Quinn pulled a pair of wire snips from a nail on the wall of his barn and handed them to Sam Carpenter. They were neighbors and regularly lent each other tools or helped make repairs to each other’s houses, barns, or fences.

“Did your woman arrive yesterday?” Sam asked.

“Mm-hmm.”

Sam nodded. “Must not have given you over for someone else. Otherwise you’d be mad as a nest of hornets.”

“She didn’t.”

Sam chewed on a bit of straw. He leaned against a post, the hand holding the wire cutters hanging at his side.

“How is she working out?” Sam asked.

There was no good answer for that question. Mirabelle wasn’t at all what he’d expected. It was more than the initial shock of her size. She had dictated the course of nearly everything since arriving. The dinner hour was moved, as was the furniture in the parlor. She’d declared her intention to hang new curtains and replace the tablecloth. She’d turned their lives topsy-turvy with an unwavering smile on her face. He’d never met a more cheerful despot in all his life.

His silence must have said something. Sam gave him a commiserating look. “She's platter-faced or something?”

Quinn shook his head. Mirabelle was a fine-looking woman, more so than he’d expected, in fact.

“A nag, then?” Sam tried again.

Quinn suspected she might be, but he didn’t mean to say as much to someone who hadn’t yet met her. He hardly knew her himself, but he’d vowed just the day before to care for her. Insulting her in front of the neighbors felt like breaking that promise.

“How is Tiernan taking to her?” Sam asked.

Da hadn’t said a word. He’d come to the table the night before, ate his meal in silence, then left without a word to his new daughter-in-law. When she’d set to moving things about in the parlor, Da had held firm in his chair, glaring at her as if challenging the newcomer to move his chair from its spot.

“We’re adjusting,” Quinn said.

Sam worked his jaw so the sprig of straw in his teeth fluttered in the air. “That, my friend, is why you ain’t gonna see a woman at my house. Too much fuss and folderol.”

Quinn felt a smile tug at his mouth. “Face it, friend. That’s not the reason at all. No woman would have you.”

Sam laughed. “Not even a mail-order bride, I’d guess.”

“Aye, there’s not one among even that lot who’s desperate enough to marry you.” Quinn sat on a tall stool near the cow stall.

Sam’s gap-toothed grin grew. “I swear, for a man who never set foot in Ireland, you sure sound like it sometimes.”

“Blame my da and ma for that,” Quinn tossed back. They’d been near about his only companions for much of his growing up years. He was well into his teens before he realized most people in America didn’t sound like his parents.

“I knew your mother, Quinn. I’ll not let even you say anything unflattering about that fine woman.”

Sweet, darling Ma. Everyone who knew her had loved her. Saints, he missed her.

Mirabelle stepped inside the barn the very next moment. Quinn was on his feet in an instant, watching her approach with wariness. Was her whirlwind of upheaval expanding from the house now? She was a tiny wisp of a thing who hadn’t even been there an entire day, yet she seemed destined to take over the running of everything.

“You didn’t return for lunch,” she said. She held in her hand what looked like a plate with a kitchen towel draped over it. “So I’ve brought your meal out to you.”

Without the slightest wobble of the plate, she set it on the stool Quinn had been sitting on and pulled the kitchen towel off with a bit of flourish.

Sam eyed Mirabelle. “Tiny thing, ain’t she?”

Mirabelle looked Sam up and down before declaring, “Mouthy thing, ain’t he?”

Her quick and candid response clearly caught Sam off guard. Though Quinn had known his bride not quite twenty-four hours, he wasn’t at all surprised by her take-charge manner.

“Mirabelle”—he took up the introductions—“this is Sam Carpenter, our nearest neighbor. Sam, this is my wife.” The last two words felt horribly awkward, but he managed them.

She held her hand out to Sam exactly the way she had to Quinn when they first met. Though women out West were often just as straightforward and imposing as the menfolk, he’d never before seen such a tiny, delicate-looking woman be so completely unintimidated.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carpenter,” she said as she firmly shook Sam’s hand.

“Call me Sam.” He looked very unsure of her.

“I suppose that’s better than what I had planned to call you.” She dropped Sam’s hand and turned to Quinn. “Your father says he doesn’t care for cold beef sandwiches, but when I asked if he preferred the beef hot, he told me to quit being cheeky.”

Da had likely said exactly that. Would Quinn have to play peacemaker between the two?

“So which is it?” Mirabelle asked.

“Which is what?”

“Does your father not care for beef sandwiches or does he not care for cold beef sandwiches?”

Before he could answer, Sam spoke up. “I’ll just be on my way back to my place,” he said. “Thanks for the loan.” He held up the wire snips.

Quinn nodded his acknowledgment. Sam left with only one backward glance.

Mirabelle kept her expectant gaze on Quinn. He took a moment to remind himself what question she’d asked.

“Uh . . .” She’d asked about beef versus cold beef. “Da likes beef.” They were cattle ranchers. Of course he liked beef.

“He wouldn’t eat it.” Mirabelle leveled him a pointed look.

What could Quinn say to that? “Perhaps he didn’t want beef today.”

