The Secret Past of the Carpenter’s Bride (Preview)

Chapter One

Boston, 1885

“Lies. Lies. More lies.”

Thalia Evangeline Pendleton was well aware that she looked like a peculiar character from one of her novels, but she didn’t care. She continued to stand there in front of her fireplace, feeding single scraps of newspaper into the flames. They were, after all, responsible for the downfall of her family.

She watched, her eyes fixed but unfocused, as the hungry flames consumed the libelous words. The ink-stained pages curled and blackened before turning to ash.

Only one headline remained legible: PENDLETON FINANCES PHANTOM RIDERS.

The words shrank into nothing before her eyes, vanishing into soot as if the truth itself could be burned away. Even though her father had been convicted of financing the gang of outlaws and imprisoned, they still would not let her be.

“Phantom Riders,” she scoffed. “If I ever get my hands on them, I’ll turn them into phantoms with my bare hands.”

According to the papers, the Phantom Riders were infamous for their sudden appearances and swift departures, leaving behind a trail of devastation across the West. Their signature was unmistakable—a large, black feather left at the site of each raid. The gang’s reputation was built on fear and mystery. Its members wore distinctive black bandanas, their faces hidden. And they never spoke during raids, which only added to their ghostly reputation.

Someone had accused Thalia’s father of financing this gang, but she knew he was innocent. She hadn’t believed it for a moment. Unfortunately, the rest of the country did, though—they believed everything they read.

The fire popped, hungry for more fuel. And it just so happened there was a stack of rejection letters sitting beside her. Dozens of them—neat, polite refusals, some with feigned regret, others with brusque dismissal.

She reached for the next envelope, her fingers running over the embossed letterhead before she fed it to the fire with the others. Every rejection, every closed door, was like another nail sealing the coffin on the career she had painstakingly built. And etched on the outside of the coffin was the name she had proudly presented to the literary world.

She’d written three successful novels. Three. And now, she couldn’t get so much as a foot through the door of an editor’s office.

A soft knock cut through the heavy silence.

Thalia hesitated before tossing the last scrap of paper into the fire. She smoothed down her sleeves, then opened the front door to reveal a familiar face—Sofia Durango. She was wind-blown and breathless, her cheeks ruddy from the night air.

“I saw the postman on the street,” Sofia said, brushing past her and walking into the foyer. “Well, at least it’s warm in here… though perhaps a bit much? she asked as she pulled off her scarf and hung it on the peg by the door.”

Thalia managed a tight smile, but her friend saw through it.

Sofia pursed her lips, leaning in to peek inside the open door of the library. “I knew it! You were burning newspaper articles again, weren’t you?”

Thalia shrugged. “Perhaps. But I can’t burn all of them. There’s always enough copies left to ensure every major publishing house in the country has one.”

Sighing, Sofia set down a brown-wrapped parcel, no doubt another book delivery from the shop. It was her way of keeping Thalia connected to stories, while the rest of the world tried to erase her from history.

“They won’t read your manuscripts?” Sofia asked, eyes darting to the pile of ashes in the grate.

“No. And most of them don’t even bother with the pretense of polite excuses anymore,” Thalia murmured.

She fell into the armchair by the window, staring at the glow of the streetlight through the window. Her name had been respected once. Literary circles had whispered about her brilliant prose, about the fresh, new stories she dared to tell. But scandal was always stronger than ink—it did not leave room for doubt, did not move or soften the reader. It convicted and stained.

“You could use a pseudonym,” Sofia offered, sitting down in the seat opposite Thalia. “Something no one would connect to your father’s name.”

Thalia stiffened. “No.”

“You wouldn’t be denying yourself, only separating yourself from his—”

“No.”

Sofia sighed, drumming her nails against the parcel, searching for another approach.

Thalia traced the windowpane with one finger, following the condensation pooling at the edges. She had spent the better part of two years defending him. Her father—the man who had raised her in a house full of books, who had read her stories by candlelight, who had encouraged her to become a writer.

He was a man with modern views who did not believe in keeping women docile and uneducated. He held Thalia to a high standard, in writing and in life. A vocal proponent of women, he tried to make the world a better place for his daughter. Her father had been a great man. And yet, the world had declared him guilty without hesitation.

That included her brother, Gideon. Thalia swallowed against the familiar ache tightening in her throat.

Her brother had still not answered her last letter. Or the one before that.

