Still, a small part of her had hoped.
That hope had been the most foolish thing of all.
She lowered her eyes and tightened her grip on the recipe box.
"Sir, I know I am not the sort of woman a man dreams of marrying. I know what people say when they see me. No one marries a fat girl, sir, but I can cook. I can keep a house, mend clothes, tend a garden, and work from dawn until dark. I won't be a burden to you."
The words came out faster than she intended.
When she finally looked up, Coulter Grady was watching her with an expression she could not understand.
He did not laugh.
He did not look away.
Instead, he stepped down from the porch, took the suitcase from her hand, and said quietly, "Miss Mayburn, I didn't send for a wife because I needed a pretty face sitting beside my fireplace."
Edith's breath caught.
He continued, "I sent for a woman who was willing to build a life with me. If you can cook, that's a blessing. If you can mend clothes, that's another. But if you think those are the only reasons you deserve a place here, then somebody has spent far too long teaching you to think poorly of yourself."
She stared at him.
No one had ever spoken to her that way.
Not without laughter following.
Coulter turned toward the house.
"Come inside. There's coffee on the stove, and the kitchen has been waiting for you."
He paused at the doorway and looked back.
"And for the record, Miss Mayburn, I have no intention of marrying a woman who believes she must apologize for the body she was born with."
The wind moved across the yard.
Edith stood motionless, unable to decide whether she wanted to cry or laugh.
For the first time in her twenty-nine years, a man had looked at her without making her feel like something that needed to be excused.