A Caring Widower for the Runaway Bride (Preview)

Chapter One

The train was busy, but Eliza didn’t mind. She didn’t know how remote her new life was going to be, so she saw it as the last chance she might see a crowd for a while.

Eliza was used to getting lost in large groups of people. Life in Philadelphia and Chicago had been densely populated. The big cities were similar in many ways, both with their own hustle and bustle. She preferred Philadelphia, but maybe that was because her life had been better there.

“But surely you are excited for your new adventure?”

She had been idly chatting to the older woman beside her off and on for the past few hours.

“Well…” She paused. “I didn’t think I was ever one for adventure. When my parents were living, I was content. My father was a doctor, and I was training to be a midwife.”

“Oh no, did the influenza get them?” the older woman asked. “There were so many in my neighborhood.”

“My mother,” Eliza said quietly. “For my father, it was his heart.”

“Perhaps a broken heart,” the woman said, and Eliza shrugged, her own heart aching with the memory then. Back then, she had been somebody.

She hadn’t just been Elizabeth Morland, unwed and getting older every day, the way they probably viewed her on the train. Instead, she was Eliza, her father’s assistant, knowledgeable in herbs and potions that would bring anyone back from even the darkest shadows. Unlike other women, she wasn’t squeamish about blood; she wasn’t bothered by burns that left the skin black, or moments of panic when a birth went wrong. That was when Eliza felt important, the time when she felt strong and hopeful. She felt she had a purpose in the world.

Of course, it seemed in her life, nothing good could last forever. First, when her mother passed away from influenza, she had to learn to live in a world where not only her mother ceased to exist, but she felt like it was her fault.

Her father had told her time and time again it wasn’t her fault, that there was nothing either of them could have done. But although she didn’t blame her father, she blamed herself. Why couldn’t she have figured out the right combination of herbs or fever reducers? Why didn’t she catch the first symptoms faster?

Her father did not last long. His heart gave out, the doctor from the town over said, but she thought it was the grief that took him. He was never the same after her mother died. He’d become slower to respond, quicker to retreat after supper.

Although Eliza was a trained physician’s assistant by then, she was still just a young woman of twenty-four, with honey blonde hair and blue eyes that expressed everything; the freckles on her nose made young men want to court her rather than hire her for work in their household.

Eventually, it became clear that she could not survive by herself, and she needed help. Her brother Edwin was well established in Chicago, and it only made sense to go and live with him.

She had thought it was a good solution when she left Philadelphia. Edwin’s house was large, and he could help her get on her feet.

“So are you coming straight from your parents’ house, then?” the woman asked.

“Oh, no, from my brother’s house,” she said. “It wasn’t…recent, their deaths. I was a teenager when I moved out.”

“How lovely of your brother,” the woman said.

Eliza tried to keep her face neutral.

Edwin was ten years older than Eliza, and he’d left home long before. She had forgotten the weight of his overbearing nature, the speed with which his words could wound, and the agonizing slowness of his apologies. Even though he had been the one to invite her there, it seemed that she was a burden with every moment she stayed under his roof.

It became apparent within a month that she couldn’t stay there.

Eliza was lost at first as to what to do, until Edwin presented her with an ad in the paper. He had done it so casually that it seemed like he didn’t care whether she read it or burned it.

She had saved it, thinking it would be her way out of Edwin’s controlling ways.

**PRACTICAL BRIDE WANTED**

A wealthy and established Montana merchant, owner of the largest general store and freight operation in the territory, seeks a capable woman to manage a sizable household and potentially assist in certain business capacities.

Qualifications are paramount: Applicants must possess demonstrable skills in household management, bookkeeping, and/or practical medical knowledge. Emotional fragility is neither desired nor required.

I possess substantial assets, including a newly built home with modern amenities and significant financial stability. Successful applicants will be afforded all comforts befitting my standing.

