Chapter Three
Copper Bend — Wyoming Territory
Amy smoothed her gloves yet again before folding her hands in her lap, though the familiar motion did little to quiet the uneasiness that had followed her since the stagecoach had crossed into Copper Bend.
As the coach rattled away in a cloud of dust, it left her beside her trunk outside the modest depot, her carpetbag tucked beneath one arm and the folded newspaper advertisement safely inside her Bible.
The uncomfortable realization that she had wagered her entire future on a stranger refused to leave her.
The town greeted her with a quieter welcome than she'd expected.
A wagon creaked past loaded with grain sacks, while two boys tore along the boardwalk, weaving around startled pedestrians before disappearing between the buildings.
Hammer blows rang out from somewhere farther down the street, mixing with the scent of fresh bread drifting from a nearby bakery.
Copper Bend felt nothing like St. Joseph.
She opened her reticule, unfolded Caleb Whitaker's last letter, and read it again, though she already knew every word by heart.
Miss Amy Bennet,
I'll meet the afternoon stagecoach at the depot on Tuesday.
Caleb Whitaker
The letter contained only those two brief lines. Caleb hadn't asked about her journey, wished her safe travels, or offered a single pleasant word beyond confirming where they would meet. She reminded herself that plain words did not necessarily belong to an unkind man.
Clara certainly hadn't thought so. "I imagine a rancher writes the way he talks to cattle," she'd joked while helping Amy pack.
Amy smiled at the memory. Clara always managed to find hope where other people found reasons to worry, and Amy wanted very much to believe her friend had judged Caleb correctly.
She folded the letter and slipped it back into her reticule before lifting her eyes to the road once more.
The afternoon sunlight stretched across the dusty street, yet every rider who appeared turned toward another destination.
The station master rolled a trunk across the platform before noticing that she remained exactly where the stagecoach had left her. "You waiting on somebody, miss?"
"Yes."
He rested both hands on the handle of the trunk and glanced toward the road with mild curiosity.
A shy smile touched Amy's face. "I'm waiting on the gentleman I'm supposed to marry."
His brows rose high enough to disappear beneath the brim of his cap. "Well, that's one way to make an introduction."
Warmth spread through her cheeks as she gave a small laugh. "I was much braver when I was still in Missouri."
"I’m sure," he replied with an easy grin. "Takes a fair bit of courage to cross half the country for a wedding."
Amy thanked him with a polite smile before turning her attention back to the road, silently hoping Caleb Whitaker would appear before she found herself wondering whether she'd come all this way only to discover that nobody intended to meet her after all.
Another quarter of an hour slipped by. The longer she stood alone, the more practical her doubts became.
Perhaps Caleb had changed his mind after all.
Or perhaps her last letter had never reached him.
Maybe she'd mistaken their brief exchange of letters for an understanding that had never truly existed.
She glanced toward the road leading out of town.
The eastbound stagecoach had already gone, though another would pass through eventually.
She could buy a ticket, return to Missouri, and convince herself that the whole adventure had been a passing lapse in judgment if he never showed.
Her mother would welcome her home without asking difficult questions, Clara would claim she'd expected Amy to come back all along, and the library would still need worn books repaired and shelves kept in order.
The vision almost persuaded her. Then another memory rose with unwelcome clarity.
She saw the ruined picnic basket scattered across the dusty street in Brook Hollow, blackberry preserves bleeding into the dirt beneath the blue ribbon she'd tied with such care.
She drew a slow breath and lifted her chin. Running home would leave her standing exactly where she'd begun, only far more afraid.
Amy's thoughts drifted until a shadow fell across the depot platform.
"You Amy?" The voice came low and rough, carrying the quiet certainty of a man who expected an answer without asking twice.
She turned and found that Caleb Whitaker looked nothing like the picture she'd built from his letters.
He stood well over six feet, broad-shouldered and solid, with the powerful frame of a man who'd spent years making his living through hard work.
A weathered hat shaded dark blond hair that curled around his ears, while a rough beard framed a face shaped by sun and wind.
