Chapter 1 - The Bride in the Snow
Rosemary Caldwell collapsed against her suitcase and whispered:
“Please… tell Thomas I tried.”
Thomas Mercer ran across the ranch yard and dropped beside the battered brown case.
One envelope was sticking from its broken leather clasp.
Across the corner, someone had written one number in black ink:
“47.”
Thomas stopped breathing.
Those letters had never come from him.
Rosemary did not know how long she had been lying there.
She remembered the stagecoach disappearing.
She remembered shouting after the driver.
She remembered the wheels fading into a wall of white while the man on the box refused to turn around.
After that, memory became fragments.
Her boots sinking past the ankles.
Her fingers refusing to close.
A fence appearing through the snow.
A dark shape that might have been a barn.
The suitcase handle slipping from her hand.
Then nothing.
Now a man's voice was above her.
“Rosemary?”
She forced her eyes open.
A black cowboy hat blocked part of the orange sky. Snow clung to its brim. Beneath it was a face she had seen only once, in a small photograph mailed to her in Ohio nearly six months before.
Thomas Mercer.
He looked older than the photograph.
Not old.
Just more tired.
More real.
A short dark beard covered his jaw. Snow had gathered on the shoulders of his brown coat. His gloves were wet from dropping to his knees beside her.
Rosemary tried to sit up.
Her body refused.
“Are you Thomas?”
His expression changed.
Relief came first.
Then something close to pain.
“Yes.”
She swallowed.
“They said you changed your mind.”
Thomas stared at her.
“Who said that?”
“The letters.”
“What letters?”
Rosemary looked toward the suitcase.
Thomas followed her eyes.
His jaw tightened.
But before touching the luggage, he pulled off one glove and carefully placed his fingers against her wrist.
“You're freezing.”
“I noticed.”
The weak attempt at humor barely made it past her lips.
Thomas almost smiled.
Almost.
Then urgency returned.
“We need to get you inside.”
Rosemary caught his sleeve.
“No.”
His eyes met hers.
“I need to know.”
“Know what?”
“If I'm trespassing.”
The words seemed to hit him harder than the wind.
“You crossed the country to come here.”
“I crossed the country because we had an agreement.”
“We still do.”
“You stopped writing.”
“I wrote every week.”
Rosemary searched his face.
There was no hesitation.
No embarrassment.
No look of a man inventing an excuse.
Only confusion.
Thomas reached toward the envelope protruding from the suitcase, but stopped.
“May I?”
Rosemary nodded.
He pulled it free.
The paper had been opened and closed more than once.
He studied the handwriting.
“This isn't mine.”
Rosemary's stomach dropped.
“It looks like yours.”
“Someone tried to make it look like mine.”
“You're certain?”
“I've signed enough cattle contracts to know my own hand.”
Thomas turned the envelope over.
His expression hardened.
“Where did you get this?”
“It arrived at my boardinghouse.”
“Who delivered it?”
“The post.”
“Who handed it to you?”
Rosemary tried to remember.
“Mrs. Dobbins.”
“The woman who owned the house?”
“Yes.”
Thomas looked again at the black number.
“What does that mean?” Rosemary asked.
Thomas didn't answer.
“Thomas.”
“I don't know yet.”
“You recognized it.”
He looked at her.
“I recognized where I've seen numbers written like that.”
“Where?”
He hesitated.
“At the Helena freight depot.”
Rosemary's confusion deepened.
Thomas folded the envelope carefully and slipped it into his coat.
“We're getting you inside first.”
“What about my suitcase?”
“I'll come back.”
“I don't want it left out here.”
“Then I'll carry both.”
Before she could object, Thomas slid one arm beneath her knees and another behind her shoulders.
Rosemary stiffened.
“I can walk.”
“No, you can't.”
“I walked from the road.”
“That wasn't walking. That was surviving.”
He lifted her.
Rosemary hated how immediately her body surrendered to the warmth of his coat.
Her head rested against his chest.
She could hear his breathing.
Fast.
Controlled.
Afraid.
Not for himself.
For her.
The realization unsettled her more than anger would have.
For weeks she had imagined meeting Thomas Mercer.
At first, the imagined meeting had been gentle.
Then uncertain.
Then painful.
After the first strange letter arrived, she imagined him apologizing.
After the second, she imagined him avoiding her eyes.
After the third, she imagined arriving in Montana only to discover that Thomas had married someone else.
By the time she boarded the westbound train, she had stopped imagining anything good.
She came because she needed the truth.
Now the truth was carrying her toward a cabin with such force in his stride that snow kicked behind his boots.
Thomas pushed the front door open with his shoulder.
Heat struck Rosemary's face.
She almost cried.
The room was simple.
A table.
A stone fireplace.
Two chairs.
A narrow sofa.
Shelves.
A cast-iron stove.
No feminine touches.
No hidden wife.
No signs another bride had arrived before her.
Thomas placed Rosemary near the fire and immediately threw another log onto it.
“Stay awake.”
“I wasn't planning to sleep.”
“Good.”
He disappeared into the next room.
Rosemary heard drawers opening.
He returned with blankets.
“You'll warm slowly.”
“You sound like you've done this before.”
“Cattle don't complain as much.”
That earned a weak laugh.
Thomas looked relieved to hear it.
He wrapped the blankets around her.
“I'll get your case.”
“Thomas.”
He stopped.
“Did you really wait three months?”
His hand remained on the door latch.
