James stepped forward before he could second-guess himself. “Excuse me, miss. I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m headed to Walnut Springs myself—could give you a ride for nothing. All the way there.”
Rose turned, and when those green eyes met his, he braced himself for recognition. Up close, she was even more striking—those familiar freckles still dusted her nose, though fainter now, and her skin had the pale quality of someone who spent her days indoors. But it was her expression that caught him off guard. Wariness flickered across her features, quick as a bird taking flight.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr…?”
“James.”
She showed no sign of knowing him, not even after hearing his name. No warmth chased away that careful distance in her voice. She simply looked at him with polite hesitation, as though he were any stranger offering assistance.
The grizzled man shrugged and spat into a nearby spittoon. “Suit yourself, miss. Makes no difference to me.”
Rose hesitated, her gloved hands fidgeting with the straps of her traveling bag. “I don’t wish to impose?—”
“No imposition. I’ve got a comfortable wagon that won’t be overloaded, and the weather looks fair.” James kept his tone easy, though his heart beat fast enough to power a mill wheel. “Safer than traveling with freight wagons, I’d wager.”
Still she hesitated, and something like calculation entered her eyes. Like she was weighing the risk of accepting help from a stranger against the alternatives Butte had to offer.
Finally, she nodded, though her smile remained cautious. “Very well. Thank you, Mr. James.”
He wanted to correct her—to tell her his full name, to see if that might stir a memory—but something held him back. Perhaps it was the careful way she braced herself, like she’d learned not to trust too quickly. Or perhaps not trust at all. What had happened to her these past eleven years?
“My wagon’s just outside.” He nodded toward the door. “We can load your things and head out.”
“This is all I have.” She lifted her carpet bag.
He kept from raising his brows and motioned for her to precede him to the exit.
They made their way outside, where his wagon waited between two freight haulers. He cupped her elbow to help her up onto the bench seat, and even through the fabric of her traveling dress, she was so delicate—all bird bones and careful grace.
Once they were settled and he guided the team through the crowded streets, she spoke. “I’m Rose. Rose Prescott.”
At least she still used her real name. That had to mean something. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Prescott.”
He guided the horses around a particularly deep rut, stealing glances at her profile. The years had refined her features, but he could still see traces of the girl who used to race him through the meadows behind the ranch house. The stubborn set of her chin when she was determined about something. The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when she was thinking.
“Are you from Walnut Springs?” She gripped the handles of her bag like it might slide out of the wagon.
“Near there. My family has a ranch in the mountains.” He kept his voice casual, though every word felt loaded with significance. “What brings you there, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Employment.” The single word carried a finality that discouraged further questions. She really must not have even an inkling of who he was.
Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. She’d not expect her new employer to pick her up in Butte. And she still didn’t know the Balfour family had placed the advertisement. So she wouldn’t be looking for her old friend.
Yet still… He’d have known Rose anywhere. Right? Maybe he’d changed more than she had.
They rode in silence for a while as the buildings of Butte City gave way to rolling hills dotted with scrub pine. The road wound upward, and he gave the animals enough rein to set their own pace on the steady climb. Rose sat straight-backed beside him, her traveling bag clutched in her lap like armor.
The horses settled into a steady rhythm, and finally she seemed to relax a little, though she still held herself with that careful reserve.
He stole an occasional glance at her—those same delicate fingers that used to help Mrs. Wang knead bread dough, now gloved in worn leather that had seen better days. Everything about her spoke of genteel poverty, of someone who’d learned to make do with less while maintaining her dignity.
Her eyes softened when they passed a meadow dotted with wildflowers. And when the road carried them through trees again, she lifted her face to the sun filtering through the pine boughs.
“It’s beautiful country.” She spoke softly, and something in her voice made him think she’d been starved for beauty.
“It is.” He wanted to say more—wanted to tell her about the mornings when mist rose from the valleys like prayers, about the way the mountains looked when they wore their first snow. Instead, he tried for something casual. “Have you spent much time in mountain country?”
“Some.” She fell quiet again, like she’d revealed more than she intended.
