And when she lifted her head, Carrick’s practiced greeting died in his mouth.
Her face was streaked with tears. Not a dignified shine at the corners of the eyes, but the evidence of real crying, the kind that leaves the skin blotched and raw. Her blue eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, and she clutched a small valise to her chest as if it were the only thing that kept her upright. Even beneath her heavy cloak, her shoulders shook.
Carrick removed his hat automatically, the gesture feeling both too polite and not nearly enough.
“Miss Foster,” he said, because it was the only safe thing to say.
She nodded once. Her lips pressed together hard, as if her mouth were a door she was holding shut to keep something worse from spilling out.
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