In fact, he seemed to have disappeared out west, in Chicago. He’d cut all ties with his family, including Thalia. He was trying his best to cut the final strings tying him to their father and his disgrace. She couldn’t blame him for that. But she could blame him for turning his back on her. And she did.

A sharp knock jolted them both.

Sofia rose first, and retrieved the envelope from the courier waiting at the door. She returned to her seat, handing the letter to Thalia. “Maybe your luck is changing.”

Thalia took it without hesitation, tearing through the seal to reveal the inevitable. She took more care with the letter inside, unfolding it with careful hands. The parchment was stiff from its long journey, the ink bold and unwavering, offering a future that she had never imagined for herself.

“Another rejection?” Sofia’s eyes were filled with pity. “I’m so sorry, Thalia.”

Thalia hesitated before speaking, her eyes tracing the neat script as if searching for hesitation within the words. She didn’t find any.

“It’s not a rejection,” she finally admitted.

Sofia’s eyes went wide. “Well, that’s great news, then! Right?”

Thalia shook her head. “No, you don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand what? Tell me.”

Fidgeting in her chair, Thalia looked down at her feet. “There’s something I haven’t told you Sofia. I’ve decided to leave Boston.”

Across from her, Sofia stiffened, setting down her teacup with deliberate restraint, porcelain clinking against the saucer. “You’re going to live with Gideon?”

“No, of course not!” Thalia paused, taking a deep breath. She had to press forward before she lost her nerve.
“It’s a mail-order bride agency, based in Wyoming Territory.” She held her breath as she waited for Sofia’s reaction.

Silence stretched between them, thick and awkward. Thalia looked away before taking another sip of tea, her hands shaking.

Sofia exhaled slowly, a sound of measured disbelief. “You’re teasing me.”

“I’m not.”

“You… is this research for another novel? You’re nothing if not diligent in your quest for accuracy and detail.
I—”

“It’s not.”

Sofia blinked, then picked up her teacup. “Well, I guess I don’t understand. You’ve fought so hard to hold onto your name and prove the truth of your father’s innocence. How does running away and marrying a stranger solve anything?”

Thalia clenched her fingers against the arm of the chair, her mind racing with the weight of her decision. The agency had promised discretion, a fresh start. It wasn’t merely the appeal of distance, though that was a big part of it. It was more that she was exhausted—financially, emotionally, entirely. The bad press over the past few months had taken its toll, leaving her feeling vulnerable and exposed.

“I need protection,” she admitted, her voice small. “I need—”

“You need to escape,” Sofia finished, gaze locked on her teacup.

Thalia didn’t deny it. She felt a pang of guilt, knowing that she was running away. But she couldn’t see any other way out. Yes, the idea of becoming a mail-order bride seemed drastic, but it offered her a chance to start over, to leave behind the chaos that had recently consumed her life.

Sofia looked up, her eyes filled with concern. “You can’t run away from this. You’re no coward and this is not the Thalia I know and love. Let’s fight this.”

“I’ve tried to fight. I’ve searched every document I could put my hands on, run down every lead I could turn over, and I’m still no closer than when I started. Now, I’m out of ideas, out of money, and out of luck.”

Sofia sighed, then reached out and placed a comforting hand on Thalia’s arm. “You don’t have to choose a way out that’s so… permanent. There are other options. Maybe a nice, long vacation. Go visit some relatives.”

Thalia looked at her, unimpressed. “Relatives? Really?”

“On your mother’s side, I mean.”

“They aren’t exactly very welcoming these days, either. They don’t want to be associated with this branch of the family.”

Sofia’s expression softened. “You can always stay with me. I’ll help you in any way I can, Thalia. But please, think about this carefully. You don’t have to marry a complete stranger.”

Thalia nodded, considering her friend’s words. She appreciated Sofia’s support, but the truth of Thalia’s situation was a bit more dire than she made out.

“I’m tired, Sophia. And I need to face facts. I’ll never publish again. At least, not here.”

Sophia opened her mouth to argue. But Thalia cut her off.

“I’m afraid my mind is made up. I want to go where no one knows me and I can start over.”

Sophia nodded, sighing. “I can understand that. I’m not sure I could have endured even half as long as you have.”

“Thank you.”

Truth was, Sophia didn’t know exactly how dire her financial situation was. She’d spent nearly everything she had on lawyers, detectives—even a fortune teller. And what had it brought her? Her father was in prison, and she was close to destitution. On top of that, she had a house full of rejection letters and only enough money left to survive for a few more months.