His faded work shirt stretched across muscular arms, and he watched her with calm attention.
He was remarkably handsome. What caught her attention most were his eyes. They were a clear, steady green, and watchful rather than hard beneath the weathered brim of his hat.
The discovery caught her off guard, though his manner surprised her even more.
He carried himself like a rancher collecting supplies instead of a groom meeting the woman who'd crossed half the country to marry him.
After all the novels she'd read, she'd half-expected a shy smile, perhaps a bouquet of wildflowers, or at the very least a few awkward words of welcome.
Instead, he looked as though he'd come to fetch a sack of flour.
“Y…yes,” she stammered. “I am.”
“Caleb Whitaker.” His gaze settled on the trunk beside her. "Yours?"
"Yes."
Without another word, he lifted the trunk as if it weighed nothing and carried it toward a waiting wagon.
"I could've carried that."
"I know." He never broke his stride.
Amy hurried after him, gathering her skirts before they tangled beneath her boots. "You are Caleb Whitaker, correct?"
He set the trunk into the wagon bed before giving a brief nod. "Mm-hm."
Warm relief spread through her. She'd been imagining every possible explanation for his absence, and too many of them ended with another broken promise. "I'm glad. I'd hate to travel all this way and discover I'd agreed to marry the wrong gentleman."
The corner of his mouth lifted. "That'd complicate things."
A quiet laugh escaped before she could stop it. His dry remark arrived so casually she almost missed it. "I suppose it would."
He climbed onto the wagon seat and gathered the reins. "We'll stop at the courthouse and get married a little later."
She looked up, certain she'd misheard him. "Today?"
"Judge is in."
Amy stared at him. The certainty in his voice left no room for discussion. He hadn't asked whether she was ready, or even whether she wished to wait until tomorrow. He'd simply announced the plan as though she would naturally agree.
His confidence, or rather, arrogance, rubbed her the wrong way. For a man who'd only just met his bride, he seemed remarkably certain of himself.
"But I've only just arrived."
"So you have."
His voice carried the calm certainty of a man discussing tomorrow's weather. Marriage seemed to belong in the same category as repairing a fence or buying seed to him.
Amy stood where she was for another heartbeat before gathering her skirts and climbing onto the wagon seat beside him. Caleb waited until she'd settled herself, then gave the reins a gentle flick. The horses trotted forward, and the wagon rolled away from the depot.
His silence stretched between them as long as the road ahead.
Amy had spent the journey west telling herself she expected nothing grand.
Theodore had cured her of foolish dreams. Even so, the novels she'd loved had refused to loosen their hold completely.
Somewhere between Missouri and Wyoming she'd imagined a warm smile, an awkward conversation, perhaps a quiet walk together before either of them stood before a judge.
She'd hoped to hear her future husband's laugh before promising him the rest of her life.
Instead, Caleb spoke as though the wedding were simply the next chore waiting to be crossed off his list. She studied him, searching for a hint of amusement that would tell her he'd chosen the wrong way to deliver a joke.
His expression stayed steady, almost puzzled, as if he couldn't understand why she seemed taken aback.
His letter had warned her he was a man of few words.
Meeting him made her realize the letter had barely begun to describe him.
He struck her as practical to his bones, the sort of man who saw every situation as a problem to be solved.
Amy drew a slow breath. She was here because she’d wanted a fresh start, and Caleb had come to the depot, exactly as he'd promised. That counted for far more than flowers or pretty speeches. Even so, she couldn't help wishing he'd greeted her like a bride instead of an obligation.
"Mr. Whitaker... Ah, I mean Caleb?" His attention shifted back to her. "I thought we'd spend a little time getting acquainted before we married."
He studied her long enough that she wondered whether he'd answer at all. "What for?"
She blinked. Did the man truly believe a few letters told him everything worth knowing about another person? "Because we're going to be husband and wife."
"We've written."
"We've exchanged letters," she said gently. "People sound different when they're sitting across from each other."
He considered that without changing his expression. "What do you still need to know?"