A Native Bride for the Miner (Preview)

Chapter One

Evening settled over Morris Ridge in the soft, worn way it always did, with the smell of coal smoke drifting down the narrow street and the sound of music and voices carrying from the saloon farther up the road. Jessie patted the head of her goat, Tawny, before climbing the steps to tug open the front door of the small house she shared with her father, letting herself in. The day’s warmth was already fading from the air, the night creeping cool and dry around the walls, but inside the house, the stove still held some heat, a stew pot simmering gently from where she’d left it earlier. The single lamp burned low on the table, casting a yellow glow over the neatly mended shirts folded there, her handiwork from that afternoon.

Her father sat at the table with his sleeves rolled up, a tin cup in his tired hands. He’d washed the dirt from his face when he came home from the mine, but there was always a faint shadow of dust left behind, ground into the grooves of his skin too deeply to ever fully wash away. His shoulders slumped a little, the way they did at the end of every day, his posture marked by years of lifting, hauling, and bending beneath low beams underground.

He looked up at her when she came in, offering the faintest of smiles. “Soup’s still warm,” he said. “Figured I’d wait for you.”

“I appreciate it,” Jessie answered, clearing her sewing from the table. She hung her shawl carefully near the door, fingers lingering there as if delaying something. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d come home without that nagging feeling following her inside, the one that had been growing stronger these past months. It sat under her ribs like a weight, pressing until it was hard to take a full breath.

She ladled stew into two bowls and set one in front of him, then took her seat. They ate in the steady quiet that usually settled between them in the evenings. He’d talk, sometimes, about the mine or the equipment breaking down again, or about someone who had done something foolish on the site. Tonight, he seemed content just to eat, his eyes fixed on his bowl, movements weary but steady.

Jessie watched him for a moment. His hair had been going gray for years, though he was not an old man yet. Hard living aged people faster here, and if the mine didn’t take a person’s life outright, it took bits and pieces of them slowly. She loved him. She knew how hard he had worked to raise her, how much he had given up. And still, the ache of discontent inside her persisted.

She set her spoon down. “Pa,” she said quietly.

He glanced up, brows lifting a little. “Hmm?”

“I need to ask you something,” she said. “And I don’t want you to think I’m trying to hurt you. I just…I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

His expression shifted, starting with wariness before moving to resignation.

“Jessie,” he murmured, as if already exhausted by whatever he thought she might say.

She kept her tone steady. “Please. Just hear me out. I’m twenty-five. I’ve lived my whole life knowing only half of who I am. Every time someone looks at me in town a little too long, every time the gossip starts when I walk into a store, I feel it. I don’t know my mother. I don’t know her people. I don’t know anything except that you don’t want to talk about it. And I need to understand why.”

He set his spoon down and rubbed his hands over his face. His fingers trembled slightly, whether from fatigue or frustration, she couldn’t tell.

“We’ve talked about this,” he said, his voice heavier now. “Or I thought we had. That part of things…it was a long time ago. You’ve had a life here, a roof over your head, work, food on the table. You’ve done just fine without dredging all that up.”

“That isn’t the same as it not mattering,” Jessie said. She worked to keep her voice calm, her jaw tight with effort. He was right, they had spoken of this many times before, and every time, she was left craving more, and the pile up of frustration and resentment inside of her grew a little larger. “It matters to me that I don’t know where I come from. That people stare at me like I’m a reminder of something shameful they can’t say out loud. It matters that half of me belongs to a world you refuse to speak about.”

He pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping over the wooden floor. “You’ve never lacked for anything,” he said sharply. “I did everything I could for you. Everything. I stayed in work that breaks a man in half because the pay is steady. I kept a house going. I taught you what I knew, gave you what I had to give. And you’re telling me now that none of that is enough for you? Why do you always want more, Jessie? Why?”

“That’s not what I’m saying!” she snapped, temper flaring despite her attempt to keep it in check. “I’m saying I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel like I’m walking around with a missing limb. People look at me like I don’t belong here. And I feel like they’re right.”

He stiffened. “You do belong. Here. With me. That should be enough.”

“It isn’t,” she whispered, and the truth of it burned her tongue. “It hasn’t been for a long time.”

Silence stretched between them, brittle as a glass about to shatter.

