wiped her hand on her skirt, probably not getting it any cleaner. "I'm
Amy Hamilton, a friend of Phin Sharpe's." She squinted at Rika. "And
who on God's green earth are you?"
* * *
The young woman stared at her. Amy stared back.
"I'm Johanna Bruggeman," the stranger said.
Amy put her hands on her hips. "No, you're not. I've
seen the tintype. You're not her."
The fragile beauty of Phin's bride had burned itself into
Amy's memory. The stranger, however, was neither fragile nor beautiful. While
the tintype hadn't provided colors, Amy could tell that Phin's bride had fair
hair. The stranger's brown hair, though, shone with the same coppery gleam as
the mahogany coat of Nattie's mare. Her wide brown eyes reminded Amy of a
spooked horse.
The woman's gaze flitted around, and she hid behind her
carpetbag as if it were a shield. But then she tilted her head and composed her
stern features.
Like a mustang, Amy thought. Spooked but unbroken
in spirit.
"Of course I am Johanna Bruggeman." Her slight
accent made the name sound exotic.
Right. She's Dutch. So was she Phin's bride after
all? "Then how come you don't look like the woman in the tintype?"
A muscle in the stranger's face twitched. "Phineas
showed you the tintype?"
Amy nodded and dug her teeth into her bottom lip. She hoped
she wasn't blushing. Why did she feel like a boy who'd been caught with the
picture of a dance-hall girl? It wasn't as if she had ogled the young woman's
picture. She raised her chin. "You still owe me an explanation."
The stranger lowered her gaze. "I was too embarrassed
to have my picture taken," she said. "I know men don't find me all
that appealing, so a friend allowed me to send her picture instead."
Amy slid her gaze over her, judging her honesty – and her
appeal – then she looked away.
"I know it's vain," the young woman said.
"But I hope you won't judge me for it."
"None of my business," Amy said. She didn't plan
on having much to do with Phin's bride. Easy to do, since she would be busy
with the ranch. "All right, then let's go. I'll take you to the ranch. My
family will take care of you until Phin returns." She kept her movements
gentle but firm, as if dealing with a young horse, and again reached for the
carpetbag.
Finally, the tight muscles in the woman's hands relaxed, yet
she still didn't hand over her baggage.
"Do you have any other bags?" Amy asked.
A flush stained the young woman's pale skin. "No, just
this one."
As far as Amy was concerned, there was no shame in being
poor. At least she wouldn't have to drag half a dozen suitcases, bags, and
hatboxes to the buckboard and could get back to the ranch sooner.
The ranch and Mama . No doubt Mama would have
something interesting to say about Amy's skirt and the mare.
* * *
Gray patches of mist drifted up from the river and mingled
with the never-ending drizzle. In the half-light of the fading day, grassland
stretched out in front of Rika like the sea beyond Boston Harbor, the wind
rippling through the blades. The tang of pine and leather hung in the air.
Rika pushed her sodden bonnet out of her eyes and threw a
glance at Amy Hamilton, who sat next to her on the buckboard. Unlike Rika, she
didn't seem to notice the gloomy weather.
Rika glanced at the sinewy hands holding the reins.
What a strange, unusual woman. Amy Hamilton was
unlike anyone she'd ever met in Boston. After the mindless routine in the
cotton mill, at least life out west promised to be interesting.
The brown horse in front of the wagon walked steadily, its
head bopping up and down as it pulled them through a valley dotted with trees
and bushes Rika didn't know. A creek gurgled alongside them, and the horse's
harness jangled with every step. Behind them, the gray horse splashed through
the mud. It had whinnied and struggled against the rope at first but had then
gotten used to being tied to the wagon.
It's so quiet . After the constant noise in the
city and the clatter of the looms in the cotton
Amy Hamilton, a friend of Phin Sharpe's." She squinted at Rika. "And
who on God's green earth are you?"
* * *
The young woman stared at her. Amy stared back.
"I'm Johanna Bruggeman," the stranger said.
Amy put her hands on her hips. "No, you're not. I've
seen the tintype. You're not her."
The fragile beauty of Phin's bride had burned itself into
Amy's memory. The stranger, however, was neither fragile nor beautiful. While
the tintype hadn't provided colors, Amy could tell that Phin's bride had fair
hair. The stranger's brown hair, though, shone with the same coppery gleam as
the mahogany coat of Nattie's mare. Her wide brown eyes reminded Amy of a
spooked horse.
The woman's gaze flitted around, and she hid behind her
carpetbag as if it were a shield. But then she tilted her head and composed her
stern features.
Like a mustang, Amy thought. Spooked but unbroken
in spirit.
"Of course I am Johanna Bruggeman." Her slight
accent made the name sound exotic.
Right. She's Dutch. So was she Phin's bride after
all? "Then how come you don't look like the woman in the tintype?"
A muscle in the stranger's face twitched. "Phineas
showed you the tintype?"
Amy nodded and dug her teeth into her bottom lip. She hoped
she wasn't blushing. Why did she feel like a boy who'd been caught with the
picture of a dance-hall girl? It wasn't as if she had ogled the young woman's
picture. She raised her chin. "You still owe me an explanation."
The stranger lowered her gaze. "I was too embarrassed
to have my picture taken," she said. "I know men don't find me all
that appealing, so a friend allowed me to send her picture instead."
Amy slid her gaze over her, judging her honesty – and her
appeal – then she looked away.
"I know it's vain," the young woman said.
"But I hope you won't judge me for it."
"None of my business," Amy said. She didn't plan
on having much to do with Phin's bride. Easy to do, since she would be busy
with the ranch. "All right, then let's go. I'll take you to the ranch. My
family will take care of you until Phin returns." She kept her movements
gentle but firm, as if dealing with a young horse, and again reached for the
carpetbag.
Finally, the tight muscles in the woman's hands relaxed, yet
she still didn't hand over her baggage.
"Do you have any other bags?" Amy asked.
A flush stained the young woman's pale skin. "No, just
this one."
As far as Amy was concerned, there was no shame in being
poor. At least she wouldn't have to drag half a dozen suitcases, bags, and
hatboxes to the buckboard and could get back to the ranch sooner.
The ranch and Mama . No doubt Mama would have
something interesting to say about Amy's skirt and the mare.
* * *
Gray patches of mist drifted up from the river and mingled
with the never-ending drizzle. In the half-light of the fading day, grassland
stretched out in front of Rika like the sea beyond Boston Harbor, the wind
rippling through the blades. The tang of pine and leather hung in the air.
Rika pushed her sodden bonnet out of her eyes and threw a
glance at Amy Hamilton, who sat next to her on the buckboard. Unlike Rika, she
didn't seem to notice the gloomy weather.
Rika glanced at the sinewy hands holding the reins.
What a strange, unusual woman. Amy Hamilton was
unlike anyone she'd ever met in Boston. After the mindless routine in the
cotton mill, at least life out west promised to be interesting.
The brown horse in front of the wagon walked steadily, its
head bopping up and down as it pulled them through a valley dotted with trees
and bushes Rika didn't know. A creek gurgled alongside them, and the horse's
harness jangled with every step. Behind them, the gray horse splashed through
the mud. It had whinnied and struggled against the rope at first but had then
gotten used to being tied to the wagon.
It's so quiet . After the constant noise in the
city and the clatter of the looms in the cotton
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