Mr. Miller walked Billie back to her hotel, escorted her up the stairs and bid her goodnight at her door. Mrs. Ferguson watched them like a hawk the entire time. Blimey, Billie thought, the woman takes her gossip seriously. And apparently she wasn’t half the tale-bearer Nellie Davis was.

On their stroll, Lucien told her what had happened last year – for which Mrs. Davis was still performing community service at Hank’s restaurant. Her tongue-wagging had caused that much trouble for one Daniel Weaver (younger brother of the two Weavers she’d met earlier) and his mail-order bride Ebba. It was a horrifying tale – now that she’d heard it in full, she wasn’t sure she’d suffered much worse than Ebba Weaver. Still she knew hers was worse – Ebba didn’t lose an eye, or a father.

But comparison wasn’t going to make her life or circumstances any better. It was still just a matter of time until Mr. Miller sent her off. He might not even believe her story was true – others hadn’t, had drawn their own conclusions and treated her accordingly. Badly, that is.

Billie wiped a tear away, went to the mirror and pulled off her eyepatch. Each time she looked at her reflection, she shivered. She always expected to see her old self, with her other eye, long-lashed and bright blue, looking back. Her father always told her that her eyes were her best feature, and she’d agreed, especially since she wasn’t a great beauty to begin with. Now she’d lost one of those, and there was no hiding it. Plus the scars she’d wear for life.

She turned away, went to her trunk and stared at it a moment. She’d have to unpack a few things just to get ready for bed. “But nothing else,” she said to herself. She put on her nightclothes, took her hair down and began to brush it out. She picked up one of the ribbons Mr. Miller had gifted her, dark blue, and held it against her brown locks. Should she wear it tomorrow? Would he be pleased if she did? Would it matter?

She tossed the ribbon onto the dresser. “Stop fooling yourself. A ribbon won’t change anything.” She brushed her hair harder in frustration.

When she was done, she blew out the lamp, crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling. Moonlight shone through the window, illuminating the quilt’s intricate pattern. She wondered who made it – Mrs. Ferguson? A guest? Some woman in town? She’d never learned how to quilt, or do much of anything domestic except take care of her father. Even in that, she had help – she cooked for him now and then, but employed a cook/housemaid who took care of things the rest of the time.

While on board her father’s ship, the Nina Jane, there wasn’t much call for homemaking skills, and the ship’s cook got grumpy when she went into the galley to fetch something, even if it was for her father. Mr. Scroggs was one of many that believed bringing a woman on board was bad luck. Never mind that the Nina Jane was built to accommodate passengers along with cargo. Sailors still didn’t like the notion of a woman on board, not even as crew, which she more or less was.

She remembered the day her father sold the Nina Jane and most of their other belongings and booked passage for America. He was so excited to fulfill his dream – a dream soon stolen from him, and her. And now his dream for her was falling to pieces. “I’m sorry, Father. I’m so sorry …”

Tears in her eyes, Billie drifted off to sleep.

Lucien moved the vase of flowers from the dining table into the parlor and set them on the mantle. He eyed the pretty yellow bells and wild hyacinth in the evening lamplight. They were beginning to wilt – he’d have to pick more. He shook his head and returned the vase to the dining room, crossed his arms and studied them again. Did she like flowers on the table? What about the parlor? If he got up early enough, he could pick more. He wanted everything perfect when he showed Miss Sneed her future home.

Not “Miss Sneed” for long, though. “Mrs. Billie Jane Miller,” he said. “Hm, I like that.” He straightened and waved at the table. “And this is the dining room – how do you like it?” He shook his head. “And this is your dining room …” He shook it again and cleared his throat. “And here we have our dining room. What do you think?” He nodded, tugged at his vest and smiled in satisfaction. “There. Now for the kitchen.”

Once in the kitchen, he glanced around. Everything was in order, but he really needed to bring more wood in. And … he went to a hutch, opened a drawer and pulled out a white lace tablecloth his mother had sent him last year. He’d been saving it for a special occasion, and getting married was as special as it got. He spread it over the table and smiled. “There. Very nice.”

Lucien’s hands went to his hips as he ran through a mental checklist of his larder. Flour, sugar, coffee, salt … he’d have to get some butter, he was out. He went back into the parlor, sat at his desk and made out a list for Mrs. Quinn at the mercantile. He’d leave it with her on his way to the bank in the morning.

But first he’d stop by the hotel and leave a message for Miss Sneed to join him for lunch. They’d need to discuss a few things before they wed – he wanted to make sure she had everything she needed to settle in. For all he knew, the poor woman was out of tooth powder. Or perfume, what about that? He didn’t detect any during his time with her. Did she not wear it, or just not have any?