He drew a slow breath through his teeth. “You’re too old to be chasing after things that’ve never had a place in your life. You’re grown now. Do you know how many people would be grateful just not to have to worry about where they were going to lay their head at night, or that there would be hot food on the table? You ought to accept what is and stop stirring up what doesn’t need stirring. That’s the trouble with you—you never leave well enough alone.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m the trouble? Because I want to know my own mother? Because I want to understand why I look the way I do, why I was always the one people made a point of whispering about?”

“You don’t know what you’re asking!” he snapped, more sharply now, as if something inside him had finally broken loose. “You think it’s just some story I’ve kept from you. You think going off hunting after that past is going to make things easier for you? You think there’s some answer waiting out there that’ll fix what you feel? Sometimes things stay buried for a reason.”

Jessie stood abruptly, palms flat against the table. “You don’t get to tell me to live quiet and small because it makes things easier for you,” she said. “You’re not the one walking through this town with skin everyone stares at shamelessly. You’re not the one people laugh at under their breath because your mother wasn’t white, or proper enough, or whatever it is they think she wasn’t. You didn’t have to grow up fighting for every scrap of respect you got. You’re white, a man respected around town. I’m the one who’s half native, whose skin has these…” Her voice went raw and scraped as she pulled up her dress sleeve, revealing the patches of mottled white splashed across her brown skin. “All over you, even on your face. Half this town still doesn’t even try to understand vitiligo, or what that means. They just look at me like I’m contagious.” Her hand went to her neck, where a large white patch stretched from her throat to her right ear, and tears began to fall, hot and fast, making her even more angry.

Her voice rose in response. “I spent my childhood learning that if I didn’t strike first, someone else would. You didn’t see the way they treated me at school, not really. You told me to ignore it, to be stronger. Well, I have been strong, but I’m tired of pretending the way I’ve been hurt doesn’t matter.”

Color rose in his face. “Don’t you throw that at me,” he bit out. “I did what I could with what I had. I kept you alive. I kept you safe.”

“And I’m grateful,” Jessie said, breath shaking. “I am. But I’m choking, Pa. I’m choking on silence. And I can’t breathe like this anymore.”

His chair tipped over as he stood too fast, the sound loud in the small house. “That’s enough,” he said. “I’m done with this. You want to go chasing shadows of something that was never here for you, you do it on your own time. But I won’t help you.” His voice dropped, suddenly raw. “I can’t.”

Those last two words landed more painfully than his anger had.

For a heartbeat, she almost softened, almost reached out to him.

But the frustration and hurt were too deep, and her pride flared fast and hot.

“Fine,” she said. “Then there’s nothing for us to talk about, as usual.”

She turned and grabbed her shawl from the peg, not trusting herself to stay another moment without saying something she couldn’t take back. She needed air. Space. Something.

“Jessie,” he called after her, stern, worn, and frightened all at once.

She didn’t look back.

Outside, the night had grown darker, the stars pricking sharp against the wide New Mexico sky. Lanterns flickered outside a few houses, and a couple of late workers trudged down the road, their shoulders as heavy as her father’s had been. Jessie wrapped her shawl tighter around herself and walked, boots scuffing lightly through dust that never seemed to stop settling over this town.

She didn’t know where she was going, just that she needed to be away from that house and the man inside of it.

Her feet carried her toward the quieter part of town, away from the noise of the saloon and depot, past the boarded-up storefront that had never reopened after its owner moved on to something supposedly better. The night sounds were ordinary: a dog barking, crickets sawing in the grass beyond the tracks, the low hum of voices drifting from open windows.

Up ahead, she spotted a familiar figure walking alone, blonde hair pale even in the dim light. Chloe Scott hugged her shawl around herself, posture weary despite her usually bright smile. Jessie hesitated, then quickened her pace.

“Chloe?” she called softly.

Chloe turned, surprise flashing across her face before she smiled. “Jessie. You’re out late.”

“So are you,” Jessie said. “Everything all right?”

Chloe gave a short, humorless laugh. “Define ‘all right.’ Theodore and I had words.” She shifted her shawl. “His family’s coming to visit next week. He expects me to be grateful, to host them like they’re a blessing. It’s like he doesn’t see that they can be…difficult people.”

Jessie didn’t push for details; Chloe’s tone made it clear she didn’t want to share more than that. “So you came walking.”

