter, spinning stories about the clouds and asking endless questions about everything from why horses slept standing up to whether angels could fly faster than birds.
This Rose held her words close, and it made his chest ache.
They’d been traveling for nearly an hour when he could stand it no more. He pulled the wagon to a stop beside a grove of aspens.
Rose glanced around, and a flicker of wariness crossed her features.
He turned on the bench to face her fully. He had to force himself not to be distracted by the delicate line of her jaw, the way her green eyes reflected the dappled light. “Rose.” Her name felt like coming home. “You don’t remember me at all, do you?”
Her eyes went wide, and for a heartbeat, something like fear flashed across her face. She shifted on the bench seat, her grip tightening on her bag.
“Should I?” Her voice held the slightest tremor, like a ripple through still water.
“James Balfour.” He watched her face as he spoke the name, searching for some spark of recognition, for the warmth he remembered from long ago. “You and your mother lived at our ranch when we were kids. You came from England with us.”
The color drained from her cheeks, and she swayed a little where she sat. Her lips parted, but no sound came. When she found her voice, it came out thin, barely more than a breath. “Jamie?”
The old nickname twisted something deep in his chest. “Yes.”
She stared at him, as if she couldn’t quite believe he was real, her green eyes searching his face. He saw the moment it truly struck her—the way her expression shifted, first wary, then wonder, then something close to panic.