“He also didn’t eat the greens or the bread the beef was on. The only thing he accepted from me was water.”

Quinn took the plate off the stool and sat, setting the plate on his lap. “Da’s just getting used to you. Don’t let him fret you.”

“I don’t want him to starve.” There was just enough laughter in her eyes to convince him she didn’t actually think Da was going to die of hunger.

Quinn tucked in to the meal she’d brought him. If he ate quickly, maybe Mirabelle would be on her way and he could get back to work. He didn’t have time, or the desire, to sit around talking to a woman. Winter was coming. His list of chores was long.

She climbed up one of the stall walls and sat on the top rail, facing him. How she managed the feat in a dress and as small as she was, he didn’t know.

“I can’t tell if I’m preventing your father from doing whatever he usually does or if he simply doesn’t usually do anything.” Mirabelle leaned against the post next to her. The curl in her hair was a touch riotous just then, at odds with the calm of her expression and the casualness of her posture.

Quinn swallowed a large bite of the sandwich. If Da really had refused Mirabelle’s lunch, he’d missed out. The beef was sliced thin; the bread was sliced thick.

“Da’s an old man,” Quinn explained. “His days are quieter than they used to be.”

“Your father can’t be much more than fifty years old,” Mirabelle said. “He doesn’t exactly have one foot in the grave.”

Da was only fifty-five, in fact. But in a lot of ways, he was older than that. The past four years had aged him. “Just leave him to his own self. Everyone’ll be happier that way.”

“Do you know you sound a little Irish?” Mirabelle seemed to settle in. Apparently, she intended to have a cozy chat right there in the barn.

“Likely because I am Irish.”

“I like it.” Mirabelle nodded firmly. “There is something about an Irish accent that makes words sound musical.”

Was he supposed to thank her? Quinn had no idea.

He’d already finished his entire lunch. He discovered, between dinner the night before and breakfast that morning, that Mirabelle didn’t truly understand just how much food a man his size, who worked as long and hard as he did, actually required each day. Never mind Da; she’d starve him to death.

“Is there a local ladies’ society?” Mirabelle asked.

“I don’t know.” He slid off the stool and set the plate on it.

“A quilting circle, maybe?”

Quinn held his hands out in a show of ignorance. What did he know of quilting circles?

“Is there at least a watering hole where the local wildlife gather?”

He could match her dry tone. “Of course there is. It’s called The Golden Cup Saloon.”

She smiled all the way to her eyes. That was intriguing. He liked that she understood his humor. That boded well for eventually finding a comfortable peace together.

“Do you go to church on Sundays?” Mirabelle asked.

“No.” He had nothing against church; it just didn’t particularly appeal to him. He went now and then if it struck his fancy. He realized in that moment he didn’t know anything about his new wife’s religious leanings. “Are you a regular Sunday worshipper?”

“I think I’d better be,” she answered in all seriousness.

She had better be? “Why’s that?”

“Otherwise, how will I ever find out about ladies’ societies and quilting bees and all those things you don’t know anything about? It’s either church or The Golden Cup Saloon.” The smallest twinkle of mischief shone in her eyes. She was joking with him still? He didn’t quite know what to make of that. “I’m afraid I never learned to drive a team. Is it a long walk to town?” she asked.

“Too far to walk, especially on your own. If you ever need to go into town, I’ll drive you.”

She gave a firm nod and offered a straightforward, “Thank you.”

“I’d best get back to my work.” He hoped the hint was enough to send her back to the house.

She started forward, but didn’t move more than an inch at the most. She copied the motion a couple of times, glancing behind her repeatedly. Her eyes settled on him.

“I’m stuck.”

“Stuck?”

She nodded. “My dress is caught on something, but I can’t tell what. A splinter, maybe. Or a nail.” She looked down at the slat. “I don’t know what it is, but I can’t get down.”

He crossed to where she sat, eyeing the skirt of her dress. He didn’t see any snags, nothing to indicate where her dress was caught.

“If you didn’t go climbing about like a monkey, these things wouldn’t happen.” He leaned around her, trying to see if anything was snagged from behind.

“If you weren’t three times as tall as I am,” she tossed back, “I wouldn’t need to climb up the walls in order to look you in the eye.”

He set his hands on the rail on either side of her. “Is that why you sat up here, so you’d be as tall I am?”

It had done the trick, actually. They were more or less the same height now. They were eye to eye, something that hadn’t happened since they’d met. Her eyes weren’t simply blue. He saw flecks of green and golden brown. He discovered something else standing there so close to her. He’d been right when talking with Sam earlier that day; Mirabelle was pretty.

“Will you help me get down?” she asked. “I hadn’t planned to spend the rest of forever perched here like a bird.”

Pull your thoughts together. No time for pointless wonderings.

“I’d guess you’re sitting on whatever it is that’s caught hold of your dress,” he said. “If you lean one direction or the other, I’ll see if I can spot it.”

A little of the color drained from her face. “If I lean too far, I might fall,” she said, her voice quieter than it had been. Was she afraid? She, who had scaled up there without hesitation, who had agilely climbed down from the wagon the evening before, was afraid of falling?