Details – he thrived on them, in banking and in life, and found the more he thought about his future bride, the more details he wanted. What was her favorite color? What did she like for breakfast? Heavens, did she cook? There wasn’t much mentioned in her letter to him about domestic skills other than some sewing. What about gardening? Would she like the garden he’d planted? Favorite and least favored foods? Questions, so many questions.

Lucien took out another sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the inkwell and wrote down every question he could think of to ask Miss Sneed. Only then did he consider the evening done and his preparations complete.

The next morning, he got up, shaved, dressed and, after a quick breakfast, put his list and note to Miss Sneed in his jacket pocket. He whistled as he left his little house with a nagging thought in the back of his mind – should he have made a bigger dwelling? No, two bedrooms should be enough for now. The thought made him smile, and he smiled all the way to the hotel.

“Good morning, Mr. Miller,” Mrs. Ferguson said flatly as he entered.

He stopped and stared at her. She wore a disapproving look that didn’t waver as he approached. “I’d like to leave a message for Miss Sneed.”

“And?” She glanced at a piece of paper on the counter and scribbled something down.

He pulled the note from his pocket. “Give her this for me, won’t you?”

She sighed, stopped writing and took the note from him.

Lucien wondered what had her in such a sour mood. “Is everything all right, Mrs. Ferguson?”

“Certainly, why would you think otherwise?” She glanced at the paper in front of her. “But if you must know, I’m writing my niece in Seattle a letter. She’s of marriageable age, you know – I want to see if she’s found any good prospects.”

Lucien smiled. “I wish her well. I’m sure she’ll be married in no time.” He nodded goodbye. “See that Miss Sneed gets my note before nine o’clock. I’m sure she’ll sleep in this morning – she’s exhausted from her journey.”

Mrs. Ferguson cocked her head. “Just what gave you the notion to send off for a bride from England? I thought the only fools that did that were in Clear Creek.”

“I didn’t. I answered an advertisement from an agency in Denver. That Miss Sneed is English had nothing to do with it – she’s simply whom they sent.”

Mrs. Ferguson pressed her lips together. “Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, Lucien, she seems odd to me. There’s something not right about her. Surely you can do better.”

Lucien arched an eyebrow as his jaw tightened. “Mrs. Ferguson, she’s been through a horrible ordeal, the likes of which I will not discuss, and bears the results forever on her face. Of course there’s something not right. For her, there are things that will never be right again. Remember that.”

Mrs. Ferguson stood, her eyes round as platters. He hadn’t scolded her exactly, just stated a fact, but from the look on her face she took it as a lecture nonetheless.

Lucien waited for a counterattack, but there was none forthcoming. Odd. “Good day, Mrs. Ferguson,” he said with a tip of his hat, turned on his heel and strode out the door.

The incident stuck in his mind, though. He’d have to make sure the residents of Nowhere didn’t treat Miss Sneed differently because of her injuries, physical or otherwise. He knew what damage could be wrought with the tongue, Nellie Davis being chief offender on that score. But he’d heard her daughter Charlotte had been just as vicious once. He didn’t know her then and was glad of it. He much preferred Charlotte as the kind, sweet woman that took everyone under her wing.

Would Nellie ever change as her daughter had, or would she remain a cold, heartless gossip that took pleasure in stirring up trouble for others? Who knew? Her actions the night before surprised everyone, and he supposed tongues would wag about it at some point. Or not. Gossips rarely talked about the good people did, mostly the bad.

He reached the mercantile and went inside. “Good morning, Mrs. Quinn.” He went straight to the counter and set down his list. “Might I pick these up after I get off work?”

“Certainly, Lucien.” She looked around the store as if to make sure they were alone. “So how did supper go last night?”

He chuckled. “It was fine. And yours?”

“What? My supper?”

“You asked about mine.”

She smiled as she caught on. “Well, it was just dandy. But can I help it if I want to make sure things are coming along for you and your mail-order bride? You’ll be sure to let Leona and me know if you need our help.”

He laughed. “I will. I’m having lunch with Miss Sneed today – I’ll let her know.” To avoid you and Mrs. Riley until after the ceremony.

“Thank you, Lucien, you’re a dear.”

He left the mercantile chuckling to himself and headed for the bank. He wondered how many people he could introduce his bride to in the coming days. And what about those outside of town – the Rileys and Johnsons, not to mention the rest of the Weavers … a shiver went up his spine. Okay, it was too soon for the Weavers. A few at a time was fine, but not the whole anarchic clan. Poor Miss Sneed might flee and not stop until she was back across the Atlantic.

