Chapter 1

The stagecoach kicked up a cloud of dust as it rolled to a stop in front of Bozeman’s modest station. Elias McKinney shifted his weight, hat in hand, and tried not to look as nervous as he felt. Three years of scraping by on that homestead, watching his dreams dry up along with last year’s grass, and it had come to this—waiting for a woman he’d never met to step off a stage and agree to marry him.

He’d read her letter so many times the paper had gone soft at the creases. Miss Ellie Mae Brennan of Boston. Educated, moral upbringing, willing to work hard. The words were careful, almost formal, but there’d been something in them that spoke of desperation matching his own. He understood desperation. It was what made a man place an advertisement for a wife like he was hiring a ranch hand.

The stage door opened.

Elias had tried not to imagine what she’d look like. A farm girl, maybe. A widow past her prime. Someone practical, sturdy, used to hard work. Someone who’d understand what she was getting into.

The woman who stepped down onto the dusty street was none of those things.

She was small—couldn’t be more than five feet tall—and slender in a way that made him think of delicate bird bones. But there was nothing fragile in the way she moved. She stepped down with perfect balance, her traveling dress the color of deep water, trimmed in ivory lace that had somehow survived the journey nearly pristine. Her hair was pinned up proper, dark curls escaping around a face that made his breath catch somewhere in his chest.

She was Black.

The thought came stupid and obvious, because of course he could see that, but his brain seemed to need to form the words anyway as it scrambled to catch up with what his eyes were telling him. She hadn’t mentioned it in her letter. He hadn’t thought to ask. And now here she was, looking up at him with large dark eyes that held equal parts hope and wariness.

“Mr. Elias McKinney?”

Her voice was clear, educated, nothing like the rough Montana speech he was used to. She took a step toward him, and he caught the scent of rosewater and train smoke.

“Hi, I’m Ellie Mae Brennan.” She extended her hand like a man would, straight out, confident. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Elias stared at that outstretched hand. His mind was a tangle of thoughts—she’s Black, she’s tiny, she’s from Boston, what was he thinking, what was she thinking—

Her hand wavered slightly. The confidence in her eyes flickered.

Then she lifted her chin, and her gaze turned sharp. Direct. “Your eyes are kind of wide, Mr. McKinney. Is me being Black going to pose a problem?”

The bluntness of it shocked him into honesty. “No, ma’am.” He took her hand, felt the firm grip, the soft skin that said she’d never branded cattle or mended fence. “You’re prettier than I ever expected.”

Color rose in her cheeks—he could see it even in her dark skin—and for just a moment, the careful guard dropped and she looked young and uncertain. Then she composed herself, though a small smile played at the corner of her mouth.

“Well then.” She squeezed his hand once and released it. “Shall we?”

The driver was hauling down a trunk—small, but clearly heavy. Elias moved to help, grateful for something to do with his hands. The trunk’s leather was worn but well-cared-for, the brass fittings polished. Whatever she’d brought with her, she’d taken care of it.

“That everything?” he asked.

“That’s everything.”

Everything she owned in the world, then, fit in one trunk. He hoisted it easily and carried it to his wagon. When he turned back, she was still standing there in the street, watching him with those careful eyes. The afternoon sun slanted across the buildings, turning the dust golden. A few townspeople had stopped to stare—Mrs. Henderson in front of the mercantile, old Bill Carver outside the saloon.

Let them talk. He’d weathered worse than gossip.

Elias held out his hand to help her up onto the wagon seat. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

She looked at him for a long moment, searching his face. Whatever she found there must have satisfied her, because she gathered her skirts and let him help her up. That same firm grip, and then she was settling herself on the seat, arranging her skirts with the practiced efficiency of someone used to making do in difficult circumstances.

He climbed up beside her, very aware of how small she looked next to him, how out of place that fine dress seemed against the rough wood of his farm wagon. The seat wasn’t meant for two people in layers of petticoats and propriety. Their shoulders nearly touched.

“Three miles,” he said, as much to fill the silence as anything. He clicked to the horses and they started forward. “Road’s not bad this time of year.”

“What time of year is it?”

The question surprised him. “Late April. Why?”

“I lost track somewhere around Chicago.” She was looking at everything—the buildings of Bozeman, the mountains in the distance, the greening fields. “The train stations all started looking the same.”

Late April meant she’d been traveling for weeks. Boston to Montana Territory wasn’t a journey you made lightly. He looked at her dress again, still remarkably clean despite weeks of travel. She’d taken care with her appearance for meeting him.

They left Bozeman behind, the town giving way to open country. The mountains rose up all around them, still snow-capped despite the spring warmth in the valley. The land was greening up after the long winter, and the cottonwoods along the creek were starting to leaf out.

“It’s beautiful,” Ellie Mae said quietly.

Elias looked at the familiar landscape, trying to see it through her eyes. He supposed it was beautiful, in a rough sort of way. Not like Boston, he imagined.

“That’s the Gallatin Range,” he said, pointing east. “Bridger Range to the north. My place—our place—it’s up against the foothills. Good water from snowmelt.”

She nodded, still taking it all in. Her hands were folded in her lap, gloved despite the warmth. Everything about her was proper, contained, carefully controlled.