Chapter 1 - The Woman Nobody Had Ordered
Constance Bradley grabbed the trunk handle and shouted:
“Take me back!”
Silas Mercer stepped off the porch and caught the leather strap before the wagon driver could move.
A folded marriage advertisement was tied beneath the handle.
Across the bottom, someone had written three words:
“Give him this.”
Silas suddenly understood she had been sent to him on purpose.
Constance did not.
Not yet.
She stood in ankle-deep snow with one gloved hand wrapped around the handle of her second trunk and the other clenched against her skirt.
The wagon driver, Earl Dobbins, sat hunched on the bench beneath a wool blanket, grinning as though he had just delivered a barrel of whiskey instead of a woman.
Three townspeople had made the trip with him.
Not because they needed to.
Because they wanted to watch.
Constance had noticed that part only after Silas opened the cabin door.
She had spent the entire journey telling herself not to read too much into their laughter.
Now she understood every bit of it.
Silas Mercer had the broad shoulders of a man who split his own firewood and carried his own winters. His dark hair curled slightly beneath the brim of an old felt hat, and a short beard shadowed a face that seemed built for silence.
He looked at her trunks.
Then at Constance.
Then at Earl.
“I didn’t send for a bride.”
There it was.
Six words.
They landed harder than a slap.
Constance felt the blood leave her face.
Earl snorted.
One of the men behind the wagon covered his mouth badly.
Constance turned.
“What did you say?”
Silas’s expression changed immediately.
Not softer exactly.
More alert.
“I said I didn’t—”
“I heard you.”
The cold made her lips tremble, but humiliation did the real damage.
For six weeks she had believed a man named Silas Mercer had answered her advertisement.
She had read his supposed letters beneath the gaslight in her aunt’s boardinghouse in St. Louis.
He had written that he lived alone.
That he wanted a practical wife.
That beauty did not matter to him.
That companionship did.
He had written that Montana winters were brutal, but a good house could become warm with the right person inside it.
Constance had read that line so many times she knew every curve of the handwriting.
A good house could become warm with the right person inside it.
She had believed him.
She had sold almost everything she owned.
She had boarded a train west.
Then another.
Then a stagecoach.
Then this miserable wagon.
And Silas Mercer had never written a word.
Earl chuckled behind her.
“Now, Connie, don’t get sour.”
She faced him.
No one had called her Connie since her father died.
“You knew.”
Earl’s grin widened.
One of the other men said, “Whole town knew.”
A woman sitting beside the wagon driver elbowed him, but she was smiling too.
Constance looked from one face to another.
Her stomach turned.
“What exactly did the whole town know?”
Earl rubbed his jaw.
“Well…”
Silas stepped down from the porch.
“Answer her.”
The laughter stopped.
Something in his voice changed the air.
Earl looked annoyed.
“It was only some fun, Mercer.”
“What was?”
“Folks heard you saying last spring you’d rather marry a grizzly than one of those skinny society girls from Helena.”
Silas stared at him.
“I said I’d rather marry a grizzly than Mary Tolland.”
“Same thing.”
One of the men laughed.
Silas did not.
Earl continued.
“Then Mrs. Pike saw that matrimonial advertisement in the paper. Woman from Missouri looking for a husband. Said she was strong, knew how to cook, sew, keep accounts.”
He glanced at Constance.
His eyes traveled down her body.
“And, well…”
Constance went cold in a way the mountain air could not explain.
“And what?”
Earl scratched his cheek.
“Folks thought she looked like she could survive winter.”
The woman near him laughed before catching herself.
Constance heard it.
Everyone did.
Silas’s jaw hardened.
Earl raised both hands.
“Come on. Nobody meant harm.”
Constance looked at the folded advertisement tied to her trunk.
Silas untied it.
On the reverse side was the letter she had received.
The supposed first letter from him.
He read three lines.
Then stopped.
“That’s not my handwriting.”
Constance almost wished he had laughed.
It would have hurt less than the pity she thought she saw in his eyes.
She yanked the paper from him.
“I can see that now.”
She reached for her trunk.
Silas held the handle.
“Where are you going?”
“Down.”
“The mountain?”
“Yes.”
“It’s nine miles.”
“I walked farther than that as a girl.”
“Not through fresh snow.”
“I’ll manage.”
Earl clicked his tongue.
“Don’t be foolish. We’ll take you back when we come up next week.”
Constance turned slowly.
“Next week?”
“Road’s bad. We’re heading north first.”
“You brought me here knowing he never sent for me, and now you’re leaving me?”
Earl’s amusement faded.
“Well, Mercer’s got room.”
Silas took one step toward the wagon.
Earl stopped smiling completely.
“No.”
Silas’s voice was quiet.
That made it worse.
“You brought a woman into the mountains under false pretenses because you thought her humiliation would entertain you.”
“Now, Mercer—”
“You’re going to take her back.”
Earl shook his head.
“Can’t.”
“You can.”
