Instead, he said the simplest truth, the one that mattered most. “I thought I’d hurt her,” he admitted. “The ranch isn’t… easy. It’s not Chicago. It’s not a parlor and a library and a job at a nice, orderly desk. It’s mud and blood and weather and broken things that need fixing.”
Ma’s mouth pressed thin. “You think she can’t choose?”
Braxton’s jaw tightened. “I think she should’ve been able to. I took that from her.”
Ma nodded, slowly, as if marking each word. “Yes. You did.”
The silence that followed was not cruel. It was honest. Braxton stared at the ring box again. “I meant to go back,” he said. “I kept thinking… tomorrow. The next day. Once I’ve got my head right. And the whole time, I knew I was stalling.”
Ma’s gaze softened. “Stalling is still a choice, son.”
He flinched at that, because it was true.
Braxton excused himself to get unpacked and cleaned up. They were having an early dinner, and had invited the ranch hands to come to the house to enjoy cookies, hot cider, and sing Christmas carols afterwards. Something he usually enjoyed. But not today. Regret was starting to settle in his gut, and he wasn’t sure what to do about it.
When dinner did come, he picked at his food. Ma watched him, as did Ophelia. His brother, Marcus, kept asking questions about Chicago, the cattle sale, and of course The Sister’s Mail-Order Bride Company.
A sound cut through his brother’s chatter. Someone bounding onto the front porch. A knock on the door came next, heavy as a hammer.
Everyone looked up.
Ma stood. “Are the hands here already? Land sakes, can’t a body finish eating?” She left the table and crossed the room to the hall. Braxton followed her.
When Ma opened the door, cold air spilled in, along with a man bundled in a scarf, snow crusting his shoulders. It was one of the men from town who ran errands when the roads were bad or when someone needed the doctor fetched back to town. But the doctor was here…
“Mr. Jones, Mrs. Jones,” the rider said, tipping his hat. “Sorry to trouble you.”
“What is it?” Ma asked.
The rider glanced past her at Braxton. “I’ve got a message from town,” he said. “Mr. Jones, your mail-order bride arrived on the evening train. She’s waiting at the boardinghouse.”
Braxton didn’t move. For one heartbeat he wondered if the man spoke in another language, because his mind refused to catch hold of them. “Say that again?”
The rider blinked. “Your mail-order bride,” he repeated, slower, as if Braxton was a dim-wit. “She arrived on the afternoon train. Thought you’d want to know. Folks figured… you’d come get her. Um, they’re starting to talk. A lot.”
Ma turned her head toward him. “Mail-order bride, you say?”
Braxton’s heart thudded once, hard enough to hurt. “My… bride?” His voice cracked.
The rider shifted his weight. “She’s at the boardinghouse. Name’s Phoebe.”
Braxton’s breath left him in one stunned rush.
Phoebe!
Braxton’s mind tried to snatch at the simplest explanation: some other Phoebe, some coincidence, some cruel mistake. But his chest wouldn’t allow it. Hope rose fast, dangerous as fire catching dry wood.
Ma’s voice cut through, steady. “Saddle up,” she said.
“I…” He sidestepped to the coat rack by the door. His hands shook enough that his fingers fumbled as he tried to put it on.
His mother stepped close. “Braxton.” Her gaze held his. “If this is the Lord handing you back what you threw away, you do not stand here and argue about whether you deserve it. You go.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He was out before he even put on his hat.
The ride into town felt like flying and drowning at once. Snow whipped his face. His horse’s breath puffed white in the growing dark. The road was slick, but he pushed anyway, because his heart was pounding too hard to allow caution.
By the time the town’s lamplight appeared, Braxton’s stomach was knotted so tight he thought he might be sick.
