That’s not what you want. The words sat in the back of his mind, and he turned them over for a moment. Whatdidhe want? He’d written to that mail-order bride agency in Boston, hadn’t he? Or rather, Kristiansen wrote the letter for him—but Wade had read it and sealed the envelope and driven the missive into town to be mailed. That meant he’d done this to himself.
He pushed his lips together as he gripped the lines. He’d sent that letter out of a sense of duty. A man had to marry and have a family, else why work so hard to create something out of nothing on this land? His men would eat well again, and it would be nice to lie down on freshly laundered bedsheets and to walk into a room without sneezing from the accumulated dust.
It would all be fine. Or at least that’s what he told himself as he finally reached Crest Stone.
But as he passed homes and businesses—many of which were under construction—a new worry began to take shape. What if the woman herself was a nightmare? Overly fussy, or too prim and frightened for this land, or a nag, or a layabout, or—
No. He forced himself to stop. A former Congressman’s wife, Mrs. Crenshaw, ran the matrimonial agency. Surely she wouldn’t have sent his letter to a woman who wouldn’t have met with her approval.
Perhaps he ought to have read his future wife’s letter rather than glancing at it and telling Kristiansen to write back and send money for her train fare.
He fished the photograph from his pocket and glanced at it. A young woman with light-colored hair, dark eyes, and a playful rise to her lips in an otherwise serious expression looked back at him.
Hazel Hartwas written on the back of the image. Yes, that was her name. It had a fanciful, musical quality to it. Wade grimaced. He hoped she was sturdier and more capable than her name made her sound.
And he prayed he hadn’t made the biggest mistake of his life in sending for her. Kristiansen wouldn’t have been so entranced by a pretty face that he ignored any glaring faults in her letters.
Would he?
Wade drew in a deep breath. The only way to find out was to meet the lady. Which might be harder than he’d anticipated, given that the train platform was completely devoid of people.
Chapter Two
Patience wasn’t HazelHart’s strongest virtue.
Her fingers tapped the photo she held of Mr. Wade Pierce as she waited behind an older gentleman purchasing a ticket to Cheyenne—orattemptingto purchase the ticket, given how many times the very patient stationmaster explained to the man that he would need to change trains multiple times along his journey.
Hazel glanced about the small depot, hoping Mr. Pierce would have suddenly appeared. Had she notified him of the incorrect date of her journey? Had he forgotten? Had some ill befallen him? Had he . . . Her stomach turned at the thought. Had he changed his mind about her?
No. Of course not. She said it again in her head, more forcefully this time as the stationmaster explained yet again the process of boarding a new train in Denver. Hazel had chosen Mr. Pierce over the three other gentlemen whose letters Mrs. Crenshaw had given her back in Boston. Of the four men, Mr. Pierce had sounded the most thoughtful, the most gentle, and the most eager to share his life with a new bride.
He wouldn’t leave her here all alone, at least not without some sort of message.
Finally, the older gentleman completed the purchase of his ticket and Hazel stepped forward.
“Good afternoon, miss,” the stationmaster said in a warm voice. He reminded her of the grandfather she’d known briefly when she was younger, and she immediately smiled at him.
