2. Josiah
two
Josiah
I close the spare room door behind me and stand frozen in my own hallway, trying to make sense of what just happened. Little Wynonna Crow. Here. On my doorstep claiming to be my mail-order bride.
Hell.
I move to the kitchen on autopilot, gripping the edge of the counter until my knuckles turn white. The cabin feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker. This has to be some kind of mistake. Or a joke. Maybe a dream.
But the suitcase sitting in my spare room is real enough. So is the lingering scent of something floral that followed her through my door. The smell of wildflowers and summer rain, completely out of place against the cedar and woodsmoke of my home.
The shock of seeing her hits me again, a physical ache in my chest. Not the gangly teenager I remember, but a woman with soft curves and quiet strength. Those deep brown eyes still looking at me like I'm something special. Like I'm worth crossing a country for.
I grab a glass, fill it with water, down it in three gulps. Outside the window, darkness creeps between the pines as the setting sun paints the mountains in fiery orange and deep purple.
Christ. The memory of her teenage confession flashes through my mind—her nervous voice, flushed face, the painful task of letting her down gently. "You're like a little sister to me, Wynonna. You'll find a boy your own age who deserves you."
She'd blinked back tears then. Today, she walked in with determination blazing in those same eyes, no trace of that girlish uncertainty.
God help me, but that confidence affects me in ways it shouldn't.
I scrub a hand down my face, disgusted with myself. This is Frank Crow's daughter. I've known her since she was a child.
And my body doesn't seem to care about any of that.
The old floorboards creak under my weight as I pace the kitchen, my reflection ghostly in the window against the darkening forest beyond.
The rational move would be to drive her straight to town, put her on the first bus east. But the mountain roads twist treacherously in the dark, especially with spring rains making the shoulders unstable.
One night. That's all. In the morning, I'll take her to Silver Ridge and make sure she gets a ticket back to Manitoba. End of story.
A soft noise from the spare room draws my attention—she's moving around in there, probably unpacking as if she's staying. The thought sends an unexpected wave of heat through me. Wynonna. Here. In my home. For the night. The cabin I built with my own hands suddenly feels like unfamiliar territory.
I slam the brakes on that train of thought.
She's changed, sure, but this can't be rational. No grown woman crosses the country for a man who rejected her feelings a decade ago. It doesn't make sense.
Then again, nothing about this situation makes sense.
The spare room door opens, and I tense. The lamplight catches copper highlights in her dark hair as she appears, having removed her jacket and boots. Her feet are bare against my hardwood floor, and something about that simple intimacy makes my throat go dry.
"Sorry," she says, catching me staring. "I was looking for the bathroom."
"End of the hall." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Left door."
She nods, moving past me with a grace that knocks me off-balance.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, the question surprising me as much as her. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls. "Made venison stew this morning."
A smile breaks across her face, lighting up her eyes. "Starving, actually. Haven't had a real meal since yesterday."
Something protective stirs in my chest. "Should've said something sooner."
She shrugs, and the movement draws my attention to the delicate line of her collarbone visible where her shirt dips. "Didn't want to impose more than I already have."
"Not imposing to eat," I grunt, turning to the stove to reheat the stew, grateful for something to do with my hands. The iron pot clanks against the woodstove, the rich aroma of herbs and game filling the kitchen. "Sit. Water's in the pitcher."
While the stew heats, I covertly watch her move around my kitchen.
She pours water with the comfortable familiarity of someone at home, not a stranger in a new place.
Finds the napkins in the second drawer she tries.
Notices the fresh bread on the cutting board and looks to me for permission before cutting two slices.
The sight of her, eyes closed, pleasure on her face from something I made, sends a jolt of heat straight through me. I turn back to the stew, stirring with more force than necessary. The spoon scrapes against the pot, an abrasive sound that matches my fraying nerves.
What the hell is wrong with me? She's not little anymore, and the questions in her eyes now are ones I have no business answering.
We eat in relative silence. The only sounds are the clink of spoons against bowls, the pop and hiss of the fire, and the distant call of an owl beginning its night hunt. I keep my responses to her conversation attempts brief. Distance is better. Safer.
Still, I notice things. The way she savors each bite as if it's something special. How she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's thinking. The slight calluses on her hands that tell me she's no stranger to work, despite her city clothes.
"So," she says finally, setting down her spoon. "Are we going to talk about the mail-order bride situation, or just pretend it isn't hanging over us?"
Direct. That's new too.
"There's nothing to talk about." I push my empty bowl away. "In the morning, I'll take you to town. Get you a ticket back to Manitoba."
Her chin lifts slightly. It’s a gesture I remember from when she was young and digging in her heels about something. "I'm not going back."
"Wynonna."
"I sold everything I owned to come here," she interrupts. "All I have is in that suitcase and what little cash is left after the journey."
"That was your choice," I say, harsher than intended. "Made based on deception."
She doesn't flinch. "I made it based on knowing exactly what I want."
"And what's that? A man old enough to be your father?" The words come out bitter, edged with the guilt I feel at my own unwelcome attraction.
Now she does flinch, but recovers quickly. "You're forty, Josiah, not ancient. And I'm twenty-five, not a child."
"You were a child when I knew you."
"But I'm not now." Her voice softens. "Look at me. I'm not that girl anymore."
That's exactly the problem. I've been looking—trying not to, but failing—and what I see is a woman whose determined eyes and gentle voice are doing things to me that make me question my own morality.
"It doesn't matter," I say finally, standing to clear the dishes. "This isn't appropriate. I knew your father, for Christ's sake."
"You know my father's been gone from my life since I was fifteen," she replies quietly. "And I'm not asking for anything inappropriate. Just a chance."
I turn to face her, thrown by the genuine vulnerability in her voice. "A chance at what, exactly?"
"At proving I can be what you were looking for when you signed up for that service. A partner. Someone to share this life with."
The simple honesty in her words hits me like a physical blow.
It's the same thing I'd written in my profile.
I wanted a practical, hardworking woman for companionship, partnership, and eventually a family to inherit this land.
Land that's been in my family for three generations.
Land that will die with me if I don't create a legacy.
For a moment, I let myself imagine it. Wynonna here permanently, her voice echoing through these timber walls, her presence filling the empty corners of this too-large cabin.
Her bare feet on my hardwood floors. Children with her eyes and my stubbornness running through the meadow beyond the workshop.
The vision is so vivid it leaves me breathless. So powerful it terrifies me.
"One night," I repeat, my voice firm. "We'll figure out next steps in the morning."
She nods, accepting the boundary for now, but I see the determined glint in her eye. Wynonna Crow doesn't give up easily. Never did.
After she's gone to bed, I sit at the kitchen table nursing a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid reflecting the dying firelight. How had she found me through that service? It couldn't be coincidence. Which means she'd been searching for me specifically.
The thought sends an uncomfortable mix of emotions through me. No one has ever wanted me with the steady certainty that Wynonna seems to. No one has ever come looking for me, let alone traveled across two provinces on the strength of letters and a decade-old connection.
It's irrational. Impulsive. Completely inappropriate.
And God help me, but part of me doesn't want her to leave at all.