Wyoming Territory, 1880

Before leaving for the annual cattle drive, Patrick Quinn sent telegrams to several Topeka establishments, placing orders for a whet stone, a cast-iron stove, four pairs of heavy work trousers, and a wife. He was really only particular about the trousers.

The train carrying his bride-to-be arrived on a clear day in late September. Thornwood wasn’t a busting town, but they had a fair amount of coming and going. A handful of women stepped off the train.

Quinn eyed the new arrivals and couldn’t say any quite matched the description. All the bachelors ’round about had come to the station. Women were so few and far between in their corner of Wyoming that the arrival of any as-yet-unwed ladies was reason for a regular town gathering. More than once, a woman had been claimed by someone other than her intended, having changed her mind at the last moment.

That would not happen to him.

He pulled from his coat pocket the telegram he’d received describing his intended.

Hair, light brown, with curl. Eyes, blue. Of a smaller build.

He surveyed each woman as he passed. Quinn was tall for a man and used to towering over the womenfolk. How, then, did he know what the telegram meant by “smaller build?” Most everyone had a smaller build than he did.

He eyed a woman with black hair pulled in a tight bun. Black hair, thus not his bride. Another had light brown hair, but ample proportions. Still, it didn’t hurt to ask.

“Mirabelle Smith?” he asked.

Her eyes grew wide as she surveyed his height. She shook her head. Quinn didn’t waste time discussing things further. He had a woman to track down.

“Mirabelle Smith?” he asked a brunette, just in case the telegram had things a little wrong.

But she wasn’t Miss Smith.

Quinn stood apart from the others on the platform, eyeing them all with growing uncertainty. He didn’t think any of the women were his Miss Smith. Had she missed her train? Or had she changed her mind? That’d be something of a kick in the chops.

Another woman stepped off the train. He only knew she was a woman and not a child because she wasn’t built like a twelve-year-old, despite being about the same height as one. Smaller build, the telegram had said. This woman was smaller than everyone.

She had light brown hair that clearly curled, though she’d pulled it back in a very proper bun. Hair, light brown, with curl. She had blue eyes, as well.

“Mirabelle Smith?” he asked when she came close enough to hear him.

Her gaze slowly shifted upward. Her neck craned by the time her eyes reached his face. “My, but you don’t ever seem to stop,” she said.

“You’re Mirabelle Smith?” He phrased it as a question, though he no longer doubted he was right.

“I am. And that, I’m guessing, would make you Patrick Quinn.”

He gave a quick nod. “I’m called Quinn. Just Quinn.”

“Well, then, Quinn, I’m pleased to meet you.” She stuck her hand out for him to shake, not seeming the least bit intimidated by a strange man who must have seemed like Goliath to her. One she was about to marry, no less. He’d give her credit for having a touch of steel to her. That would serve her well in this life she’d agreed to.

Quinn shook her hand, though very carefully. Something that tiny would probably break easily. Still, her grip was firm. The porter set a traveling trunk down beside Miss Smith before moving on to other duties. Quinn let her hand go and took the trunk up instead.

“Best come along,” he said. “We’ll stop at the preacher’s on our way out of town.”

She didn’t blanch. Didn’t hesitate. Either she was tough as leather or too naive to know she ought to be at least a little unnerved by the whole thing. He was, heaven knew. If a man did the thing right, he only got married once. He and Miss Smith would spend the rest of their lives together. She didn’t seem the least concerned about that.

Why am I dithering about the whole thing? It’s for the best. It’s needed.

A wife would help see to the house, help him run the place. She, according to the information he’d been sent, had no family and no future. It wasn’t a terrible arrangement for either of them.

It’s needed.

He carried her trunk away from the depot, only just remembering to keep his strides a little shorter so she wouldn’t have to run to keep up with him. He glanced at her more than once, struggling to reconcile the woman at his side with the adult-sized version of her he’d anticipated.

What am I to do with such a tiny little thing? I might accidentally step on her.

The preacher lived near enough the depot that they reached it quickly. They weren’t, however, the first to get there. More than one bride had arrived on the train. Quinn set Miss Smith’s trunk down on the wood-plank sidewalk beside them.

“Seems a few people had the same idea we did.” Miss Smith’s gaze took in the couples waiting their turn. “They certainly wasted no time seeing to the business of things.”

Quinn nodded. “A few of these men have two-hour drives ahead of them. They don’t have any time to doddle or fuss.”

“You’ve a strange way of doing things around here.”

Quinn eyed her sidelong. “You ain’t backing out, are you?” If she meant to toss him over, he was enough of a gentleman to accept it, but that sure wasn’t what he’d prefer. The business of finding himself a wife had been a hassle.

“Not at all.” She smiled reassuringly at him. “I’m only saying that meeting a woman for the first time at a train station, hopping in a line to marry her, and then heading off home, all in a single afternoon, is different from how this is done in most places.”