Send qualifications, references, and a recent photograph to: Percival Lockwood, Box Thirty-Three, Fort Benton, Montana Territory. *Discretion Assured.*

She had been confused by how a man looking for a bride would write such an ad. It was true that marriages were made for convenience, but she thought he could put at least a little emotion into it.

Edwin had not found the ad as perplexing as she did. To him, it seemed entirely sensible to him when he raised his concerns. He seemed to think it was a good idea that she wrote to him, and she wanted to oblige her brother. She was delighted that he was even listening to what she was saying, given that he had passed the paper so casually.

Edwin had even offered to write to Mr. Lockwood himself on her behalf, which made her feel a bit strange. However, she had willingly agreed after a particularly stressful night under her brother’s roof.

Half the time, she didn’t understand what the problem was. The other half, while she did understand that they had different personalities, she couldn’t understand why Edwin had invited her if he was just going to act like she was a burden all the time.

By their fourth letter exchange, it seemed Percival had his mind made up. She thought it was odd that his letter focused so much on her suitability and qualifications rather than a personal connection. She also thought it was odd that there were at least eight letters from him to Edwin, but only a few for her. 

Miss Morland, 

I am in receipt of your third letter, detailing your financial expectations and providing the requested references from your former neighbors in Philadelphia. The references speak well of your character and industry, though they primarily focus on domestic virtues, which are, admittedly, secondary to the practical skills I require.

Your summary of experience assisting your late father, the physician, is the most salient point of your application thus far. I require a partner capable of independent action and possessing demonstrable competence. The ability to manage minor injuries and illnesses without reliance on the town doctor will be a significant advantage in Fort Benton, where professional services are not always immediately accessible. This practical medical knowledge is precisely the kind of ‘qualification’ I specified in my initial advertisement.

To proceed, I must have concrete assurance of your capacity to manage sizable financial ledgers. Please provide a detailed account of your prior experience with bookkeeping and inventory management. My business is significant, and my wife must be a reliable steward of both the household and the firm’s preliminary records.

Furthermore, you make no mention of your religious affiliation. Kindly clarify this detail immediately.

If these final points are satisfactory, I shall arrange for your passage. We will then proceed to a brief, in-person consultation period to ascertain mutual suitability before entering into any permanent arrangement. I shall, of course, cover all expenses incurred in transit.

Your prompt reply is anticipated.

Percival Lockwood

 

It had felt like a business transaction rather than a romantic proposal. When she asked Edwin about it, he had been particularly cryptic, as if it wasn’t any of her business asking about her future husband. 

Sure enough, though, the passage was soon booked, and she was soon on her way.

“I’m sorry, we’ve been chatting so long, and I don’t even know your name,” the woman said beside her, shaking her out of her thoughts.

“Oh, Eliza. Eliza Moreland,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I should have said that already.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Moreland. I’m Mrs. Swede. It’s a long journey, isn’t it?” Mrs. Swede said, fanning herself lightly with a small hand fan decorated with lace. “I also never asked you where you were going. All I know is that you are going on an adventure, and then I’ve babbled away.”

“There is nothing to forgive. I’m going to Fort Benton, Montana Territory,” Eliza replied, the name feeling heavy on her tongue.

Mrs. Swede’s fan paused mid-sweep. “Fort Benton! Well, I’ll be. That is quite a way. Is your family there?”

“No…well, sort of,” Eliza said. “Are you from there?”

“I am,” Mrs. Swede said. “Oh, you will love it there! It’s a nice little town, and most folks, save a few, are very helpful. We’ve had quite a few young women come to town to work. Do you have a job? Are you a secretary?”

Eliza hesitated. For some reason, she felt ashamed telling the truth. “No. I’m going there to be married. To a gentleman named Percival Lockwood.”

The fan dropped entirely onto Mrs. Swede’s lap with a soft thud. Her eyes widened, a look of profound shock settling on her kind face. “Percival Lockwood! Are you quite certain, dear? Lockwood, the merchant?”

“Yes, the owner of the general store and freight operation,” Eliza confirmed, suddenly uneasy at the intensity of the woman’s reaction. “Do you know him?”

