"Mr. Hail."
"Miss Hart."
"Coffee?"
"No."
"Food?"
"No."
She glanced over his shoulder. Half the room appeared to have developed an intense interest in nothing. Matthew set his hat on a chair. Then he extended his hand.
"Rachel Hart, would you give me this dance?"
The memory of the last three months seemed to gather at once. Crow Creek. The foaling stall. The book.
High Mesa. The black stallion lowering its head into Matthew's hand. Daniel. Sunday mornings.
Her own stupid habit of listening for hoofbeats. Rachel looked at his palm, then at his face. "You're asking me."
"I am."
"You know people are staring."
Matthew glanced briefly around the hall. "They've been looking past you long enough."
The words landed quietly. No performance. No raised voice. Only him.
Rachel felt heat climb her neck. She could feel Lillian somewhere behind him. George too. Every old instinct told her to laugh it off.
To tell Matthew he had made a mistake. To give the moment back to the room before the room could take it from her. Matthew did not move his hand closer. He did not ask again.
He waited. Rachel placed her hand in his. His fingers closed carefully around hers. The fiddle player looked at the guitarist.
The guitarist shrugged. Then the waltz began. Matthew led her onto the floor. Rachel had danced before.
Not often. Usually with older married men being polite, or boys whose mothers had sent them across the room. She had learned to keep her steps small. To apologize when her skirt brushed someone.
To hold herself stiff enough that no one could accuse her of taking liberties. Matthew's hand settled at her back. Not low. Not possessive.
Steady. Rachel looked over his shoulder. Three women near the wall were whispering. A man beside the stove had stopped halfway through lifting his cup.
Lillian stood beside George.
"Rachel."
Matthew's voice. She looked at him.
"You're watching everybody except me."
"I know."
"Why?"
She almost laughed. "Because everybody is watching us."
"They'll survive."
Her mouth moved despite herself. The first turn was awkward. Matthew was too tall. Rachel nearly stepped on his boot.
"Sorry."
"You missed."
"Barely."
"Still counts."
The second turn went better. Then the third. She began to hear the music instead of the whispers.
Matthew did not try to move faster than she could follow. When her foot caught the hem of her dress, he slowed without calling attention to it. When somebody brushed too close behind her, his hand shifted just enough to steady her. No tightening.
No claim. Only presence. Rachel looked up. Matthew was already looking at her.
The room seemed less important then. Not gone. Just farther away. She stopped holding herself so rigid.
Her shoulders lowered. One hand rested against Matthew's sleeve. The music carried them past the supper table. Past Helen Ward, who was smiling into a coffee cup.