She’d lost everything because the world refused to separate her name from scandal. Turning her head to look out the window, she gasped. He’d returned. The same strange man she’d seen before was watching her from the shadows.

He wore a dark coat, leaning against a lamppost across the street. His hat was pulled low, too low to make out his face or features. Who is he? And what does he want?

She swallowed. “Sofia.”

Sofia followed her gaze, eyes narrowing before she murmured, “Who is that?”

“I don’t know, but this is the third night I’ve seen him.”

“You don’t recognize him?”

Thalia shook her head. “No, but I can’t see his face.”

“Could it be another reporter? Maybe he’s a detective and he’s investigating to see if you’re in league with your father?”

Thalia nodded once, throat constricting.

They continued to watch him—a shadow that never got any closer. A dark presence obviously meant to unsettle her, to remind her that she was still worth watching.

Sofia’s fingers curled around Thalia’s wrist, a silent show of support. “Whoever framed your father—perhaps they still consider you a threat.”

A chill ran up Thalia’s spine.

“I have to leave,” Thalia said quietly. “I can’t live like this.”

Sofia’s grip tightened, then slowly released. She nodded her agreement. “I suppose if you’re going all the way to Wyoming,” Sofia said softly, “you can disappear like Gideon did.”

Thalia took a slow breath, considering Sofia’s words. Soon, there would be no Thalia Pendleton—only Thalia Evangeline, a woman free from the past, free to shape herself into something new.

Whatever waited for her in the territories, it would meet a woman reborn.

And Thalia Pendleton would be nothing but a name left behind.

Chapter Two

The bold headline of the Clearwater Springs Gazette glared at Matt from the corner of his workbench.

PHANTOM RIDERS RETURN TO WYOMING TERRITORY.

Black feathers. Raided homesteads. The same ghosts that had haunted him for so long, stirring up old memories.

Matt ignored the paper, focusing instead on the smooth grain of the wood beneath his hands. He smiled, admiring his work. The writing desk was a commission—a fine piece of walnut, its edges beveled with precision, drawers fitted seamlessly. He worked methodically, his grip steady as he sanded the surface.

The bell at the front of the shop jingled. Matt peeked out the window and sighed.

“Hello, Reverend!” Matt said, stepping out of his work shed as he wiped his hands on an old towel.

“Afternoon, Mr. Sterling!” the Reverend replied, walking down the path toward Matt.

“Come on in. I’ll make us a cup of coffee.” Matt was happy to take a break.

Reverend Noah Lawson’s footsteps were measured as he stepped inside, his presence bringing with it the familiar scent of beeswax and old parchment. Matt went straight to the stove, putting some water on for coffee.

“I heard you’ve got a visitor arriving soon,” Noah said, voice knowing as he wandered closer.

Matt didn’t pause his work. “Three days.”

Noah picked up the discarded newspaper, reading the headline before setting it back down with quiet contemplation.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

Matt took two cups from the cupboard, then looked at Noah. “Yes. I’m sure.”

Noah smiled, though doubt reflected in his eyes. “I’m not sure why you feel you need to do this.”

Matt sighed. “I need a partner, Noah. Someone to help manage things around here. Maybe some company, too.”

“But a wife?” Noah asked, obviously not in agreement.

Matt turned to check the coffee, not looking up. “A practical marriage. Yes.”

Noah watched him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“You believe marriage works without love?”

Matt’s hands stilled on the coffee pot. “I believe there’s all kinds of marriages. But love is not a requirement,” he said finally.

He really did believe that. He wasn’t looking for love or romance. He wasn’t looking for tenderness or sentiment. Or anything else except for support and stability—for someone who understood necessity over emotions.

But what Matt didn’t say, what sat heavy on his heart, was that the business had become almost too much for him to handle alone. He needed a partner.

Since losing his brother, Shepherd, the burden had settled squarely on his shoulders. Seven years later, and it wasn’t any lighter. It had become part of him.

Noah folded his arms, voice softer now. “What’s this really about, Matt?”

Matt didn’t answer.

“Does this have anything to do with Linda?” Noah asked. “Just because she turned out to be… a bad person, that doesn’t meet you can’t meet someone else. You’re still young. You’re not even thirty yet.”

Matt handed a cup of coffee to Noah, before turning to pick up his own. “No, it doesn’t have anything to do with Linda. She left seven years ago and last I heard, she and Howard were married and had two children. I’m happy for them. They deserve each other.”