Mrs. Swede leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “Well…I suppose you could say I knew him, Miss Morland. I worked for Percival Lockwood for ten years. Managed his household, helped with the ledgers, everything. I only just left last spring when my daughter needed me to watch the grandchildren.”

“Oh, I see,” Eliza said. “Well, how lovely to be close to family.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Swede said, with a smile. “Yes, it is quite a different life, and I am grateful for it. I don’t know how much longer I could have lasted there.”

Eliza was surprised by that comment.

“Oh…” she said, unsure of what to say.

“I shouldn’t have said that, forgive me,” Mrs. Swede said. “Only it just slipped out and…Oh, but you are going to him. I suppose it would be the Godly thing to do, to tell you…But, Lord, forgive me.”

“What is it, Mrs. Swede?” Eliza’s throat felt dry. “Has he…has he misled me about his business or standing? I…I mean, we have only been corresponding for a short time.“

“No, no, his success is real enough. The new house is lovely, too. But the man himself…he is not what you think. He is demanding, cold, and utterly unforgiving of any mistake. And I should warn you, dear, I must.” Mrs. Swede took a deep, shaky breath. “There were rumors, terrible rumors, about his first wife, Margaret.”

“Margaret?” Eliza frowned, searching her memory. Percival’s letters had never mentioned a previous wife, nor had Edwin, though she realized Edwin might have intentionally omitted the detail. “I didn’t know he had been married before.”

“He doesn’t advertise it. Margaret was a lovely woman, spirited and artistic. Not practical, mind you, which Percival constantly held against her. But she wasn’t clumsy or sickly. Yet, she fell down the stairs in the old house and died from her injuries. Suddenly. Just…gone.” Mrs. Swede’s eyes were pools of fear. “It was called an accident, but people talked. I was away for the night, helping my daughter, but the others told me…They said the two of them were fighting terribly that night…”

A wave of icy realization washed over Eliza. The cold, transactional letters. The demand for ‘practicality’ and ‘no emotional fragility.’ The emphasis on her medical skills. It wasn’t a marriage she was entering; it was a contract for a compliant, useful employee who wouldn’t be missed if she, too, had an unfortunate ‘accident.’

The rhythmic clacking of the train wheels now sounded like a hammer against a wooden casket. She had sought freedom and found a trap woven from desperation and deceit. She gripped the armrest again, harder this time, her earlier doubts solidifying into terrifying certainty. She hadn’t just signed up for misery; she was heading toward genuine danger. She had traded the stifling control of her brother for the deadly potential of a rumored wife-killer.

A contractual escape, she had thought. Now she saw the fine print: Life, potentially, forfeit.

“I…see…” Eliza said.

“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Swede said. “But you seem like such a lovely young woman. I can’t possibly let you just walk into that house sight unseen and not know what is waiting there for you.”

“I appreciate it,” Eliza said. “I really do…I…would you excuse me a second?”

“Are you alright, dear?”

“I just need some air,” Eliza said, weakly. “I’m going to stand between the cars a little bit. Please watch my things for me.”

“Yes, of course I will,” Mrs. Swede said. “I’ll be here if you have any more questions.”

“Thank you,” Eliza said, although she didn’t have any more questions by the time she got to the back of the train car. Rather, she knew she had to find an answer, and fast.

She could not get off the train in Fort Benton. She just couldn’t.

She leaned against the rough wooden doorframe separating the cars, letting the wind whip away the heat and dread rising in her chest. Willow Creek. She distinctly remembered passing the sign a good half-hour ago, saying it was the next stop in about an hour, a tiny, insignificant stop indicated only by a platform and a water tower on the weathered sign. It was the last stop before Fort Benton, and the train would likely slow down for a moment even if no one was scheduled to get off.

It was madness. Utter, complete madness. She had no money saved beyond her immediate traveling expenses, no change of clothes except what was in her small trunk, and absolutely no plan. But the alternative…stepping into the house of a man rumored to have murdered his first wife, was unthinkable.

