trying to make sure she had not changed her mind.

As if she had been given a choice.

Then he nodded.

“I do,” the pastor said for him, because people always seemed eager to put words into Jonah Reed’s silence.

When it was Beatrice’s turn, her mouth felt dry.

“I do,” she said.

Outside under the chapel eaves, the rain came down harder.

Guests huddled in clusters, pretending to offer blessings while waiting for the final joke.

Gideon Pike, owner of Miller’s tavern, strode forward with a grin too wide for his face.

“A deal’s a deal, Reed,” he said.

Jonah did not hear him, but he saw the coins.

Gideon pressed them into his palm and winked toward the men behind him.

Laughter rose.

Something inside Beatrice went very quiet.

Jonah looked down at the coins.

Then he looked at Gideon.

Slowly, deliberately, he opened his hand and let the money fall into the mud.

The laughter thinned.

He took out his slate and wrote with hard strokes.

I did not marry her for that.

He turned the slate so Beatrice could read it.

Rain blurred her vision before it blurred the chalk.

“Then why?” she asked.

Jonah held her gaze for one heavy second.

Then he wiped the slate clean.

The ride to the orchard took nearly an hour.

The wagon wheels groaned through mud, past low stone walls and winter-bare hedges.

Bellweather Valley opened beneath them in folds of wet green and gray, with smoke lifting from chimneys and sheep clustered under leaning trees.

Beatrice sat straight beside Jonah, hands clasped over her lap, aware of her body in a way she hated.

The dress cut into her waist.

Her thighs touched the wooden bench.

Every jolt made the wagon complain.

She wondered whether Jonah regretted the joke already.

At the ridge road, the valley disappeared behind a curtain of rain.

Apple trees appeared in rows, black limbs reaching out of the mist.

Beyond them stood a farmhouse with a stone chimney, a low barn, a well, and a narrow kitchen garden fenced against deer.

The place was plain, but not neglected.

Firewood had been stacked under cover.

Tools hung in order by the barn door.

The front step had been swept clean despite the weather.

Inside, the house smelled of smoke, dried herbs, and bread.

Jonah carried her trunk to a small bedroom at the back.

A quilt lay folded on the bed.

A pitcher of clean water stood on the washstand.

The window looked out over the orchard, where rain slid along dark branches.

He wrote, This room is yours.

I sleep by the hearth.

Beatrice frowned.

“That is not necessary.”

He watched her mouth, then looked at the slate as if guessing.

He wrote again.

Nothing is owed because vows were spoken.

The words unsettled her more than a command would have.

He left her there.

Beatrice sat on the edge of the bed in the dress that was not quite hers and let the silence gather around her.

She had imagined many versions of this night, all of them humiliating.

She had not imagined kindness.

Kindness was harder to mistrust when she wanted so badly to believe in it.

She cried without making a sound.

In the morning, Jonah was gone before dawn.