The Woman on the Last Train
The train arrived in Red Hollow just before sunset, dragging a long trail of black smoke across the copper-colored sky.
For twenty minutes, Caleb Morgan had stood beside the station platform with one hand resting on the saddle of his bay horse.
For twenty minutes, he had watched the same clouds change color.
First gold.
Then orange.
Then the deep red that gave Red Hollow its name.
And during those twenty minutes, Caleb had decided that coming here had been a terrible idea.
He had also decided that he was going to go through with it.
Those two thoughts had been fighting inside his head for most of the afternoon.
At thirty-two years old, Caleb Morgan was a man who could ride through a blizzard, face a wounded bull, negotiate with a stubborn cattle buyer, and repair a broken fence in the middle of the night without complaining.
But marriage was another matter.
Marriage frightened him.
Not because he didn't understand work.
He understood work.
Not because he didn't understand responsibility.
He had been responsible for Morgan Ranch since he was twenty-two.
Marriage frightened him because it required trust.
And trust was something Caleb had stopped giving away freely a long time ago.
Six months earlier, his mother had been dying.
The winter had been brutal.
The cattle had suffered.
The northern fence had collapsed under heavy snow.
Two barns had nearly come down.
Caleb had spent weeks sleeping for three or four hours at a time, riding from one pasture to another while the wind cut through his coat.
His mother, Margaret Morgan, had watched him from her bedroom window.
She had been sick for years, but that winter the illness finally took what little strength remained.
One evening, when the snow was falling so hard that the world outside the window had disappeared, she had called him to her bedside.
"Caleb."
"I'm here."
"You can't do this forever."
He had known exactly what she meant.
"I can."
"No."
She had smiled.
"You inherited your stubbornness from your father."
Caleb had looked away.
His father had been dead for ten years.
Margaret continued.
"You need someone."
"I have the ranch."
"That's not what I said."
"I don't need a wife."
"You don't need a servant either."
Caleb had frowned.
His mother had reached for his hand.
"Build a family, Caleb."
"I don't know how."
"Then learn."
Those had been some of her last words.
Three weeks later, she was gone.
Caleb had buried her beneath the old cottonwood behind the house.
Then he had returned to work.
But he had remembered what she said.
Build a family.
The arrangement with Clara Whitmore had come six weeks later.
A distant acquaintance had written to Caleb.
The Whitmore family had once been respected in Missouri.
Then came bad investments.
Medical bills.
A failed business.
Debt.
Clara, twenty-seven, educated and unmarried, had apparently decided to leave home rather than watch her family disappear.
She had written Caleb herself.
Her letter had been short.
She did not ask for romance.
She did not pretend they knew one another.
She simply said that she understood ranch life would be difficult and that she was willing to work.
Caleb had agreed.
He told himself it was practical.
A wife could manage the household.
She could help with the accounts.
She could bring some warmth into a house that had felt empty since his mother died.
And perhaps, someday, they might become something more than strangers.
But now, standing at the station, Caleb wondered whether he had made the greatest mistake of his life.
The train whistle sounded.
He looked up.
The massive engine slowed.
Metal screamed against metal.
Steam rolled across the platform.
Passengers began stepping down.
A family with two children.
A traveling salesman.
An elderly couple.
A young soldier.
Then Caleb saw her.
The final passenger car opened.
A woman stepped onto the platform carrying a single leather suitcase.
Caleb straightened.
She wore a dark traveling coat over a pale blue dress.
Her black hair was braided over one shoulder.
A small silver pendant rested against her throat.
She looked younger than he expected.
But it was her eyes that stopped him.
They were steady.
Direct.
Not frightened.
Not timid.
They looked like the eyes of someone who had already survived more than she intended to discuss.
Caleb walked toward her.
"Miss Whitmore?"
She turned.
"You're Caleb Morgan."
It wasn't a question.
He nodded.
"I am."
She looked him over.
Dusty boots.
Weather-beaten coat.
Worn hat.
A face darkened by years beneath the western sun.
Then she glanced at his horse.
"You came alone."
"I figured you'd rather not have a crowd waiting."
"That was considerate."
Caleb reached for her suitcase.
She stopped him.
"I can carry it."
"I don't doubt that."
"Then why did you reach for it?"
He paused.
"Habit."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"That's an interesting answer."
Caleb wasn't sure whether she was teasing him.
He took the suitcase anyway.
"Your train is leaving."
"I know."
"You aren't going to say goodbye to anyone?"
She looked toward the train.
"No one came."
Something about the answer made Caleb uncomfortable.