The next stop. The train would stop briefly. If she could be standing on the platform when the car stopped, and if she could grab her trunk quickly, she might make it. It was a terrifying, reckless, and wholly desperate gamble. She didn’t know what was in Willow Creek…a town, a scattering of shacks, nothing at all? She didn’t care. It was the only thing separating her from Percival Lockwood.

The memory of Mrs. Swede’s face, the genuine, raw fear in her eyes, was the final conviction. She had to run. She couldn’t afford to wait for the next town, or the next day; Percival Lockwood would be expecting her in Fort Benton. She needed to vanish now, into the vast, unfettered anonymity of the Montana Territory. She could not marry this man. She could not go forward with it, knowing what Mrs. Swede had told her.

Maybe, she told herself, had she been braver. Maybe if she hadn’t survived such horrible things already, she’d be more willing to walk into such a situation. But after leaving her parents’ empty household, and then Edwin’s cold one, she simply couldn’t put herself through any more heartache.

“All better, dear?” Mrs. Swede asked immediately, her concern evident.

“Much, thank you,” Eliza said, sitting heavily. She managed a weak smile. “Just a bit of train sickness. The fresh air helped immensely.” She forced herself to look out the window, pretending to be absorbed in the passing scenery. “Mrs. Swede,” she continued, keeping her voice light, “do you remember if the train makes a brief stop at Willow Creek? For water, perhaps?”

Mrs. Swede frowned, thinking. “Willow Creek…that’s not a scheduled stop for passengers, not usually. But yes, I believe they often slow down or stop entirely to take on water or check the coupling. It’s right before the main line into Fort Benton. Why do you ask, dear?”

Eliza shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant while her heart hammered against her ribs. “No reason in particular. Just curious about the stops. It sounds like a lovely name.”

“A lovely name for a very small place,” Mrs. Swede confirmed, oblivious to Eliza’s internal turmoil. She picked up her fan. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, Margaret’s family never got any satisfaction from the…accident.”

Eliza nodded, focusing on Mrs. Swede’s story, while every nerve ending was screaming about the need to be ready. She had perhaps twenty minutes left. She had to move her trunk closer to the door without attracting suspicion. She had to be prepared to bolt.
Willow Creek. It was her only hope.

“But I don’t want to…persuade such a lovely young woman from what could be a good marriage. Has anyone vetted him for you? Maybe he’s changed.”

“My brother has,” Eliza said, although she didn’t really believe it and she wasn’t sure that Mrs. Swede did either. “They exchanged many letters, more than Percival and I did ourselves.”

“I see,” she said. “Well…”

“Let’s talk about other things,” Eliza said, quickly trying to change the subject. She didn’t know Mrs. Swede, and although she believed her about Percival, she didn’t know whether she would approve of her just jumping off the train at a stop that she knew nothing about.

Eliza knew it wasn’t a very smart move. She just thought it was the only move she could possibly make, given the circumstances. And if something happened to her, she thought darkly, it would be better than what it sounded like she was going to walk into.

As the train chugged along, the two of them chatted, and Eliza almost felt normal. That was, until she felt the train start to slow down. Once she did, she knew this was her opportunity.

She second-guessed herself for a second. Was she really going to do this? Was she going to take this risk, rather than getting off where she at least knew she would have a roof over her head?

But what if he didn’t like her? What if he decided that she was wretched, and she ended up with the same fate as his poor first wife?

The slowing of the train was her only warning.

“Oh, is this the water stop?” Mrs. Swede remarked, oblivious. “It’s just a brief pause, dear.”

“Excuse me,” Eliza mumbled, already on her feet. She grabbed the handle of her small, heavy trunk, which held the meager possessions she deemed necessary for her new life, and now, her survival. The train gave a final, wrenching squeal of the brakes and settled into stillness. The platform outside was no more than a few rough-hewn planks next to a dusty water tank. Willow Creek.

