A wife meant stability. Stability meant less coin leaving his pocket. And if she could keep her head down and do as told, well, there’d be no trouble between them.
Thomas struck a match, lit a cigar, and let the smoke curl into the wide Texas sky. If Miss Violet Carter was willing to trade Boston’s brick streets for this, she’d be exactly what he needed. Whether she realized it or not.
Chapter Three: The Second Letter
The early spring rain had not let up for three days, turning Boston’s cobblestone streets slick and silver. Violet sat at her desk with the oil lamp turned low, the yellow glow pooling across the letter she had just finished reading. Thomas McBride’s words lay there, steady and confident, painting an image so vivid she could almost feel the warmth of a Texas sun against her face.
She read it again, tracing the lines with her eyes. A home with a porch for sitting in the evenings. Grazing cattle under wide skies. A river close enough for fishing.
It sounded like something from a storybook—a far cry from the cramped boardinghouse room with its view of laundry lines strung between brick walls.
Yet a small unease stirred beneath the surface of her thoughts.
He had written of mild winters, rich soil, and neighborly folk, but not a word about himself beyond his fairness and keeping to his word. No mention of family, no glimpse of the man behind the ranch.
Her fingers found the familiar spot behind her ear, pressing against the small birthmark. She had done it so often in moments of uncertainty that it had become a reflex.
Why would a man so far away seek a wife from a city he’s never even seen?
The question lingered.
She set the letter aside and crossed to the window. The city beyond the glass was blurred by rain, the streetlamps casting hazy halos of light on the wet stones. A carriage rattled past, its wheels throwing up fans of water that caught the lamplight.
She imagined herself stepping from such a carriage, not onto Boston’s crowded sidewalks, but onto a dusty Texas road. And at the end of it: Thomas McBride, tall in the saddle, hat brim low against the sun. The thought was half-romantic, half-unsettling.
?
In the common dining room that evening, Mrs. Kellam noticed the folded paper in Violet’s hand. “Another letter from Texas?” she asked, with the half-smile of someone who already knew the answer.
“Yes,” Violet said, taking her place at the long table. “He’s … described his home. It sounds very different from here.”
Mrs. Kellam passed her the basket of biscuits. “Different can be a blessing, Miss Carter, but mind it’s not so different you can’t live with it.”
Violet managed a smile, but the older woman’s words followed her upstairs.
?
By lamplight, she dipped her pen into the ink and began her reply.
Mr. McBride,
I thank you for your prompt and detailed letter. The place you describe sounds most agreeable, and I can well imagine the beauty of the country from your words. I confess, I have never traveled so far, but your account makes me wish to see it with my own eyes.
I will be plain—such a journey would mean leaving all I have ever known, and I would not undertake it without some certainty of my place there. I should like to know more of your daily life, and of yourself, so I might picture the work and hours that fill your days. I do not fear work, sir, but I do value knowing what is expected of me.
If you are still of the mind to extend your invitation after such an understanding, then I will give your offer the most serious consideration.
Respectfully,
Violet Carter
When she sanded the ink and sealed the envelope, she felt a faint tightening in her chest. She was not agreeing—not yet—but with each letter, she was binding herself more closely to the idea.
She placed the letter on the small table by her door, ready for the morning post. Then she extinguished the lamp and lay in the dark, listening to the rain on the glass, wondering what kind of man would meet her at the end of such a long road.
And why she both feared and wanted to find out.
Chapter Four: Stretching the Truth