“So I came walking,” Chloe agreed. Then her gaze softened as she studied Jessie. “Something happened with your father.”

Jessie exhaled slowly. “We argued. Again. I tried to talk to him about my mother. About her people. My people. About…everything. He shut me down.” She stared out toward the dark line of land beyond the town. “I feel like I’ve been standing in the same place my whole life. Sewing dresses for other women who know who they are. Watching trains come and go. Listening to stories about everywhere else while I just…stay.”

Chloe’s expression turned thoughtful. “Have you ever thought about leaving? Just once? Seeing somewhere new? There are places farther west, or north, or south. Women travel. Women start over.”

Jessie’s chest tightened. “I’ve thought about it every day lately. But leaving feels like abandoning my father, even when he won’t give me what I need. And then there’s the other side of it. If I leave, and I still can’t find what I’m missing…” She swallowed. “What if it turns out there isn’t anywhere I belong?”

Chloe slipped her arm through Jessie’s. “You might find you belong more than you think. Or that belonging isn’t a place at all.” Then she hesitated, as if weighing whether she ought to say more. “Have you ever considered marriage? That could be an answer.”

Jessie huffed softly. “I don’t want to hitch myself to a man just to find out who I am. I don’t want to trade one life I didn’t choose for another. If I ever marry, I want to know I can give something whole of myself to my children. Right now, it feels like I’d be passing down nothing but emptiness.”

Chloe squeezed her arm gently. “You are not empty.”

“Sometimes it feels like it,” Jessie murmured.

They walked a while longer, speaking of smaller things—neighbors, fabrics Jessie had been working with, the little frustrations of managing a home with a husband who was always either gone or angry. Eventually, Chloe turned back toward town, needing to get home before she was gone too long. Jessie had noticed the way Chloe seemed to have an internal clock when it came to her husband, always ticking toward what he deemed acceptable or not.

Jessie lingered outside a moment longer after watching her friend go, the night stretching wide and silent around her, then headed home.

The lamp still burned inside when she stepped in. Her father had picked up the chair he’d knocked over, but otherwise the house looked just as tense as it had before she left. He stood beside the table now, hands braced against the wood, eyes fixed downward.

He heard her come in.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” he said finally, voice quiet and rough. “I’m tired. The mine’s been worse lately. I didn’t mean to…take it out on you.”

Jessie swallowed, her anger softening just enough to let in the ache beneath it. “I shouldn’t have yelled either,” she said. “I know you have done everything for me. I know that. It doesn’t change that this hurts.”

He nodded once. “I know.”

They didn’t solve anything. He didn’t offer answers. She didn’t stop wanting them. But they moved a little closer, enough for him to rest a hand briefly on her shoulder before stepping back.

“Get some sleep,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow, things will look a little better.”

She doubted it would. But she nodded anyway.

Later, lying in her small bed with the window cracked to let in the faint cool air of the night, Jessie stared at the ceiling. She could hear distant laughter from the town, the low clank of something being moved at the depot, the sigh of wind through the scrub brush at the outskirts.

She felt like she was standing in a room that was shrinking around her, the walls pressing closer every year. If she didn’t move soon, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to breathe at all.

She closed her eyes and let the weight of that truth settle over her, knowing deep down that the life she’d always tried so hard to make enough would never be enough for her.

Chapter Two

Morning light had only just crept over the ridge when Jameson reached the mine. The day had hardly begun, and already his back ached from the thought of the hours ahead. The air still held that dry chill that came before the heat set in, and the ground wore a thin crust of dust that would be stirred into the air soon enough when the wagons and men began moving. He had woken before dawn out of habit, washed at the basin with water that always felt colder than it ought to, and walked the familiar road past houses that looked rough around the edges, just like everything else in Morris Ridge. Men gathered in slow clusters outside the entrance, hats pulled low, lunch pails at their sides, voices hushed but tense.

The canary cage hung from one of the support posts while a young hand hauled it over to the opening. No one laughed or joked the way they sometimes did on quieter mornings. Too many were thinking about the other mine that had been shut down earlier in the week. Men had come out coughing and wheezing, some collapsing before they even reached fresh air. Word spread fast in a town like this. It always did. Gas was invisible and gave no warning until it was too late, and no one wanted to go down into the dark, wondering if they would come back up again.

Though that was exactly what they did, day after day after day.

