“You’re very kind, sir.” She took the handkerchief with a trembling hand. “I… I fear I may have made a terrible mistake.”
Carrick felt something tighten in his stomach, not anger, not exactly, but the old reflex that came from bad news delivered in a soft voice.
He’d heard stories. Men out here traded them the way they traded weather predictions. A mail-order bride steps off the coach, takes one look at her prospective husband, and vanishes on the next eastbound ride with her pride and his money both in her pocket.
He was not a vain man. He knew what he was: weathered, sun-browned, scarred at the knuckles, a face carved by wind and work. But his mother had always said he was handsome in a straightforward way. He’d kept himself clean for this day. He’d even trimmed his beard like a fool.
He swallowed.
