The station bustled around them. Men laughed. A woman scolded a child. A trunk thumped onto the platform. And yet a small hush hovered close, created by curious glances and the instinct people had to stare at someone’s grief like it was a rare animal.
Carrick did not like that.
He guided her, gently but firmly, away from the prying eyes toward a bench at the far end of the platform, where a stack of empty crates formed a kind of accidental wall. Once she sat, shoulders hunched as though she could fold herself into something smaller, Carrick reached into his pocket and offered her a clean handkerchief.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly. “Whatever’s troubling you, Miss Foster… I reckon you’ve had a long journey to think on it. No need to force a smile on my account.”
Her eyes widened, and for a moment, the tears paused as if surprised by the words.