Jameson rolled his shoulders back and tried to steady himself. He had worked mines long enough to accept that danger lived in every tunnel and shaft, but acceptance did not make walking toward it easier. He watched the cage disappear into the darkness on its slow descent, the small bright bird fluttering as if even it understood it was being sent ahead like a sacrifice.

“Morning, Riley,” one of the men muttered, giving him a short nod.

“Morning,” Jameson replied.

Elliott Dunn stood nearby, face already shadowed with fatigue. He looked as he usually did: steady, watchful, the lines around his eyes deeper than most men his age.

“Let’s hope the bird comes back breathing,” Elliott said quietly.

“Let’s,” Jameson agreed.

For several long minutes, the men waited, hats pulled off, some rubbing their necks, others kneading the handles of their tools. It was not prayer, exactly, but it carried some of the same weight as one. When the signal came to haul the cage back up, everyone leaned in despite themselves.

The canary was alive when it returned to the surface, bright and restless, chirping with sharp little sounds. Men sighed, some swearing under their breath with relief, others crossing themselves before replacing their hats and shifting back into motion.

“Looks like we work another day,” Elliott muttered.

They did not have time to relax before Theodore Scott appeared, boot heels striking hard against the rocks, his expression tight and sour, flanked by his two shadows, Benson and Norris, his cronies always eager to repeat his commands and make sure everyone did as they were told. He liked to make a show of his authority, arriving just as they were about to descend, as though he thought seeing him before going down into the earth reminded them who they answered to.

He stood with his arms folded, gaze sweeping across them. “Listen up,” he barked. “You all know the mine out east shut down.” His voice carried across the yard in that clipped, angry tone he favored. “That means more men looking for work and less room for those of you who can’t keep up. So I’ll say this plainly. Quotas go up. Anyone not meeting them is out. I’m not carrying dead weight. We do not have room for it.”

Murmurs rolled through the group. Some men stared at the ground. Others stiffened. The superintendent’s threats were nothing new, but they hit harder knowing another mine had already proved how expendable workers could become when circumstances changed.

Jameson’s jaw tightened. He felt the familiar heat of anger stir in his chest. Quotas going up meant men working faster in unsafe conditions, swinging harder, taking risks they would not normally take. Mines killed enough without giving them more reason to.

“The work is going to get done because it has to,” Theodore went on. “You don’t like it, find somewhere else to stand around. You stay? You pull your share and then some.”

He turned as if that ended the matter.

Jameson took a step forward before he could stop himself. “Someone is going to get hurt,” he said, voice level but hard. “You push men past what’s reasonable, someone dies. Maybe more than one someone.”

Theodore paused and turned back slowly, eyes narrowing. “You forget your place, Riley?”

“No,” Jameson said. “But maybe you don’t know what it’s like down there.”

A few men shifted closer, as if backing up the words silently. Elliott’s gaze flicked between them with a weary kind of worry.

Theodore’s lip curled. “What is it you think you know better than the man running this operation?”

“That this operation is full of living men,” Jameson shot back. “Men with families. You send them down tired and frightened, demanding more with less, and you’re the reason when one of them doesn’t come back.”

Theodore took a step nearer. “Careful,” he warned softly. “Before you cross a line you don’t get to come back from.”

Jameson could feel his heart beating harder, the memory of Lottie coming to him without invitation. Accidents that could have been prevented. People who should have cared enough to stop them. He clenched his fists, forcing himself not to do something foolish.

“Better to cross a line than bury another man who didn’t need to die,” he said.

“Jameson,” Elliott said under his breath. “That’s enough.”

But Theodore was already bristling, color rising to his face. “You do your job, Riley, or you don’t work here anymore. I’m not discussing it with you. You want to play hero, do it somewhere that doesn’t belong to me.”

He swung his attention back to the others. “Get moving.”

Before Jameson could argue further, Elliott grabbed his arm in a firm grip. “Come on,” Elliott muttered. “You’re not doing any good standing here shouting at him. Get underground. Work. We’ll talk about this later.”

Jameson wanted to keep fighting, wanted to get that last word lodged somewhere it might pierce the thick hide of the superintendent, but he knew Elliott was right. Staying would only put a target on his back and maybe cost him his job. He needed the work. He needed the steady pay. And whether he liked admitting it or not, he needed the brutal routine that forced him to keep breathing each day.