Noah fell quiet as he sipped his coffee, remembering how his fiancée and his ex-best friend had betrayed him all those years ago. He buried his brother one day and watched Linda and Howard board a stagecoach headed east the next day.

Noah sighed, then set his cup on the table. “Where did you say she was from?”

“Boston,” Matt murmured. “She’s already on her way here .”

“Well, I look forward to meeting her,” Noah said. “She must be something special if you’re willing to marry her sight unseen.”

“I prefer it that way,” Matt stated. “Feelings should not come into it at all. We’ve agreed to form a partnership. That’s it.”

Matt set down his cup, rolling his shoulders against the ache that came from hours of woodwork. The writing desk was nearly complete—the kind of craftsmanship that didn’t just serve a purpose but lasted forever. It was a gift for his new bride.

Noah stood, taking his empty cup to the sink. Then, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Matt with the patience that came naturally to a man who’d spent his life tending to souls in crisis.

“I see. Will she stay here with you alone Thursday night?” Noah asked. His tone was neutral, but the weight behind his words were not.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted.

“You’re sure about that timeline?” Noah asked.

“I’m sure,” Matt said firmly.

“You could wait for a bit.” Noah’s voice was leading, but supportive. “Let things settle first. She could stay with me and Sarah while you get to know each other better. You know, before stepping into a lifelong commitment.”
Matt didn’t look up. “I promised her a fast wedding.”

Noah sighed, shifting his weight. “You know I’ll do whatever you want, but I wouldn’t be a good reverend if I didn’t remind you that marriage is more than just living together in the same house.”

Matt didn’t answer, swallowing the last of his coffee.

Noah waited a beat, then asked, “What do you know about her?”

Matt sighed, running his hands through his hair. “Her name’s Thalia Evangeline. Twenty-three years old. A writer from Boston.”

Noah hummed. “What kind of writer? What does she write about?”

Matt hesitated. The silence spoke for him.

Noah pushed away from the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well,” he said, “I suppose you’ll find out soon enough.”

Matt nodded once, short, firm.

Noah watched him a moment longer before stepping toward the door.

“I guess I better head home. I promised Sarah I’d be home for supper. I’ll see you Friday,” he murmured.

“You’re a good reverend, Noah,” Matt said, not wanting to be the cause of any doubt or angst. “And a good friend. I appreciate you checking in with me. But this is what I want. Really.”

“If you’re sure,” Noah prompted.

“I am.”

Noah smiled, nodded and walked out the door, leaving Matt alone with his thoughts. He put his cup in the sink and returned to his workshop to finish the desk for Thalia. But the faint echo of Noah’s words hung there in the quiet shop for hours.

As the sky outside grew darker, Matt straightened up. His back was stiff from bending over the desk for so long, sanding and smoothing, running his fingers along every curve of the wood. It was a fine piece, sturdy and elegant, and he knew, without arrogance, that it was the best work he’d ever done.

He picked up the desk and carried it across the yard and into the house. Glancing up, he took a deep breath and headed up the stairs to Thalia’s room. He was out of breath by the time he got the desk centered in her room and he rested a moment before picking up the ribbon he’d picked out.

The ribbon he’d chosen was deliberate. A deep, rich red, the shade of freshly picked autumn apples. It was the same color as the woolen scarf his mother had wrapped around him on cold mornings when he was a boy. It was a color of warmth, of joy, of things given with care. He tied it tightly around the desk, smoothing down the bow, and letting the loose ends curl and drape over the top, like a finishing touch on something he wanted her to find special.

He lingered there in her room longer than he should have, running a hand over the desk’s surface. He imagined her here in the early morning light, the way the sun might catch in her hair as she sat to write. Who would she write to? And what would she write about? Him? The life they would build? Or would she write of longing, of missing something she had left behind? He would never ask—he would only hope that, in time, her thoughts would turn to happiness.

The house was quiet and growing dark by the time he finally stepped away. He had known loneliness, had lived in it for years, but it had never seemed as vast as it had lately. Though something had shifted. He found himself excited, looking forward to Thalia’s arrival. In fact, he felt alive again for the first time in a long, long time.

He made his way down the stairs, knowing which steps would creak and which ones wouldn’t. He paused to light a lamp before continuing into the kitchen, where the fire in the stove had dulled to embers. The sight of it made his chest tighten. He could already envision Thalia, standing at the stove and cooking supper or sitting at the table slicing vegetables.

