Stage is late. "I will wait," Eli said. His voice was a low rumble, rusty from disuse. He stood under the overhang, arms crossed tight against his chest. He watched the rain begin.
It did not start gently. It arrived as a curtain of ice cold needles driving sideways, turning the dusty street into a slick of brown grease. When the stage coach finally lunged out of the gloom, the horses were frothing, their heads tossed back against the biting sleet. The driver cursed, hauling on the rains, the brake lever screeching like a dying hawk. The coach rocked to a halt, mud splattering the boardwalk.
The door swung open. A salesman in a plaid suit tumbled out, holding a satchel over his head, running for the hotel. Then a pause. A boot appeared. Small worn leather, cracked at the heel.
Clara Vale stepped down into the mud. She did not run for cover. She stood by the wheel for a moment, steadying herself. She wore a dress of dark gray wool that had seen better years, the hem heavy with travel dust, and now drinking up the rain. A shawl was wrapped tight around her shoulders.
She looked up, scanning the street, not with the wide eyes of a lost girl, but with the sharp, darting gaze of a hawk searching for a snake. She was thin. That was Eli's first thought. She looked like something the wind had whittleled down to the bone. Her hair was tucked under a severe bonnet, but a few strands of dark copper had escaped, plastered to her cheek by the rain.
Eli forced his feet to move. He stepped off the boardwalk, the mud sucking at his boots. He took off his hat, ignoring the freezing rain that instantly soaked his hair. "Miss Vale? " he asked. He hated how his voice cracked.
She turned, her eyes were green, the color of moss in a deep canyon, and they held no warmth. They measured him. She looked at his hands, checking for fists. She looked at his belt, checking for a gun. She looked at his mouth, checking for a sneer.
"Mister Concincaid," she said. Her voice was low, raspy, as if she had not spoken in days. "I am Clara," he nodded, unable to meet her gaze for more than a second. He gestured vaguely toward his wagon, parked further down the line. "I have the buckboard.
We should go. The creek rises fast. " She did not move immediately. She looked past him toward the mercantile where two women stood under the awning. They were church women, respectable women, their skirts gathered up to avoid the splash. They were staring at Clara.
That is her, one of them whispered loud enough to cut through the rain. "The one from the border, references from a saloon keeper. Can you imagine? " "Border trash," the other murmured, her nose wrinkling as if she smelled sour milk. No respectable woman lists a place like that. He must be desperate.
Eli flinched. The words hit him harder than a physical blow. He waited for Clara to cry, to shout, to crumble. She did none of those things. Clara Vale merely tightened her grip on her small, battered.
Her expression did not change. She had a stillness about her, a practiced invisibility that Eli recognized because he carried it too. She turned her back on the women and looked at Eli. I am ready, she said. He took her bag.