Page 7 of Charlotte

Delly picked up her satchel. “Remember to note it down somewhere; otherwise you’ll forget.”

She looked down at the Tennyson in her arms, then toward the town rising above the dock.

“Uh-huh.”

“Come on, Lottie. We need to find the hotel.”

Lottie shifted the books in her arm, picked up her satchel, and followed her sister down the dock and up the road towards town.

Wild Rose Ridge was rougher than she had imagined. Louder. More dangerous. It had already bloodied a boy, ruined Delly’s dress, and given Lottie a husband-to-be who seemed determined to flee before they had properly begun.

Still, she had not come all this way for a simple story. She had come because somewhere beneath Mr. Peterson’s awkward letters she had found a kindness he did not know how to hide. Now, she had seen it in his hands, or at least on the one hand he allowed the world to see.

The other hand remained tucked in his coat. In June.

Lottie intended to understand why.

Chapter Two

June 19, 1886, evening — The Ridge Hotel

The Ridge Hotel had been dressed for the brides, and Charlotte Bellamy loved it before she had taken three steps into the parlor.

It was too much, which made it perfect.

Red, white, and blue bunting hung along the walls, even though the Fourth of July was still weeks away. A crooked banner over the mantel read WELCOME BRIDES in letters which could not agree on size. Cakes crowded the long table by the window. Pine boughs had been arranged along the mantel, likely because someone had mistaken abundance for taste. Nobody in Wild Rose Ridge had the heart to correct the women who decorated everything.

Lottie adored every inch.

The room smelled of coffee, cake, lamp oil, damp wool, and men who had made a serious effort at soap. The men stood along the edge of the parlor in clean shirts, pretending interest in the wallpaper while looking very much at the brides. Several wives from town hovered near the hearth, smiling to welcome the strangers and inspect them thoroughly at the same time.

Beside Lottie, Delly took one look at the room and lowered her voice.

“This is organized meddling.”

“It’s a reception.”

Lottie pressed her freshly rescued Tennyson against her middle and tried not to smile too broadly. The book was dry now, mostly. She held it as a security blanket between her and the rest of the room.

Mr. Peterson. The thought made her glance toward the doorway. She had looked for him the whole short walk from the dock to the hotel, then again when they entered the parlor, then once more after someone pushed a plate of cake into her hands and told her she looked thin.

He was here.

Of course, he was. He stood near the back of the room, half in the hall’s shadow, with his hat in his left hand and his right hand tucked inside his coat, which was much too warm for the cooler June evening. He didn’t stare at the brides like the other men. Instead, he watched the room as if someone might ask something of him at any moment, and he intended to be ready to refuse.

Lottie’s heart, foolish organ that it was, warmed anyway. He had picked up Tennyson from the dock boards. A man who did such a thing could scowl in corners as much as he pleased. Lottie was prepared to allow a great deal for Tennyson.

Before she could consider whether marching straight across the room would be bold or improper, three women bore down upon the cluster of brides.

The first carried a list. The second wore a hat with cranberry feathers, and the third looked as though she had opinions filed alphabetically and meant to use them.

Val Sutton appeared beside Delly with two cups of tea and an expression suggesting she had seen this campaign before and survived it narrowly.

“Those three,” Val murmured, “are the Busy Bees. Mrs. Schulte has the spectacles and the list. Mrs. Beck has the feathers and the bank. Mrs. Hanford has the opinions.”

“That sounds like an alarming distribution of power,” Delly said.

“It is.” Val smiled. “They mean well, which makes them far more dangerous.”