The house needed more than just him—more than the furniture he built to fill it, more than his quiet footsteps moving through empty rooms. It needed life. Voices. Laughter.

He fed some kindling into the stove, stoking the fire back to life, and putting on some more coffee. While it heated, he began preparing his supper. It was nothing fancy; just his usual—bread and cheese, a small bowl of pickled vegetables. Noah’s wife, Sarah, had sent him some apple cake. He’d have that for dessert.

His meals were simple and functional but lacking any real talent or care. Hopefully, Thalia would be more gifted in the kitchen. He could already imagine her setting plates down at the table, stirring pots, creating delicious recipes. Would she hum while she worked? Would she talk about her day? Would they discuss the weather, the neighbors, or the upcoming church socials?

He shouldn’t care. This was only a practical arrangement. That was what he wanted. Wasn’t it? He thought about what it might mean to have a real wife—one to share his meals, enjoy the quiet moments, and just the natural ease of conversation that flowed between two people learning about each other.

He wanted to tell someone about the wood he had chosen for his latest project, the time it would take to perfect each joint. And he wanted to listen, to hear about her day, her thoughts, her wants.

But what he didn’t want was to have his heart ripped out again. He didn’t want the messy trappings that came along with those types of relationships. And he definitely didn’t want to feel betrayed and forsaken again.

Sighing, he sat down at the table with his coffee and a plate. The food tasted the same as always—bland, boring, lacking something. Not in seasoning, but something else.

“Three more days,” he murmured. “And Thalia will be sitting there.” He smiled at the empty chair across from him.

Chapter Three

Thalia sat stiff-backed on the westbound train, hands folded tightly in her lap. The rattling cars pitched and rocked as she stared out the carriage window. The landscape had changed from thick forests to rolling plains—nothing but wide open, unguarded lands. She pressed a finger against the smudged glass, tracing the horizon’s bend.

Her trunk sat tucked beneath her feet. It had been her mother’s, too, the leather now worn smooth by years of use. Inside it, wrapped carefully in linen, were the pages of her unpublished manuscripts—stories she had created during late nights and rainy afternoons, the ink still staining her fingers. The second of the only two things in the trunk she could not bear to lose was her mother’s Bible. The rest were merely pieces of her past life.

“You look too young to be carrying all those worries on your shoulders.” Mrs. Winifred Holloway, the elderly widow sharing her compartment, shifted in her seat and sent Thalia a knowing glance. “It’ll ruin your posture.”
Thalia mustered a smile. “I’m just… thinking.”

“You’ll want to get rid of that habit, dear.” Mrs. Holloway adjusted her shawl, her movements slow and deliberate. “Out west, folks speak their minds, plain and clear. That sort of thinking—dwelling, I mean—it doesn’t do much good in a place where you have to live by what’s in front of you.”

Thalia considered this but said nothing. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand what Mrs. Holloway was saying. She just didn’t know how to apply it yet.

“You said you were from Wyoming, is that right?”

“That’s right, dear,” Mrs. Holloway replied with a smile. “I’ve been in Ohio visiting my son, Joshua. He and his wife, Selma, just had another baby—a girl. They named her Amanda, after me. Well, my middle name.”

“That’s so nice,” Thalia said, smiling sweetly.

“Yes. Though, I’m convinced it’s because they’ve run out of names. Or they’re just tired of having to come up with new ideas. This is their eighth child.” Mrs. Holloway shook her head.

Thalia grinned. She really liked Mrs. Holloway. Their conversation had ebbed and flowed since the train pulled out of the last station. She was kind, a good talker, and Thalia found it easy to listen even when she didn’t know what to say in return.

“You’ve got a reason for moving to Wyoming, I take it?” Mrs. Holloway continued, eyeing the small trunk beneath Thalia’s seat. “Is there a man involved, perchance?”

Thalia’s fingers curled inward. “Yes. I’m to be married.”

Mrs. Holloway nodded approvingly. “That’s good. A strong man makes for an easier life.”

Thalia swallowed. She certainly hoped so. She’d never seen Matthias Sterling, but it was a good, strong name. They’d exchanged a few letters between them, and he seemed to have a good head on his shoulders.

Theirs was a decision made out of necessity rather than romance. But that didn’t mean she lacked hope. If she was being honest with herself—a thing she was never particularly good at—she prayed for more than just security. She wanted to find the kind of love she had written about in her novels. The kind that lasted.

