When the coach finally creaked to a stop at the edge of the valley, the air snapped cold though winter hadn’t arrived yet. Abby stepped down onto hard-packed earth, boots sinking just enough to remind her that this land didn’t care about softness. A split-rail fence marked the start of a narrow trail that climbed into the trees, and leaning there, as still as a post, stood Jonah Granger.
The stories hadn’t exaggerated him. He was massive, shoulders stacked with muscle from years of chopping and hauling, beard untrimmed and dark, eyes a pale gray that looked like river ice. He didn’t smile. He didn’t lift a hand in greeting. He just studied her the way a man studies weather, trying to decide what kind of storm it will become.
Most women would have shrunk under that stare, feeling suddenly smaller than they’d ever felt. Abby didn’t shrink. She tightened her grip on her carpetbag, squared her shoulders, and walked forward until she was close enough to smell woodsmoke on him. Jonah didn’t move. He didn’t offer to help with her bag. Silence sat between them like a third person, smug and heavy.
Abby glanced back at Hank, who was already wearing the look of a man planning a return trip. Then Abby faced Jonah again and said, “Well? You going to help me with my bag, or are we starting this marriage with me carrying all the weight?” Hank choked on his own spit, half expecting Jonah to explode. Jonah only blinked once, slow, as if Abby had spoken in a language he hadn’t heard in years.
Then he reached out, took the carpetbag as though it weighed nothing at all, and turned toward the trail without a word. No welcome. No vow. Just movement. Abby followed, boots crunching on gravel, breath growing heavier as the path narrowed and climbed. Behind them, Hank shook his head and muttered, “Poor woman,” but Abby didn’t hear. And even if she had, she’d have treated it like rain: something you feel, something you endure, not something that gets to decide your direction.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
