Caroline tucked the telegram into her pocket and rose. She showed the messenger to the door and gave him the coin. “Thank Mr. Willard for his kindness.”
To his credit, the boy looked ambivalent about accepting the tip. “I will. I didn’t read the message, but I can tell from your reaction it was awful news. You have my condolences, too.”
Caroline stood in her room, arguing with her eldest brother. Her trunk was packed, and she’d convinced Landon to drive her to the train station, but they needed Simon’s help to carry the trunk out and load it into the carriage. “Why are you being so stubborn?” she asked him as she secured the last latch with a soft click and turned to face him.
Simon crossed his arms, his protective nature at odds with her resolve. “It's a long journey for a woman—one that shouldn’t be undertaken alone.”
“All of you are needed here. I’m not without means or sense. I’ll manage.”
“And what about once you get there? Who will be your chaperone?”
“I don’t need one,” she said, ignoring his scoff. “I’m twenty-five. I reached my majority years ago. Even by today’s enlightened standards, I’m practically a spinster.”
Their mother, still red-eyed and reeling from news of her daughter’s death, appeared beside Simon, clutching a handkerchief. “That won’t protect your reputation in all situations. You have a man right here in Greenvale who worships you, but I doubt evenhewould keep courting you if you compromise yourself by staying alone with Jackson. Please, Caroline. Reconsider.”
Caroline brushed the admonition off, though she knew it carried weight. “Jackson is family. He’s my brother-in-law.”
Simon dropped his arms to his sides. “Nothing we say will change your mind, will it?”
“No.”
Caroline crossed the room and took her mother’s hands in hers. “I’ve lived with strong emotions all these years—hateful emotions—the worst of which was anger. It made me sever ties with my only sister. Getting that telegram changed my perspective and made me realize Jackson deserves my wrath, but Amanda didn’t.
“As you said after they married, it’s the man who does the choosing. Before Jackson took her away, Amanda was my dearest friend. He must’ve coerced her. She wouldn’t just betray me.”
That gave them both pause.
“Maybe, now, Jackson will tell me the truth. But even if he doesn’t, I want to mourn my sister and meet her children. I need to say goodbye.”
Tears gathered in her mother’s eyes. “Promise me you'll be careful.”
Caroline leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I will.”
The stagecoach carrying Caroline from Fort Kearny, Nebraska to Sagebrush Springs jostled over the uneven terrain, its wheels churning up dust that clung to her throat and made her cough. Each rut in the road jarred her bones. And her heart. Regret over the way she’d treated Amanda frayed its edges with grief. But seeing Jackson would slice it wide open. She harbored more contempt for him than anyone she’d ever known, yet her love for him would not completely wilt.
The coach finally came to a blessed halt.
The driver handed her down the narrow steps, unlashed her trunk, and set it on the platform of the station, with the aid of his assistant.
“Who should I see about transportation to a homestead?” she asked him.
He pointed to the next building over, one they’d passed on their way into town. “The livery should be able to help.”
“Thank you.”
Caroline detoured to the necessary then headed for the livery. The train to Fort Kearny had run through the night, and the stagecoach ride had lasted less than two hours, putting her in Sagebrush Springs while it was still morning. If luck stayed on her side, and Jackson’s farm wasn’t too far away, she could make it there before dark.
The livery boasted a legible sign, but it was superfluous. All one had to do was follow the odor of horse and dung. She went to the counter and stood, pressing her handkerchief to her nose.
“Hello,” Caroline called. The place appeared deserted except for a few horses milling around the paddock, so she waited. Several minutes passed, magnifying the stench and adding to her irritation.
“May I help you, Miss?” a voice called over the din of hooves and harnesses as the coach she’d just arrived in barreled past. A man dressed in dusty clothes with a long, droopy mustache was walking up from behind the building. “I’m Dewey Cook, the owner. Forgive me for keeping you waiting,” he said, wiping his hands on a dirt-streaked rag and looking her over, likely taking in her mourning attire. “My assistant is off on an errand, and those stage drivers get right surly if I don’t switch out their teams in a timely manner.”
“I’m in need of transportation.”
“Where to?”
“Jackson Maguire’s farm.”