The conductor’s voice barked something unintelligible down the car. This was her moment.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Swede, I’ve forgotten something essential! I must get off the train!” Eliza didn’t wait for a reply. She wrestled the trunk past the woman’s knees, pulling it with a frantic strength she didn’t know she possessed. She half-dragged, half-carried it down the narrow aisle, ignoring the curious stares of the other passengers.

The air on the platform was thin and cold, laced with the scent of pine and coal smoke. Eliza didn’t look back. She didn’t look up. Her entire focus was on getting away from the rail car, away from the possibility of a concerned Mrs. Swede following her, away from the path to Fort Benton.

She stumbled down the short steps onto the rough gravel roadbed that paralleled the tracks. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her pulse pounding a frantic rhythm in her ears. Percival Lockwood. Margaret. The terrifying, ice-cold certainty that she was running for her life.

She spotted what she hoped was the edge of the tiny settlement, a loose cluster of rough shacks and perhaps a small general store in the distance. She started walking, fast, holding the heavy trunk awkwardly against her hip. She needed to disappear into the vastness of the territory, to find a ranch, a farm, anything that offered a chance for anonymity and employment. She couldn’t stay by the tracks; Percival might send someone back along the line the moment she failed to arrive in Fort Benton.

Her mind was a jumbled mess of fear and desperate calculations. Which direction? How far can I go before dark? Is there a stage line from here? The panic was tangible, clouding her judgment and tunneling her vision.

Help me, she thought fiercely, even as the darkness claimed her. Help me survive. Grant me time. Just a little time to recover and keep running. Don’t let this be the end, not after I finally chose freedom. Dear God, please help me.

She rounded a bend in the dusty road, her eyes fixed solely on the distant horizon, pushing forward with single-minded urgency.

A sharp, sudden shout pierced the noise in her head, followed instantly by the terrified whinny of a horse.

Eliza barely had time to register the sound before something massive and unforgiving slammed into her side. The trunk flew from her grasp, and a blinding, searing pain shot through her head as she was thrown backward. The world tilted violently, transforming into a kaleidoscope of brown dust, blue sky, and a frantic brown blur of horseflesh.

She landed hard, and the air was knocked from her lungs in a painful rush. The last thing she registered was the sound of a man’s horrified voice yelling, “Whoa!” before the edges of her vision turned black, and consciousness dissolved into silence.

Chapter Two

The late afternoon sun was slanting low, painting the dusty trail between Willow Creek and his ranch in strokes of gold and ochre. Caleb sat on the driving bench of his heavy freight wagon, the reins loose in his calloused hands. The wagon was empty now, save for the tools he’d hauled into town, and he was heading toward Willow Creek’s small boarding house to pick up supplies before returning to the ranch.

As usual, when he was alone, all his thoughts were on his wife, Abigail.

Three years. It had been three years since the sickness swept through and took her, leaving a hole in his life that even the vast Montana sky couldn’t fill. He missed her laugh, a light, musical sound that used to cut through the quiet of the ranch. He missed her hand on his arm, her presence in the kitchen, the way she could turn a barren house into a home. He missed her strength, too. Abigail had been practical, gentle, and utterly essential.

He sighed, the sound catching dryly in his throat, and flicked the reins to urge his team, Bess and Silas, along.

It was the sudden, terrified whinny of Bess that yanked him back to the present.

“Whoa!” He yelled, sawing the reins as the wagon lurched violently. He felt the terrifying thud, and it was not the dead weight of a rock, but something softer, followed by the sickening, brief crush of fabric and bone.

Caleb scrambled to a stop, leaping down from the bench before the horses were fully settled. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, horrifying rhythm. What did I hit?

Lying in the dust just behind the front wheel, unmoving and horrifyingly still, was a woman. Her honey-blonde hair was spread across the gritty earth, and her face, smeared with dirt, was pale as chalk. A dark, ugly streak of blood was already welling near her temple where she must have struck the ground. Next to her lay a small, overturned trunk.