He went inside the bank and straight to his office. For some reason he felt so different today. Yes, he was about to become a husband, but he hadn’t foreseen the effect it would have on him. He needed someone in his life to … well, take care of. He wanted to share his shelter and food with a bride, and experience his generosity in other ways too. No, he wanted a heart to care for, protect and nurture. Miss Billie Jane Sneed was perfect.

Billie packed her nightclothes away and went to the window. It was a beautiful day with the sun shining, birds singing and a sweet smell in the air. She’d opened the window when she awoke and had kept it open ever since.

A knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. She answered it to find a pretty woman with chestnut hair and hazel eyes, a basket on her arm and a big smile on her face. “Good morning,” she said with a Southern accent. Billie remembered the waitress from the restaurant – was this a relation? “I hope you’ll pardon the intrusion, but my mother told me you were staying here – not that I couldn’t have figured it out on my own. You and Lucien aren’t married yet …”

Billie nodded, unsure of what to say.

“I’m Charlotte Quinn. I brought you some breakfast.”

“Oh, how kind.” Billie stepped aside. “Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you.” She entered and set the basket on the dresser. “I brought muffins and bacon. The bacon’s still warm, so you’ll want to eat that first.”

Billie smiled. “I … I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh, you don’t have to say anything. I’m just being neighborly. I’m sure we’ll see a lot of each other. My husband and his family own Quinn’s Mercantile.”

“I see,” Billie said with a nod and pulled the napkin off the basket. The smell made her stomach growl. “Excuse me.”

“Go ahead, eat. I can fetch you a cup of coffee from downstairs if you’d like. Mrs. Ferguson always keeps a pot on the stove.”

“No, don’t trouble yourself – you’ve done so much already.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” she said with a wave of her hand and turned to the door. “Cream and sugar?”

Billie smiled, unable to think straight. This was the last thing she expected. “Please.”

“Be right back.” Charlotte breezed out the door.

Billie stared at the contents of the basket. The last major town she’d passed through, someone threw rotten fruit at her. Worse, the sight of her scarred face sent a small child screaming for his mother. She was the stuff of nightmares to some, simply ugly to others. But here … why was this woman being so kind? And what about Mr. Miller? Did he deem it a kindness to buy her gifts and food before he sent her off, or was he just trying to allay his guilt for doing so?

Speaking of which, she still needed to decide where she wanted to go.

Charlotte returned with her coffee. “Here you are, with cream and sugar.” She handed her a cup and saucer. “Muffin?” she asked, pulling one from the basket.

“No, thank you, not yet. The bacon is too tempting.”

“Yes, I know. I ate enough of it this morning.”

Billie smiled, took a wrapped napkin from the basket and pulled out a slice. “Have you been married long?”

“A little over six years.”

“Children?” She took a bite of bacon. It was heavenly.

Charlotte bowed her head. “No. For whatever reason, the good Lord hasn’t seen fit to bless us with any.”

Billie chewed thoughtfully, swallowed and asked, “But you want them?”

“Oh, of course. So do Mathew’s parents,” she added with a weak chuckle and an eye roll. “My mother-in-law reminds me often.”

“Oh, I see.” Billie made sure not to laugh. Though the woman was making light of the subject, she could see the pain in her eyes.

“What about you – do you want children?”

“What?” Billie said, surprised at the question. Or rather, her reaction – her heart leaped at her words. But it would never be. “One day, perhaps,” she said before taking another bite of bacon.

“I’m sure Lucien does.”

“Lucien? Oh.” Billie smiled. “I’ve only called him ‘Mr. Miller’.” She pulled out another piece of bacon. “You must think me silly.”

“Not at all – what else would you call him? You’ve only just met. But I hope you’ll call me Charlotte.”

“And you can call me Billie.”

“Billie? I haven’t heard a woman go by that name before. I like it.”

“Billie Jane, to be exact. My father called me Jane, but also Billie a lot.”

“And you prefer Billie?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, Billie it is,” she said. “Mind if I share a muffin with you?”

Billie smiled again. “No, not at all.”

Charlotte smiled back before taking a muffin from the basket along with a butter knife and cut it in two. “It’s nice to make a new friend. Wait until you meet some of the other ladies in town – I’m sure you’ll like them.”

Billie took the half she offered and put it on a napkin. What else could she do? For all she knew she’d be leaving on the afternoon stage. Pity – she was beginning to like Charlotte Quinn.