“My husband—God rest his soul—was a small man. His size, I mean,” she quickly amended. “But he did a great job taking care of our family. I never thought I would miss him like this—our parents arranged our marriage, you know,” Mrs. Holloway said, eyes drifting toward the window. “Back then, girls didn’t always get to be courted and wooed by available young men. Sometimes, marriage was out of necessity.”

Thalia glanced at her, interested despite herself. “Your parents arranged your marriage?”

“Oh yes,” the older woman continued. “I didn’t love my husband when I met him. Didn’t know him well enough for that. But he owned a small herd of Brahmas, which made him a very good catch in my father’s eyes. I grew to love him in time.”

Thalia hesitated. “Really? And how long did that take?”

“It takes as long as it takes,” Mrs. Holloway chuckled, adjusting the folds of her skirt. “But it’s very possible.”

“How did you…”

“Grow to fall in love with my husband?” the old lady smiled thoughtfully. “Through the living of life, my dear.”

Silence stretched between them then, only the sound of the train beneath them filling the air.

Thalia wondered if living with Matthias Sterling would lead her to love, too. She dared not admit it to anyone else. But maybe there was a chance for more.

The train shuddered to a halt at Fort Washakie Station with a flurry of passengers stirring from their seats to gather their luggage and disembark. Thalia stood, and tightened her grip around the handle of her trunk, watching as men in wide-brimmed hats hefted luggage onto waiting carts and provided directions to new arrivals.

Mrs. Holloway rose beside her, smoothing the creases in her skirt. “Well, dear, this is where we part ways,” she said, her voice kind. “God bless you, and may you find happiness in your new life.”

Thalia smiled—and it wasn’t forced this time. “Thank you, Mrs. Holloway. For everything.”

The older woman touched her arm briefly, then turned away, swallowed by the crowds of travelers exiting toward the stagecoach depot.

Thalia exhaled, stepping off the train into a cloud of dust swirling across the wooden platform. After making her way to the coach house and arranging for the appropriate travel, she sat down with her trunk and waited for her stage to arrive.

As she waited, she noticed something unsettling—the lock on her trunk dangled open, the metal scraped as though someone had forced it. Her breath hitched. Dropping to her knees, she flipped the latch and opened the trunk just enough to peer inside.

Her belongings—skirts, blouses, papers—looked disturbed, as though someone with rough hands had sifted through them. But she didn’t care about those. She checked quickly, her heart pounding as her fingers scrambled through the layers of fabric. The Bible remained tucked away where she’d buried it at the bottom of the trunk, and her manuscripts lay on top undisturbed. Her shoulders sagged with relief, but it was short-lived.

Who had gone through her things? Had someone followed her?

She pressed her palm against the worn leather cover of her mother’s Bible, its edges softened through years of use. The back of it had always felt thicker than it should have—and she thought she knew why. She’d seen her mother slipping notes and letters inside the binding. She didn’t dare open it now, not here, with someone possibly watching her.

She straightened, closed the trunk, and wiped her palms against her skirt while she glanced around nonchalantly. She didn’t see any obvious villains. But she saw people—plenty of them.

A thin man in a dusty vest lounged against the side of the coach house, idly flicking his pocketknife open and shut while he scanned the platform in slow, deliberate passes. On the other side, a woman in a bonnet sat near the ticket counter, holding a child on her lap, her gaze sharp despite the gentle way she stroked the boy’s hair. Near the loading dock, two men hefted crates onto a wagon, their movements practiced, but one of them—broader than the other—kept glancing toward the travelers, as if searching for someone in particular.

And then there was the stranger by the far hitching post—a man dressed neatly for the frontier, too neatly, like someone who hadn’t been west very long but wanted to look the part. He stood with one foot propped against the rail, chewing a wad of tobacco as he watched the street with a casual air, yet something about his posture felt wrong. Calculated.

Thalia shook her head. She was being silly. She left behind her troubles in Boston. No one here knew who she was. And she planned to keep it that way.

***

The stagecoach rocked along the uneven road, bringing Thalia closer to her destination. The land stretched out around them, open and raw, leaving Thalia almost breathless. Inside, she clutched a letter—Matthias Sterling’s last correspondence, which she’d read at least a dozen times over. Still, it was not enough to calm her nerves.
A practical partnership. That was what he’d promised her. No illusions. No romantic notions. And yet, against all reason, she couldn’t help the hope that stirred inside her, even as she tried to crush it.