He let Elliott drag him along, taking his helmet and lantern, descending into the cool darkness. The smell down there was always the same: damp stone, earth, sweat, and the faint metallic bite that settled in a man’s mouth whether he wanted it there or not. The tunnels swallowed sound differently than the surface; everything became more contained, echoing back against the wooden beams shoring up the weight of the mountain above.

They worked as they always did. Picks striking stone. Shovels scraping. Timbers creaking. The steady rhythm of men pushing through hours long enough to blur together. Conversation came only in brief snatches, mostly about tools, loose rock, or where the foreman wanted another section cleared. Some hummed old songs under their breath to mark the time, while others kept silent, focused on keeping a solid pace without rushing into foolishness.

Jameson forced himself into the work, muscles straining, lungs pulling in the dusty air. Sweat ran down his back, soaking into his shirt, gathering where the collar rubbed against his neck. Every so often, he glanced down the tunnel, checking the airflow, watching the flicker of lamps for signs of change. Everyone did it, whether they admitted to worrying or not.

Hours later, when the whistle finally blew and the men began to pull back for the day, Jameson felt like he had been scraped thin. He removed his helmet slowly, blinking against the sudden rush of lighter air as they climbed out. Sunlight struck his eyes hard after so long underground, but he was grateful to feel fresh air on his face again.

Elliott clapped him on the shoulder. “You kept your temper mostly,” he said. “Could have gone worse.”

“That’s a generous reading of things,” Jameson muttered.

Elliott huffed out something close to a tired laugh. “You can come back and eat with us if you’ve a mind to. Jessie will be home later, but there’ll be enough.”

Jameson hesitated. There had been a time when he would have welcomed company, but lately the ache of being around families only reminded him of what he no longer had. Sitting at someone else’s table, hearing laughter, seeing a house that still felt alive, all of it twisted something inside him.

“I appreciate it,” he said. “Truly. But I think I’ll walk a while. Clear my head.”

Elliott studied him for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Try not to get yourself in trouble.”

“I’ll do my best.”

He headed away from the mine, letting his feet carry him where they would. He passed through town, nodding to a few familiar faces, ignoring the few pitying glances that still followed him sometimes. He remembered when people could not look away after Lottie died, even as they drew back from him, whispering behind their hands, acting as though grief were contagious. That had eased over time but never disappeared entirely.

He followed a small winding path toward the outskirts where the land opened wider, the hills stretching out beneath the lowering sun. He always found the sound of running water calming, so he drifted toward a narrow stream that cut through the rocks just beyond town. The shallow water moved steadily over the smooth stones, catching the fading light in flashes.

He was not expecting anyone to be there.

But there she was, as if she had been waiting for him.

Jessie Dunn stood near the bank, shawl wrapped loosely around her shoulders, black hair falling free down her back. She looked deep in thought, gaze fixed on the running water as though trying to puzzle something out of it. When she turned and spotted him, her mouth curved into a faint smile.

“Well,” she said, warmth in her voice. “We keep finding each other like this.”

He felt an answering warmth stir in his chest, unexpected but not unwelcome. “Seems we do.”

They met halfway, stopping under a small stand of scrubby trees. Up close, he could see the faint traces of weariness in her eyes, though she still carried herself with that determined steadiness he’d always admired. He had known her for years as Elliott’s daughter, the girl who grew up weathering every hard look this town ever gave her, and lately as a woman who asked him quiet questions and listened with more patience than most.

“You look like a man with something on his mind,” she said lightly. “Last time we walked together, I talked your ear off about my father. I suppose it might be your turn.”

He let out a slow breath. “Things at the mine are…tense,” he said. “Your father is stubborn and won’t see the danger the way I wish he would. The superintendent’s pushing everyone harder than is safe. I keep thinking someone is going to pay for his decisions with their life.”

Jessie nodded slowly. “That sounds like him,” she said softly. “My father has this way of deciding what he wants to see and refusing to look anywhere else, even when it hurts him. He thinks if he keeps his head down long enough, everything will sort itself out.”

She sighed, a sound far too world-weary for someone her age. It was a sound he felt echoing inside of himself. “Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

They walked slowly along the stream together, their conversation falling into a comfortable rhythm as they moved.

