Chapter 2
The handwriting was neat.
Mr. Mercer,
Your honesty is preferable to poetry.
I am not afraid of snow.
I know how to work.
I sleep well in the dark.
If your offer still stands, I will accept it.
Cora.
That was all.
No family history.
No sentimental nonsense.
No photograph.
I sent the money for her journey.
Then, on a bitter afternoon in November, I drove my wagon four freezing hours to collect a woman I had never met.
She was waiting beside the freight office with one dark trunk, one carpetbag, and a blue wool coat too thin for mountain weather.
She was smaller than I expected.
Not weak.
Just smaller.
Dark hair pinned beneath a plain hat. Gray eyes that studied everything without appearing to stare.
When I limped toward her, she looked first at my face, then at my cane.
“Mr. Mercer?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re Cora.”
“I am.”
I held out my hand.
She looked at it for half a second before taking it.
Her grip was firm.
“Wyatt,” I said. “If you’re going to marry me, calling me Mister Mercer seems foolish.”
Something almost like amusement touched her mouth.
“Then I’m Cora.”
I loaded her trunk.
She tried to help.
“I have it.”
“It has my things in it.”
“I assumed that.”
“That means I know how heavy it is.”
“I have it.”
She released the handle.
“You’re stubborn.”
“You figured that out quickly.”
“I read your letter.”
That should have warned me.
The ride back was mostly silent.
By the second hour, snow began falling.
By the third, the road had narrowed into little more than wheel ruts between black pines.
By the fourth, I saw Cora rubbing her gloved hands together.
“You cold?”
“Yes.”
“You should have worn a heavier coat.”
“I would have if I owned one.”
I glanced at her.
She kept her face turned toward the trees.
There was something in the way she said it that stopped me from making another remark.
When we reached the cabin, darkness had already swallowed the clearing.
I opened the door.
Cora stepped inside.
Then she stopped.
I suddenly saw my home through her eyes.
Two bloody beaver pelts lay across the table where I had skinned them that morning.
A stack of dishes leaned beside the wash basin.
Grease had collected around the stove.
A rusty Winchester rested against a chair.