“God in heaven,” Caleb whispered, sinking to his knees. He hadn’t even seen her. She must have rounded the bend right as he passed, her head down, focused on the heavy trunk she’d been carrying.

Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. He had struck her. He, Caleb Hawthorne, had nearly killed a woman with his wagon. He had done a lot of terrible things in his life, but this one topped them all. He felt nauseous, his big hands trembling as he reached for her wrist, searching desperately for a pulse.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

It was weak, but there. She was alive.

There was no time for guilt, no time for prayer. He couldn’t leave her here, certainly not to lie unconscious in the dust. The small doctor’s office in Willow Creek was barely more than a room, but it was closer than the ranch.

With a speed born of pure, desperate adrenaline, Caleb gathered the woman into his arms. She was light, far too light, and her stillness was a terrifying burden. He didn’t risk laying her back in the wagon box; instead, he placed her gently on the bench seat, propping her head against his shoulder.

He hauled her trunk into the wagon, then he climbed up, taking the reins, his eyes fixed on the slack figure beside him. “Easy,” he muttered to the horses, urging them into a desperate, fast trot toward the cluster of buildings.

“Hold on, ma’am,” he murmured, though he knew she couldn’t hear him. “Hold on. We’re almost there.” His mind was a blank slate of terror, focused only on the jarring motion of the wagon and the chilling weight of the unconscious woman in his arms.

A few minutes later, Caleb burst through the physician’s door, the woman cradled securely against his chest.

“Doc! Doctor Finch!” he roared, the sound echoing in the small waiting room. A moment later, a small, balding man in a blood-stained apron emerged from a back room, his spectacles halfway down his nose.

“Caleb? What in the devil—?”

“I hit her, Doc. With the wagon. She just appeared on the road. She’s breathing, but she won’t wake up. She needs help, now!”

Dr. Finch’s eyes widened at the sight of the pale, injured woman. He moved instantly, pointing to the examination cot. “Set her down gently, Caleb. Gently, man. Tell me everything.”

Caleb laid her on the thin mattress, his chest heaving. The sheer magnitude of what he’d done—the potential tragedy—settled over him like a suffocating shroud. He backed away, scrubbing a trembling hand over his face, unable to look at the woman, unable to look away.

“I was driving slow, Doc, I swear. She just…she appeared from nowhere, right on a blind spot by the bend. I didn’t even know.”

Dr. Finch was already probing the dark knot on her temple, his fingers practiced and precise. “It’s a nasty bump. Concussion, at the very least. Did she move at all? Did she say anything?”

Caleb shook his head, guilty of a lead weight in his gut. “Nothing. She hasn’t stirred. Who is she? I don’t recognize her.”

“Never seen her before,” the doctor said, turning his attention to her shoulder, where the fabric of her coat was torn. “Let’s just focus on keeping her alive, Caleb. Go wait outside. And send that girl, Minnie, here. I need boiling water and bandages.”

Caleb nodded dumbly, retreating from the examination room. He leaned against the outer wall, staring at the dust clinging to his trousers, the dust that had been the last sight of the woman he’d hit. He heard the doctor’s low, serious voice and the sounds of Minnie bustling about.

He had meant to start fresh today, to bring Ruth home from her friend’s house and finally organize his life. Now, he was sitting in a doctor’s office, responsible for an accident that could cost a woman her life.

Practical, he thought bitterly. His day had become anything but.

“Can you wait?” the doctor asked him, and Caleb nodded.

“You don’t…should I…” Caleb didn’t know exactly what he was trying to say, but he knew that he wasn’t saying it very well. He accepted defeat and headed outside to wait, his heart thudding in his chest.

If she lived, he would likely lose everything if she held him responsible. If she died, it would be worse.

Caleb paced the small, dusty porch outside the doctor’s office. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long, unsettling shadows across the dusty street. He could still hear the muffled voices from inside, a low hum of activity that provided no reassurance. His mind was replaying the horrifying thud and the sight of the woman lying still in the dust. He ran a hand through his already disheveled dark hair, guilt and anxiety battling for control.