“How are things between the two of you lately?” he asked. Though Jessie had often vented her frustrations with her father to him, whenever he saw the two of them together, he was struck by how deep the well of their love ran. They were often at odds, but Jessie was more hard-headed than any other woman he’d ever met.

She shot him a quick, sheepish grin. “We had the same old fight yesterday. What’s new?”

“Why does it bother you so much?” he asked, genuinely curious. “What is it you want from him?”

“It feels like everyone in this town is always watching my every move. Sometimes I feel more like a curiosity than a person.” She brushed self-consciously at her skin, and he looked at the white sparking from her skin, the patches that made Jessie, Jessie. “This disease of mine doesn’t make me easier to not notice.”

He could understand that feeling. Maybe not in the same way, but enough to know what it felt like to live under other people’s stares. Jessie’s skin was a part of who she was, and he had always seen it as nothing but that, though he knew other people in town had given her a hard time about it.

When he was a little boy, he’d told her it was just “icing”, and he remembered that he’d truly believed that. What were the spots but a bright topping on her shining skin? Now, he wondered if that might have just made her feel worse.

“After Lottie died,” he said quietly, “I felt like every eye in Morris Ridge was on me. Some people pity you. Others judge you for how you grieve. Everyone has something to say. It wears on a man. There isn’t any way around it. You just keep walking. Keep your chin up even when you want to sink into the ground.”

Jessie glanced at him, her expression softening. “That sounds like a miserable way to live.”

“It is, sometimes,” he admitted. “But eventually, it stops seeming to be so loud. You learn where your own voice sits again.” He meant the words as he said them, but wondered how true they were. He felt trapped more often than not these days, and was often struck by a longing to start over somewhere fresh, where he wouldn’t be buried in coal dust and memories.

They came to the shallow stretch of stream where flat stones broke the water’s path. Jessie stepped ahead, laughing a little under her breath. “It’s been a long time since I made it this far out of town. I remember crossing here when I was younger. You have to hit the right stones in the right order, or the rocks shift under you. I’ll show you.” She nudged him teasingly and jumped fearlessly onto the first stone.
That was Jessie Dunn to a T. Act first, think later. Jameson tensed as he watched her.

She moved lightly from one stone to the next, but halfway across, her foot slipped on the damp surface. He saw it happen before she had time to cry out. He lunged forward, catching her arm and pulling her toward him as she lost her balance. They both splashed into the water, a shock of cold rushing up through his boots, soaking his trousers.

For a heartbeat, they were still.

Jessie’s breath caught. She looked up at him, eyes wide, water dripping from the ends of her hair.

She was so close to him. Close enough, he could smell the sweet scent of clover on her skin, could count her thick, dark eyelashes. He had never noticed before how striking her gaze truly was up close, rich and alive with emotion. The white patches along her skin caught what little light remained, distinct against the burnished gold of her face and neck, not something to pity or judge but something undeniably unique. Something beautiful.

He held her a second longer than was strictly necessary, lost in the rich color of her eyes.

Then she let out a shaky laugh, and the moment broke just enough for them to breathe again.

“Well,” she said, voice lighter than before. “That could have gone worse.”

“Could have,” he agreed, though he did not regret the way it had gone at all. He helped her find her footing again, guiding her back onto steadier ground. They waded out of the water together, clothes clinging awkwardly, both of them laughing breathlessly.

They stood on the bank, water dripping around them, and silence settled between them again. Jameson found himself reluctant to step away. She wrapped her shawl tighter around herself, wringing some water from the hem of her skirt.

“I should probably head back and try to beat Pa before he gets back from the general store,” she said at last. “If I walk in soaked through, my father will have something more to worry about tonight.”

He nodded. “I should get going too.”

They lingered a moment longer, neither quite ready to turn away. Jessie finally offered him a soft smile.

“I’m glad we ran into each other,” she said.

“So am I,” he replied.

She started back toward town, and he watched her for a moment, the slender curve of her shoulders, the steady way she carried herself even when burdened by things no one else could fix for her. He looked away only when she finally disappeared around the bend.

As he turned to take the path home, he realized something had shifted quietly inside him. He had always felt protective of Jessie because of Elliott. Because she deserved better than the smallness of how people treated her. But tonight, he had seen her differently. Not as a girl to protect, but as a woman standing firmly in her own pain and strength. He found himself hoping their paths would keep crossing.

Maybe not by accident.

Maybe by choice.