The morning sun over the river pushed its way through a lifting veil of mist as Thomas McBride finished mending a length of fence. The air was mild and damp, carrying the scent of fresh grass, and a film of sweat beaded along his brow beneath the hat brim. He straightened at the sound of hoof beats on the soft, rain-packed road and raised a hand to shade his eyes.
It was the post rider again, his horse’s hooves thudding against the softened road, damp earth scattering behind his tail. The man tossed a small package of mail down without breaking stride.
Thomas picked it up, found the letter he’d been awaiting, tore it open with the edge of a calloused thumb, and scanned the neat handwriting.
Violet Carter wanted to know more abouthim.
He snorted under his breath. She probably wanted tales of warm fires and Sunday socials, not the reality of hauling water from a half-dry creek, or counting every nickel until the next cattle sale. She didn’t need to hear about the poker games in town that had gone his way some nights, and other nights … not so much. Or that his “sound-built” house could barely hold its own against the wind.
No. If she was halfway curious now, he’d feed that curiosity until she was ready to pack her trunk.
Inside, the air was stale and faintly sour from last night’s whiskey. Thomas pushed open the warped shutters, letting in a rush of sunlight. The single-room cabin was as it had been for years: the bed shoved against the far wall, a rough table with one good chair and one that sagged, shelves holding more empty bottles than books.
But on paper, he could make it into anything he wanted.
He sat, took up the pen, and began.
Miss Carter,
Your letter reached me this morning, and I thank you for your honest questions. You are wise to want to know the truth of things before making so great a change.
My days here begin with the sun. I see to the horses first—they are fine animals, strong and good-tempered—and then I ride the fences or check the cattle. The herd is small enough that I know each beast by sight, but large enough to keep me busy. Afternoons might be spent repairing what the weather has worn, or tending to the small garden I keep. In the evenings, I often take my supper on the porch and watch the light fade over the hills. There is a peace here that I reckon is rare in this world.
I have a few neighbors, honest folk, though the land between us is wide. The town is a half day’s ride and offers what one needs, though I prefer the quiet of the ranch. I am a man who works hard, speaks plain, and means to keep his home in order. I believe in fairness and loyalty, and I give both in kind to those who stand beside me.
If you were here, Miss Carter, you would find no lack of useful work or clean air to breathe. And you would have my word that your welfare would be my concern.
If this still sounds agreeable to you, I will send for your passage at once.
Respectfully,
Thomas McBride
Thomas sat back, reading the letter once more. Every line had a little truth to it, though each truth had been stretched and polished until it hardly resembled the life he actually lived.
Horses? He had two—one good, one half-lame. Garden? A patch of stubborn weeds behind the cabin that might give him tomatoes if the rain came just right. Neighbors? Sure, but “honest folk” was a generous description when more than one of them owed him money.
As for “concern for her welfare,” well … if she worked hard, kept the place tidy, and didn’t nag, she’d have a roof over her head. That was more than most women got in these parts.
He folded the paper, sealed it, and set it on the table. The next time the rider passed, it would begin its long journey to Boston.
By the time Violet Carter read it, she’d be picturing sunsets and wildflower fields instead of dust storms and fence posts. And that was exactly how Thomas meant it.
Chapter Five: Decision Time
A damp May fog clung to the narrow street as Violet returned from the Milliner’s, her cheeks touched with mist and her cloak hem darkened by the wet cobblestones. The post was waiting on the hall table, stacked neatly by Mrs. Kellam for the tenants to collect. Among the envelopes lay one in the same bold, slanted hand she now recognized at once.
She took it upstairs before removing her cloak, her fingers tingling—not from the cold, but from something more unsettled.
The oil lamp hissed faintly as she lit it, showing the letter beneath its warm glow. She broke the seal, unfolded the thick paper, and read.
Thomas McBride had answered exactly what she had asked: the shape of his days, the land, the work, the quiet evenings. She pictured the horses, strong and sure-footed under a wide sky. She imagined the herd of cattle moving across sunlit grass. A porch where the air smelled of earth and not of coal smoke.
And, though his words were plain, there was a steadiness in them—a man who began each day with purpose, who knew what needed doing and did it without fuss.
For a moment, she allowed herself to believe the picture exactly as he painted it.
But the doubts returned, small as pinpricks yet sharp enough to notice. His tone was courteous, even warm in places, but there was a formality to it. No jest, no fondness, no glimpse of who he was beyond his work and his land.
