Page 28 of Charlotte

The words came out too fast. Lottie tilted her head.

His left hand flexed against his hat brim. “Not today.”

There was the gate again. Closed, but not locked, perhaps. She held the book out anyway, not toward his hands, only enough for him to see the cover. “Then perhaps another day.”

He looked at it for a long moment.

“Perhaps,” he said.

It was the second unfinished answer he had given her. Lottie was beginning to treasure them.

Mrs. Beck called from the church steps to say there was more cake and Mr. Peterson ought to stop skulking like a criminal, which seemed unlikely to produce the desired effect. He stepped back at once.

“I should go.”

“Yes,” Lottie said, though she wished he would not.

He tilted his head. “Miss Bellamy.”

“Mr. Peterson.”

He walked away toward the camp road, still carrying himself like a man braced for weather no one else could see.

Lottie unfolded the shelving list again and looked down at his careful measurements.

A western town on the edge of civilization, he had said last night.

Yet, he had thought about shelves.

She smiled before she could help it.

Behind her, Delly laughed.

Lottie turned, startled. Her sister stood beside Jeb near the church steps, one hand at her mouth as if the sound had surprised her more than anyone else. Jeb looked down at her with such quiet pleasure Lottie’s eyes stung all over again.

Weddings, she decided, were not endings at all. They were beginnings dressed up to look settled.

She looked once more at the road where Peterson had gone, then folded his list carefully and tucked it into the botany book for safekeeping.

Delly had married before supper.

Mr. Peterson had made her a shelving list.

The day had been entirely unreasonable.

Lottie, who had come west believing love would announce itself plainly, held the careful list against her book and wondered whether a man could begin courting a woman without meaning to.

Chapter Five

June 21, 1886 — The Ridge Hotel and Meeting Hall

Lottie woke up alone.

Not truly alone. The Ridge Hotel was full of brides, travelers clumping down the hallway, and at least one rooster outside who had taken up a personal grievance against sunrise.

Someone in the next room sneezed three times in a row.

Downstairs, dishes clattered, Mrs. Hanford’s voice carried through two walls, and the scent of coffee climbed the staircase with more confidence than the coffee likely deserved.