The stage a coach rattled to a stop in front of the Willow Creek station, kicking up dust that shimmerred gold in the fading September sunlight of 1873. Carrick Montgomery stood tall on the wooden platform, his weathered Stson pulled low against the glare as he scanned the arriving coach. His hand nervously checked his pocket watch for the fourth time, then brushed at his freshly trimmed beard. After 5 years of solitary ranching in the Wyoming territory, today he'd meet the woman who had agreed to be his wife. The driver hopped down, stretching his back before moving to open the door.
"Tough journey from Cheyenne," he muttered to Carrick. "Your mail order brides aboard. Ain't said a word the whole trip." Carrick nodded, his throat suddenly dry. The correspondence with Miss Amelia Foster had been brief, but promising a 22-year-old school teacher from Boston seeking a fresh start out west.
Her letters had been well written, thoughtful, suggesting a sensible woman who understood what marrying a rancher might entail. The coach door swung open. A small gloved hand appeared, followed by the hem of a dusty blue traveling dress. The woman who emerged stood frozen for a moment, her face obscured by a modest bonnet. When she finally looked up, Carrick's practiced greeting died in his throat.
Her face was stre with tears, her blue eyes red, rimmed, and swollen. She clutched a small vise to her chest like a shield, her shoulders trembling visibly even beneath her heavy traveling cloak. Miss Foster. Carrick stepped forward, removing his hat. She nodded once, her lips pressed together as though fighting to maintain composure.
I'm Carrick Montgomery. He offered his hand, which she took with obvious reluctance. Welcome to Willow Creek. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. She quickly wiped them away with a handkerchief already damp from previous use.
I apologize, Mr. from Montgomery," she whispered, her voice breaking. "This is not how I intended our first meeting to be." Around them, the station bustled with activity as passengers disembarked and luggage was unloaded. A few curious onlookers had paused to watch the awkward scene unfold. Carrick guided her gently away from prying eyes toward the small bench at the end of the platform.
Once seated, he 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 slightly, and she accepted his handkerchief with a trembling hand. "You're very kind, sir." I I fear I may have made a terrible mistake. Carrick felt his stomach tighten. He'd heard tales of mail order brides taking one look at their prospective husbands and fleeing on the next eastbound coach.
He wasn't a vain man, but he knew his appearance was decent enough, tall and broad shouldered at 31, with a face that while weathered by sun and wind, his mother had always called handsome. "Is it me?" he asked directly. If I'm not what you expected, no. She interrupted, looking genuinely surprised. No, Mr. Montgomery.
It's not you. It's She glanced around nervously. May we speak somewhere more private? Carrick nodded, retrieving her trunk from the stage. A coach driver and carrying it to his wagon.