“Lean that direction.” He motioned with his right thumb. He curled his arm around her waist, so she’d have something holding her there.

She leaned against his arm, but only just.

“I can’t see anything unless you lean further,” he told her.

“I’ll fall,” she little more than whispered.

She really was afraid. That surprised him. Greatly.

“I won’t let you fall,” he promised.

He held her gaze for a drawn-out moment. She was clearly trying to decide if she could trust him. Quinn knew he had shortcomings, faults like anyone else, but no one had ever found him undeserving of their trust. Not ever.

“Lean further,” he repeated.

Whether she found him trustworthy in that moment or simply gave in to the inevitable, he didn’t know. But she leaned as he instructed, putting her weight on his arm. He was struck again by just how small she was. His arm wrapped easily all the way around her. He could probably carry her around in one hand, perhaps in a pocket.

He used his free hand to carefully move the flowing fabric of her skirt, searching for the snag. He found it: a long, nasty-looking splinter shoved clear through her skirt. She was fortunate it hadn’t pierced all the way through to her leg.

“Just give me a minute,” he said. “I’ll have you free.”

“You found it, then?” Her voice had regained some of its fortitude.

“A splintered bit of wood,” he said.

“Please be careful not to tear the dress—it’s the only one I have.”

That stopped his efforts and brought his gaze back to her face. “You only have one dress?” He himself had four new pairs of trousers and a half-dozen shirts, even a couple jackets to choose from. A second thought occurred to him. “What do you wear on wash day?”

“I do the wash in my underclothes.”

His eyes pulled wide, and he felt heat rise immediately to his face. He’d inherited enough ginger coloring from his Irish parents to flush when he was embarrassed. He hated it.

Mirabelle laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls of the barn. “Don’t fret, Quinn. I’ll not scandalize the neighbors. I have a wrapper I found in a rag pile that I wear on wash days. It’s absolutely hideous, but it lets me get my dress clean.”

She wears something she found in a rag pile? Just how desperate was her situation before coming here?

“So am I destined to sit here for the rest of forever, or do you think you can unsnag me?” Mirabelle looked down at her stuck dress but hadn’t let go of his arm.

He carefully inched the fabric back over the splinter. He had her free in a moment’s time. “It left a little hole,” he said.

One hand still clutching his arm, she held up the side of her dress for closer inspection. “Well, a hole’s easily mended if it’s seen to right away. I’ll sew it up tonight after I’ve changed into my nightdress.” She shrugged and gave him an amusedly resigned smile. “Will you help me down? If I try, I’ll probably snag somewhere else, and I’ll walk away with a dress no better than a slice of Swiss cheese.”

Helping her to the ground took no effort whatsoever. He set his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her up from the railing and down to the ground. She couldn’t have weighed much more than a sparrow.

A tiny, tiny thing.

“What does that look mean?” She eyed him with uncertainty.

He shook his head. He might not have known much about women, but he felt certain telling her he was pondering how shockingly little she was would be a mistake. He broke off the splinter she’d caught herself on, telling himself to add sanding the wood to his list of jobs.

That brought to mind the list of chores he had for her. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the folded paper he’d jotted her jobs down on. “Here are the things that need seeing to before winter arrives.”

He held the list out to her. She eyed it a moment before taking the paper with obvious hesitation. She unfolded it. Her eyes darted back and forth as she read. She looked up at him briefly before flipping if over and reading the rest.

“This is a long list,” she said, turning it over again.

“There’s a lot of work to be done.”

He wasn’t asking so much of her out of spite or orneriness. Life in Wyoming required preparation against the long, bitter winters. He’d done the work by himself for years but never managed to get to it all. Part of the reason he’d sent for a wife was to help him with these things.

“Some of these I’ve never done before.” She looked at him over the paper. “Sealing up drafts around the windows? I don’t know how to do that. I probably can’t even reach all of the windows.”

“I’ll show you how. And you can use the ladder if you need it.”

Mirabelle swallowed audibly. “I don’t care for heights.”

He’d sorted out that much during her battle with the splinter. “I’ll see to the drafts if need be, but you’ll have to sort out the rest. I simply haven’t time enough, but it has to be done. Life here is unforgiving. That’s why I needed a wife. I’ll do my work and you do yours. That arrangement will mean we’ll survive the coming winter.”

She looked over the list again. “Is there a preferred order in which these ought to be finished?”

“The heavier snows will keep us from town,” he said. “So start with inventorying the food and supplies.”

“I’ll begin today.” Mirabelle nodded firmly.

With that, she walked out of the barn, taking the empty plate with her. I’ll begin today. She wasn’t going to complain or insist on doing things her way without regard to his thoughts on the matter. He’d debated for years whether or not to send for a wife. They’d employed a good number of maids over the past years, but none stayed long. An unwed woman in the wilds of Wyoming was generally snatched up in a matter of weeks, months at the most.

He needed someone who wasn’t simply going to turn around and leave, but he didn’t want the complications usually associated with courtship and marriage.

This was going to work. This was going to work just fine.