“Caleb?”

He froze, recognizing the light, overly sweet voice instantly. He turned to see Beatrice Sloane approaching, her expression a careful blend of concern and something sharper, something possessive. Beatrice was the daughter of the local banker, a woman who had, for the last six months, made it abundantly clear that she saw herself as the logical and appropriate replacement for Abigail. Caleb had also been clear that he was not interested.

“Beatrice,” he acknowledged, his tone clipped.

She drew nearer, her gaze sweeping over his dusty clothes and the frantic energy radiating off him. “What on earth happened? I was walking past and saw you rush in with…with that woman in your arms. Is everything alright?”

He knew his explanation had to be brief and purely factual. “No, everything is not alright. I hit her with my wagon just outside town, a total stranger. She’s badly injured.”

Beatrice’s eyes, a light, calculating hazel, narrowed slightly, but her voice remained sympathetic. She almost seemed relieved that this was the case. Caleb resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Oh, Caleb, how dreadful! You, of all people, are usually so careful…Are you sure she’s a stranger?” She took a step closer, placing a hand lightly on his forearm. He instantly pulled away, retreating a step, and she dropped her hand, the brief moment of vulnerability replaced by a sudden, intense curiosity. Caleb could tell she was trying to pretend she was sweet to hide her jealousy. Beatrice loved to put on a front of an angel, but Caleb knew otherwise.

Caleb felt a surge of exasperation, quickly stifled by his overwhelming guilt. The woman inside was fighting for her life, and Beatrice was worried about competition.

“I don’t know who she is, Beatrice, I just told you that,” he said flatly, rubbing his temples. “She was carrying a trunk. I assume she just got off the train at the water stop. I didn’t see her until it was too late.”

Beatrice stepped back, pulling her shawl tighter, her mouth pursed. The concern was clearly secondary now to a simmering, unmistakable jealousy. “A traveler. And carrying her own trunk? Hardly the sort of woman…Well, never mind. You must be terribly shaken. You need to come home with me. My mother is making stew. We can clean you up and calm you. You shouldn’t be here when—” She paused, clearly struggling between wanting the stranger to live to prove Caleb was a good man, and wanting her to vanish to remove the complication. “When the doctor comes out.”

“I’m staying here,” Caleb stated, turning his back on her and facing the doctor’s door. “I need to know what happens to her. I’m responsible.”

Beatrice let out a sigh of deep-seated annoyance. “Responsible for an accident, Caleb. Not a responsibility for life. You don’t know her name. Honestly, rushing in carrying a strange woman, injured or not, gives people things to talk about, you know. It’s hardly proper.”

Caleb finally snapped, his voice a low, furious rumble. “I struck a woman with my wagon, and she might die, Beatrice. I don’t care what people say. If you’re not going to help, leave.

Beatrice paled at his vehemence. She opened her mouth as if to argue, but the raw intensity of his gaze stopped her. She gave a curt nod, her demeanor shifting from jealous suitor to offended society lady.

“Very well, Caleb. If you insist on this dramatic display of…chivalry. But don’t expect me to explain this to the rest of the town. You know what people are like.”

With a rustle of skirts, she turned and marched down the dusty street, leaving Caleb alone again with his worry and the knowledge that, even in his greatest moment of crisis, the social complication of his life had managed to intrude. He returned to the door, clenching his fists. He only cared about the woman inside. He prayed she would live, if only so he could apologize properly.

“Caleb, get in here,” Dr. Finch called, his voice now quieter, tinged with exhaustion.

Caleb pushed away from the wall immediately, stepping back inside the small office. Dr. Finch was standing over the cot, wiping his hands on a towel. The injured woman was now covered by a clean, thin blanket, her color marginally better, the blood wiped away from the nasty gash on her temple, which was now neatly bandaged.

“Well?” Caleb asked, his voice rough with anxiety.