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you think I'd changed my mind?”
“I did.”
The answer surprised her.
He turned.
“About six weeks ago.”
“What happened then?”
“You stopped answering.”
“I was answering.”
“I know that now.”
“But you stayed here.”
“I had work.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
Thomas gave a small breath.
“No.”
He looked directly at her.
“I stayed because I told myself that if you came, I wanted to be here when you arrived.”
Something warm broke through the cold inside her chest.
Thomas went outside before she could reply.
He returned minutes later carrying her suitcase in one hand.
A second object was tucked beneath his arm.
A wooden mail crate.
Rosemary stared.
“What is that?”
“Something I should have looked at sooner.”
He set the suitcase near the fire.
Then the crate.
The wood was stamped with a freight company's mark.
MERCER RANCH.
RETURNED MAIL.
Rosemary pulled the blanket closer.
“Returned?”
Thomas lifted the lid.
Inside were envelopes.
Dozens.
Her breath caught.
He took out the first.
Her handwriting.
Miss Rosemary Caldwell had become familiar with Thomas Mercer long before he ever touched her hand.
She had written his name on envelopes through spring and summer.
She knew the tilt of the letters.
She knew the pressure of her own pen.
These were hers.
All of them.
Thomas had not received them.
Neither of them spoke.
Thomas lifted another.
And another.
Sixteen letters.
Then twenty.
Rosemary's eyes burned.
“I sent every one.”
“I believe you.”
“Why are they here?”
“This crate arrived ten days ago.”
“You didn't open it?”
“It was delivered with winter supplies. I thought it was receipts.”
He looked furious with himself.
Rosemary shook her head.
“You couldn't know.”
Thomas dug deeper.
At the bottom was a folded piece of paper.
Not an envelope.
A freight ledger slip.
Thomas unfolded it.
His face changed.
“What?”
He handed it to her.
Rosemary read the typed line.
MAIL HELD BY REQUEST OF ACCOUNT HOLDER.
Below it was Thomas's name.
THOMAS MERCER.
And beneath that, a signature.
Rosemary looked up.
“Is that yours?”
“No.”
“Then someone impersonated you.”
“Yes.”
“To stop my letters.”
“Yes.”
“And someone wrote fake letters to me.”
“Yes.”
A sudden gust rattled the windows.
Rosemary looked toward the snow outside.
The stagecoach driver leaving her beside an empty road no longer felt careless.
It felt deliberate.
“Thomas.”
“I know.”
“What if the driver was part of it?”
Thomas was already reaching for his coat.
“You're not going anywhere.”
“I wasn't suggesting I come.”
“I mean you're not leaving this house.”
Rosemary almost objected.
Then she saw his expression.
Not commanding.
Protective.
Thomas took the false letter from his pocket and set it beside the freight slip.
Two pieces.
One scheme.
“You said you've seen that number at the Helena depot,” Rosemary said.
Thomas nodded.
“Freight workers mark private holding accounts with numbers.”
“Whose number is forty-seven?”
“I don't know.”
“But you know how to find out.”
“Yes.”
Rosemary studied him.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“In this storm?”
“At first light.”
“You could be killed.”
“So could you have been.”
“That doesn't make the road safer.”
Thomas leaned against the table.
For the first time since finding her, exhaustion showed.
“I've spent three months wondering if I offended you, disappointed you, or frightened you.”
“You didn't.”
“I reread your last letter until the paper tore at the fold.”
Rosemary's voice softened.
“What did it say?”
“That you were afraid.”
She remembered.
“And that I shouldn't mistake your fear for regret.”
Thomas nodded.
“I didn't.”
He looked at the false letters.
“Someone else wanted me to.”
Rosemary wrapped the blankets tighter.
“Why?”
“That is what I'm going to find out.”
Thomas cooked broth while she warmed.
He gave her his bedroom despite her objection.
He slept in the main room beside the fire.
But Rosemary did not sleep.
Too many questions moved behind her closed eyes.
Who intercepted Thomas's letters?
Who forged his name?
Who knew she was traveling?
Who convinced the driver to abandon her?
And why?
Sometime after midnight, Rosemary heard a horse outside.
Not Thomas's horse.
A second horse.
She sat upright.
The room was dark except for firelight under the door.
Then came a knock.
Three slow taps.
Thomas was already awake.
She heard his boots cross the floor.
A man's voice came from outside.
“Mercer.”
Thomas did not open the door.
“Who's there?”
“Got something you need to see.”
Rosemary slipped from the bed and pressed her ear against the wall.
Thomas's voice hardened.
“Name.”
Silence.
Then:
“Ask your bride why a man in Helena paid fifty dollars to make sure she never reached this ranch.”
Thomas unlocked the door.
The stranger was already gone.
But something had been nailed to the porch post.
Thomas pulled it free.
A photograph.
He carried it inside.
Rosemary stepped into the room.
Thomas looked at the picture.
Then at her.
Rosemary's knees nearly gave way.
The photograph showed her boarding the stagecoach in Helena.
Someone had circled her face in black ink.
On the back, one sentence had been written:
SHE WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO SURVIVE THE SNOW.
Thomas turned the card over once more.
A name was written beneath the message.
He read it silently.
His face went white.
Rosemary whispered, “Who is it?”
Thomas lifted his eyes.
Then someone struck the front door from outside.
Once.
Twice.
May you like
The wooden latch cracked.
And on the third blow, the door began to open.