Quinn had lived in Wyoming from the time he was ten years old. He didn’t really know anything different. “I don’t imagine we do many things here the way they’re done anywhere else.”

Her eyes wandered back to the street. That put an end to conversation between them for the next quarter of an hour. Quinn stood with his hands in his coat pockets, unable to think of anything to say to the woman he was about to marry. He knew little enough about her. She seemed perfectly content to watch the comings and goings out in the street and the couples in line in front of them. She only occasionally looked up at him. And she most definitely had to look up.

I didn’t even know adults came that size. Can the woman reach anything? I’ll constantly need to fetch things off shelves for her.

“How tall you are, Miss Smith?” The question jumped right out of his mouth.

“You can call me Mirabelle,” she answered quick as anything. “And I’m four feet and eleven inches.”

Not even five feet tall? No wonder he felt like he’d ordered a horse and received a pony instead. He stood six feet three inches with his boots off. They had to be the most mismatched pair in all of Wyoming.

Two couples had left the parsonage by that time, and only two more waited ahead of Quinn and Mirabelle. Still, they’d likely be waiting another half hour for their turn.

“Would you like to sit, Miss—Mirabelle?” he asked. “The trunk’s probably not the most comfortable seat, but it’d be better than being on your feet another thirty minutes.”

“Thank you, but no.” The smile hadn’t left her face. Quinn didn’t know what to make of a person who smiled all the time. “I’ve spent a great deal of time sitting on a train. My feet could use the reminder of what they’re there for.”

Sensible. “Are you hungry or thirsty?” The mercantile was not far off. He could go get her something if she needed it.

But she shook her head. “Thank you, though.”

She wasn’t uncomfortable, hungry, or thirsty. Her light jacket and sensible footwear were a good match for the mild weather, so she likely wasn’t cold. Quinn couldn’t think of anything else she might need just then. He took the seat she didn’t want and waited.

In another few minutes, he’d be a married man. He’d planned for it all summer, yet the idea still knotted up a bit inside him. He watched Mirabelle as he sat there. She certainly wasn’t a bundle of nerves or a wilting flower or any of the other ways he’d heard soon-to-be brides described. She stood up straight, if not tall. She didn’t fidget or pace or wring her hands. Her expression was light and almost eager as she looked out over the small town.

And she’s so tiny. The wind often blew fiercely in Wyoming. One good gust was likely to blow her clear across the state.

And more worrisome still, she had Da to deal with. Quinn’s father was a difficult man, with the very obstinacy for which the Irish were famous. Someone as small and fragile as she didn’t stand much of a chance if Da took a disliking to her.

The last couple in line ahead of them came out of the preacher’s home, having completed their business there.

“Our turn.” Quinn offered the words as a final warning. He’d let her beg off if she wanted.

She nodded and stepped inside. Quinn brought her traveling trunk inside and set it just on the other side of the door. Reverend Howell met them at the door to the parlor.

“Quinn,” he greeted. “And this must be—” His eyes pulled wide, darting from Mirabelle back to Quinn. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Quinn, there are laws about age in a marriage, you know. You—”

“I am twenty-one,” Mirabelle jumped in, “not twelve. So, you can go right on ahead without worrying about laws or any such thing.”

Reverend Howell sputtered a moment but found his voice. “I hope I didn’t offend you, miss,” he said with all sincerity. “Upon closer look, I can see you’re not so young as you at first seemed.”

Mirabelle waved off the apology. “A woman as short as I am is quite used to being mistaken for a child.”

She stepped into the parlor, leaving Quinn and the preacher in surprised silence. Reverend Howell shot Quinn a questioning look. All he could do was shrug. He himself didn’t know quite what to make of Mirabelle Smith. For such a small thing, she had gumption and plenty of it. And for a woman about to be married to a perfect stranger, she didn’t seem to have any obvious misgivings.

Mrs. Howell wore an expression of barely withheld surprise when Quinn and her husband came inside.

In a whisper of concern, she said to Quinn, “She’s so tiny.”

“That she is.” What else could he say?

“And you’re so . . . not tiny.”

“That I am.” He eyed his miniature bride-to-be. “Still, she didn’t run off in terror. I think we’ll do just fine.”

“Mail-order marriages are always something of a risk,” Mrs. Howell said with a nod.

Every sort of marriage was “something of a risk.” His da had married for love, and he’d suffered greatly for it these past years.

The register was signed and the ceremony completed in a matter of a few minutes. Mirabelle Smith became Mirabelle Quinn, and Quinn the bachelor became Quinn the married man. He had a wife—a tiny, seemingly unflappable wife—and he’d managed the thing without any of the complications a man usually encountered.

That was easier than I expected.

An omen of a simple and uncomplicated life to come. He hoped.