“Bridge at Widow’s Creek is half washed out. We barely crossed coming up. Snow keeps falling, we might not make it back over.”
Constance stared at the wagon.
For the first time, fear cut through her embarrassment.
Silas glanced toward the western ridge.
The clouds were thickening.
He knew the weather better than Earl did.
Constance could tell from his face.
“How long?” she asked.
Silas did not lie to her.
“Storm comes hard? Three days. Maybe more.”
Silence.
Constance looked toward the road disappearing between the pines.
Then toward the cabin.
Then toward the people who had brought her there to be laughed at.
She would rather freeze than ask Silas Mercer to shelter her.
She picked up the smaller trunk.
“I’ll find another place.”
“There isn’t one,” Silas said.
“I passed cabins.”
“Abandoned logging sheds.”
“Then I’ll use one.”
“No stove in most of them.”
“I know how to make a fire.”
“Not if the chimney’s blocked.”
“I am not staying where I wasn’t invited.”
That did something to him.
His face changed.
Not pity.
Respect, perhaps.
Silas took the trunk from her hand.
Constance pulled back.
“Give me that.”
“No.”
“It’s mine.”
“I know.”
“Then release it.”
He lifted it easily.
“You weren’t invited here.”
Her throat tightened.
“Thank you for reminding me.”
“I’m not finished.”
Silas glanced at Earl.
“You weren’t invited. But you were brought here through no choice of your own. That makes you my guest until the road clears.”
Earl whistled.
“Guest?”
Silas ignored him.
Constance folded her arms.
“I don’t need charity.”
“Good. I don’t offer it.”
He carried the trunk toward the porch.
Constance stared at his back.
“What do you call this?”
“Common decency.”
Earl laughed again.
Silas stopped.
He set the trunk down.
Then he walked back to the wagon.
He reached into the side pocket, pulled free a leather mail pouch, and dumped its contents onto the seat.
Letters spilled everywhere.
Earl cursed.
Silas picked through them.
Then he found one.
Constance recognized the handwriting before he opened it.
The same handwriting from every letter she thought Silas had written.
Silas unfolded the page.
His expression became strange.
“What is it?” she asked.
He read.
Then looked at Earl.
“Who wrote these?”
Earl’s face changed.
For the first time all afternoon, the man seemed genuinely afraid.
“No idea.”
Silas held up the letter.
“You carried it.”
“Town post. Could’ve come from anyone.”
Constance stepped closer.
“Let me see.”
Silas hesitated.
Then handed her the paper.
It was not addressed to her.
It was addressed to Earl.
Earl—
She’ll arrive on the seventeenth.
Make sure Mercer sees her before sundown.
Do not tell Bradley what happened to the first woman.
Constance read the final line twice.
Then a third time.
Her fingers went numb.
“The first woman?”
Nobody spoke.
Silas looked at Earl.
“What first woman?”
Earl reached for the reins.
Silas grabbed the bridle.
The horse tossed its head.
“Answer me.”
Earl’s face had gone gray.
“Move, Mercer.”
“Who was she?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Constance heard a faint crack.
Not thunder.
Wood.
Somewhere behind the cabin.
Silas heard it too.
His head turned sharply.
A second sound followed.
A door slamming.
Silas released the horse and looked toward the back of his property.
“No one should be up there.”
Constance followed his gaze.
Beyond the woodshed stood a smaller structure half hidden beneath the pines.
Its door moved once in the wind.
Then stopped.
Earl grabbed the reins.
“Time to go.”
Silas turned.
“Wait.”
But Earl whipped the horses.
The wagon lurched.
Constance stumbled aside as the wheels dug through the snow.
“Earl!”
He did not look back.
Within seconds, the wagon disappeared between the trees.
Constance stood in stunned silence.
Silas watched the road until the sound of hooves faded.
Then he looked again at the outbuilding.
“What is that place?” Constance asked.
“Old trapping shed.”
“Do you use it?”
“No.”
“When did you last open it?”
“October.”
The door creaked.
Once.
Slowly.
Constance looked at Silas.
Silas moved toward the porch and took down a rifle.
“Stay inside.”
Constance almost laughed.
“You expect me to obey you now?”
“I expect you to avoid getting shot.”
“That is more persuasive.”
He gave her one hard look, then crossed the snow.
Constance watched from the porch.
Silas reached the trapping shed.
The door was not locked.
He touched the handle.
Stopped.
Something lay in the snow beneath the threshold.
A strip of blue cloth.
He picked it up.
Constance saw all the blood drain from his face.
“What is it?”
Silas did not answer.
He opened the door.
Darkness waited inside.
Then a woman’s voice whispered from somewhere beyond him.
“Mr. Mercer?”
Silas froze.
Constance stepped off the porch.
The voice came again.
Weak.
Terrified.
“Please don’t let them take me back.”
Silas raised the lantern.
A woman was sitting against the far wall.
May you like
And around her neck hung a brass tag engraved with one name.
CONSTANCE BRADLEY.
