The train station smelled of cold smoke and disappointment. Margaret clutched her worn carpet bag against her chest, standing perfectly still amid the chaos of arriving and departing passengers, trying to make herself invisible. Through the haze, she watched Mister Thornton's broadback disappear into a waiting carriage, his new wife, the real Miss Peterson from Boston, chattering excitedly beside him. Margaret had traveled three weeks from Philadelphia to this dusty Wyoming town, answering an advertisement for a mail, order bride. She'd sold everything she owned, said goodbye to the only friend she had in the world, and spent her last dollars on the train ticket.
Mr. Thornton had been expecting a Miss Catherine Peterson, but somewhere between the correspondence and the journey, wires had crossed. Margaret Ellis, a poor seamstress with no family and no prospects, had answered the same advertisement, and through some cruel twist of fate, both women had been summoned. When Mr. Thornton saw two women step off the train, his confusion had been immediate. Margaret would never forget the way his face changed when he compared them. Miss Peterson with her fine traveling suit and matching hat, her smooth hands and confident smile.
Margaret in her threadbear dress that she'd mended so many times the fabric was more patch than original cloth. Her were cruffed hands and her uncertain posture. There's been a terrible mistake. Mr. Thornton had said barely looking at Margaret. I can only marry one woman, and Miss Peterson here has the references I require.
Just like that, Margaret's last hope crumbled. She'd stood frozen as the happy couple drove away, leaving her stranded 1,500 m from anything resembling home, with $3 to her name and nowhere to go. The station began to empty as the afternoon stretched long. The ticket master had already eyed her suspiciously twice, probably wondering if she meant to sleep on the bench. Margaret knew she should move, should find the boarding house and see if they'd let her work for a room, but her legs felt like lead.
Shame burned in her chest. She was 20, 6 years old, alone in the world, and apparently not even good enough for a man desperate enough to advertise for a wife. Ma'am, excuse me, ma'am. The voice was low and hesitant with a western draw that softened the consonants. Margaret looked up to find a man standing a respectful distance away, hat in his hands.
He was tall and lean with sun, weathered skin, and dark hair that needed cutting. His clothes were clean, but well, worn the clothes of a working man. His face was kind, she thought. Tired, but kind. I don't mean to intrude, he said, shifting his weight awkwardly.
But I couldn't help noticing what happened earlier with Thornton. Margaret's cheeks burned. You saw that? Half the town saw it. He said gently, "Thorn's not known for his discretion.
I'm real sorry for how he treated you. That wasn't right." She nodded stiffly, not trusting herself to speak. Kindness, she'd learned, could undo you faster than cruelty. The man seemed to wrestle with something, turning his hat brim in his hands. Finally, he took a breath.
My name's James Walker. I have a ranch about 8 mi north of here. It's not much, but it's honest work and honest land. He paused, meeting her eyes. I have twin daughters.