She folded the letter with careful precision, tucking it away in the folds of her dress just as Clearwater Springs emerged in the distance. Hanging her head from the window, she got her first good look at her new home.

As they drew closer, Thalia smiled at the quaint frontier town nestled amidst a rugged landscape. Wooden buildings lined the dusty main street, including a general store, saloon, and blacksmith shop. Horses and wagons rolled up and down the busy street, and the air was filled with the sounds of more construction. The town was surrounded by vast open plains and distant mountains, offering a sense of both isolation and opportunity.

Inside the coach, Thalia shared the cramped space with another young lady, who had introduced herself as Mary Long. She looked to be close to Thalia’s age and had apparently decided they would be friends.

“My sister, Sarah, is married to Noah Lawson. He’s the reverend at Bethlehem Bible Church,” she stated, her eyes sparkling with the warmth of familiarity as she spoke about the town.

Thalia listened intently, grateful for the company and the insights into her new home. “I look forward to meeting her.”

“You’ll love it here,” Mary said with a smile. “It’s a small town, but the people are friendly and there’s always something going on. Once you’re settled, you should come to our church. We have a wonderful community, and it would be lovely to have you join us.”

Thalia nodded, feeling a sense of relief at the prospect of a welcoming community. “That sounds wonderful. I’d love to come.”

“Where did you say you’d be staying?”

“I… I’ll be staying with my husband, I suppose,” Thalia stammered.

Mary’s smile widened. “Husband? Who is your husband?”

“Well, he’s not my husband yet. But that’s why I’m here. We’re to be married. Tomorrow, as a matter of fact.”

“What’s his name?” Mary repeated.

“Matthias Sterling,” Thalia told her. “Do you know him?”

“Know him?” Mary laughed. “Just all my life. We adore Matt!”

Thalia smiled. That was actually a weight off her mind. Mary was sweet and kind. So, if she adored Matt, he couldn’t be too bad of a person. Right?

“Matt will certainly bring you to church. In fact, there’s a church social next week, along with a singing. It’s a great way to meet everyone, and I’d be honored if you’d be my special guest.”

Thalia’s heart warmed at the invitation. “Thank you, Mary. I’d be delighted to come.”

As the stagecoach rolled into the heart of Clearwater Springs, Thalia continued soaking in the sights of her new home. One young lady in particular caught her eye. She was about the same age as Mary and Thalia, with honey blond hair and posture that Thalia could only strive to achieve. “Who is that?”

Mary leaned over and glanced out the window, following Thalia’s gaze. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, her brow knitting just enough to betray her thoughts.

“Well now,” Mary murmured, drawing back with a sniff. “That would be Permelia Thornfield.”

“She’s lovely,” Thalia noted.

“She’s pretty enough, I suppose. But a fine face doesn’t always mean fine manners.”

Thalia hid a smile. She wasn’t sure what had sparked Mary’s stark disapproval, but she suspected there might be some bad blood between the two women. “I see.”

“Just don’t judge us all by the actions of a few,” Mary added as she settled back into her seat. “The people here are mostly good and kind. But I guess you have a few bad apples wherever you go.”

Thalia smiled. She supposed that was true enough. But if Mary was anything to go by, she thought maybe she could be very happy here.

But the moment her feet hit the ground, she felt it—that unmistakable sense of being out of place. Boston had manicured lawns and marble floors, structured pleasantries, and social engagements. Clearwater Springs was obviously different—rugged, worn, and full of edges.

“I’m going that way,” Mary said, pointing toward the town with a smile. “Do you need a ride?”

“No, thank you. I’ll wait for Mr. Sterling.”

Mary smiled, giving Thalia a friendly hug. “Well, I’ll see you soon, then. And tell him I said congratulations.”

After a final farewell to her new friend, Thalia straightened her shoulders, then turned to face the bustling crowds. Resisting the urge to turn around and run, she scanned the platform, looking for a man who resembled the photo that Matthias had sent.

Then she saw him.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dark chestnut hair gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. He moved with quiet confidence, his gaze passing over the crowd of faces until it landed on her. Thalia’s breath caught in her chest. Those eyes—deep, intense, and as blue as the sky above them.

Matthias Sterling.

And just like that, the reality of her future settled into place. Things were certainly looking up for Thalia Evangeline.