Dr. Finch sighed, running a hand over his balding head. “She’s tough. Strong constitution. The shoulder is badly bruised, maybe a hairline fracture, but nothing definitive. But the head injury is the worry. Severe concussion. She’ll be confused, maybe nauseous for a while. She’ll need rest. Absolute rest. I’ve given her a sedative, but she’s coming to now.”

Caleb approached the cot, his gaze drawn to her face. Even pale and smudged with residual dirt, she was arrested. Her honey-blonde hair was mussed, framing features that were delicate yet strong: a straight nose, a firm chin, and a scattering of freckles across her nose. She looked like a woman who had seen hardship, but her current vulnerability tugged sharply at something in Caleb’s chest. He felt a second, deeper surge of guilt for being the instrument of her pain.

Just then, her eyelids fluttered. They opened slowly, revealing blue eyes that were momentarily unfocused, wide with confusion and a terrifying lack of recognition.

She stared at the ceiling, then slowly, agonizingly, turned her head to look at Caleb. Her brow furrowed, a flicker of panic crossing her face.

“Where…where am I?” she whispered, her voice a dry, rasping sound.

“You’re safe, ma’am,” Dr. Finch said gently, stepping forward. “You’re in Dr. Finch’s office in Willow Creek. You’ve had a bad fall.”

She blinked, the confusion deepening. “Willow Creek…the train…” Then, her eyes fixed on Caleb with sudden, crystal clarity, the panic returning. “Percival Lockwood…is he here?” The question was laced with desperate fear.

Caleb frowned, exchanging a bewildered glance with Dr. Finch. “Percival Lockwood? I don’t know who that is, ma’am. I’m Caleb Hawthorne, and I’m the one who hit you with my wagon. I’m terribly sorry.” He took a tentative step toward her, his large frame suddenly feeling clumsy and intimidating. “You took a tumble. We’re going to take good care of you.”

“I…I don’t know you,” she managed, her hand flying instinctively to the bandage on her head. “My trunk…where is my trunk?”

“It’s here,” Dr. Finch assured her, gesturing toward the door. “Mr. Hawthorne left it on his wagon. He’ll bring it in soon. Now, you need to rest. Can you tell me your name, dear?”

“My name,” she said with a faint, trembling smile that didn’t reach her eyes, “is Eliza. Just…Eliza.”

“Do you remember your surname?”

Dr. Finch shook his head slowly. “Caleb, the poor girl has a head injury. We’ll sort the names later. For now, Miss…Eliza, you are in no condition to travel. You will stay here for the night, and tomorrow, Mr. Hawthorne will arrange to move you somewhere you can recover properly.”

“I can’t,” Eliza whispered. “I have to go. I have an appointment.”

“You have an appointment with a bed, ma’am,” Caleb said, his voice firm but kind. “And with a long recovery. I owe you that much, at the very least. You’re not going anywhere until you’re well.”

He had hit her. He was responsible. And he felt genuine remorse.

The sedative finally hit her, and Eliza closed her eyes.

“Doc, I’ll pay for everything. Send the bill to me. I’ll take full responsibility.”

“Are you sure?” Doctor Finch asked him. “There’s a lot of…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Caleb answered, even though he truly couldn’t pay. “This was my fault; I need to make it right. Oh, she’s closed her eyes again. Is she ok?”

“She’ll likely be in and out for the next few hours,” Doctor Finch said. ‘Don’t be alarmed if you have to introduce yourself to her a few times. Eventually, she will remember.”

“But she’ll be alright?” Caleb asked, and he nodded.

“I believe so,” he said. “You did the right thing, bringing her in as quickly as you did.”

“If only I could have done right by not hitting her,” Caleb said as he sat down in the chair. “I have to get Ruth soon, but I’ll stay as long as I can.”

“You’re a good man, Caleb,” Doctor Finch said, as he started to tidy up.

“Thank you,” Caleb replied, although he didn’t feel very good about himself at that moment at all.