Quinn nodded to a few men he knew as he walked down the street toward the mercantile. He tipped his hat to the preacher’s wife and returned the preacher’s brief wave. He wove through the crowd just inside the mercantile door—not an easy thing for a man his size.

Mirabelle was not the only one in the mercantile ordering supplies for the coming winter. She was, however, the only one getting exactly what she insisted on. Mirabelle had her list in hand and was pointing and verbally directing the merchant and his son toward the things she wanted.

“That broom looks as though it has already gone through a few years of use. If I’m to pay for a new one, I’d like to get a new one.” Mirabelle sent the young Mr. Carlton back for another broom. She caught the elder Mr. Carlton in the next moment. “I believe my husband prefers the coffee in the red tin.” And with that declaration, the tins of blue coffee were carried back to the shelves.

At least a dozen people stood in the building waiting their turn while Mirabelle more or less ran the place. She somehow even managed to get a few of the customers to grab things for her and set them on the counter. Quinn watched it all with equal parts approval and uncertainty.

He’d married a bundle of energy. That was a promising thing. But he’d never known a woman quite like her and didn’t know what to expect.

Mirabelle spotted him after a moment. “The heavier items are being put in the wagon,” she said. “I’m just arranging for the final things on the list.” Without batting an eyelash, she shifted her attention to Mr. Carlton Sr., thanking him for gathering the coffee she’d ordered and directing him to the proper amount of marmalade.

Quinn had fully expected to need to step in and help complete the order, but his tiny wife didn’t need his assistance at all. “I’ll meet you out in the wagon,” he told her.

She gave him a quick nod and immediately returned to her task. She accomplished her work with efficiency, not expecting him to hover around or bemoaning the workload. She undertook unfamiliar jobs with confidence and determination. He seemed to have gotten exactly what he’d needed.

His wagon was quickly filled with precisely the things they needed for the winter. Mirabelle followed a few minutes later, her plain brown bonnet tied securely under her chin once more. She climbed into the wagon and settled herself on the bench beside him.

“I believe that’s enough, along with what’s already at the house, to see us through the next six months,” Mirabelle said.

“Good.”

She dug around in her small drawstring bag. “And”—she pulled out a roll of paper money—“there is even a little left over.”

Quinn counted out the bills. “This is nearly ten dollars, Mirabelle. How can you possibly have this much left over?”

“Mr. Carlton agreed that, seeing as you were placing a large order, he could give you a discount on a few of the smaller items.”

He watched her a moment, stunned into silence. “You haggled with Closefisted Carlton?”

Her eyes widened. “Is he really called that?”

Quinn set the horses to a trot. “Yes. And for good reason.” No one, as far as Quinn knew, had ever talked Carlton down on a price.

“Well, I found him perfectly reasonable,” Mirabelle said. “He could see the wisdom in allowing some flexibility in pricing when his molasses and extracts were clearly on the old side—not spoiled, mind you, simply not as fresh as they might have been.”

“You told Mr. Carlton his goods were second rate?” Saints above, she might have made an enemy of their shopkeeper. He was something of a hard man.

“Of course not.” Mirabelle sat with her usual confident posture. “I simply asked him what fraction of the price he would charge if I took a few of the older items as opposed to the newer ones. I let him know how clear it was that he prided himself in the quality of his goods and would surely be removing those things from his shelves shortly, costing himself the money he’d invested in them. He saw the wisdom in getting some money for those things as opposed to none at all. And, of course, I only made the deal on items that wouldn’t lose much quality simply by being on the shelf a little longer. What we paid for, paid less for, really isn’t fundamentally different from what we might have bought at full price.”

Quinn allowed an inward smile but found it wouldn’t stop there. His lips twitched upward, first one side and then the other. Before he knew it, he was grinning. His tiny Mirabelle had out-bargained one of the shrewdest businessmen Quinn had ever known. The farther they drove, the broader he smiled.

“Am I to assume, then,” Mirabelle asked, “you don’t mind mustard powder that’s the tiniest bit stale and molasses that will need a little warming to be soft again?”

With the money she’d saved him, he wouldn’t mind molasses that required a hammer and chisel. “I’ve never known Mr. Carlton to be talked down on price. Not by anyone.”

“Well, Quinn, I think you should know I am not just ‘anyone.’”

He looked at her for a long moment as that declaration sunk in. “Do you know, Mirabelle, I’m beginning to think that’s true.”

“Are you saying you struck an even more cunning bargain with the William’s Bureau than I did with Mr. Carlton?”

“That depends,” he answered. Glancing away from the road and toward her, he could see she’d set her gaze firmly on him.

“Depends on what?”

“On whether or not you’re the tiniest bit stale.”

She smiled at him. Mirabelle was a fine-looking woman, especially with her expression light and amused.

“I saw two of the women I met on the train ride here,” she said. “I invited them over this next week for a sewing circle. You don’t have any objections, do you?”

Quinn was seized with a clear and sudden memory of his mother and her friends sitting in the parlor sewing. They’d filled the house with laughter and the smell of rose water. Da would stand in the kitchen doorway with a smitten smile on his face, his eyes never leaving Ma, never wandering to anyone else.

“. . . and I’ll still have plenty of time to get dinner on the table.” Mirabelle was finishing a sentence Quinn hadn’t heard but could guess at. She was explaining all the reasons he shouldn’t be bothered by her sewing circle engagement.

Did he object to her having some of her friends over? He didn’t. But he wouldn’t be hovering around like an adoring puppy the way his father always had. Being that lovesick had caused Da no end of pain. It was the reason he’d amassed so much debt, the reason he’d often neglected his work, the reason he was now so utterly broken by Ma’s death.

“So would you mind?” she asked again.

“I don’t mind,” he said.

But would Da mind? Quinn couldn’t rightly say. Having ladies in the house again, doing some of the same things Ma had done, might help pull Da from the dark place he’d been in the past four years. Quinn had hoped as much when he decided to send for a wife. But it might just as easily make things worse.

“This is what I hoped for all the way here on the train,” Mirabelle said. “I wanted friends, even just one. But then I didn’t meet anyone after I arrived—except you, of course, and your father—and I started to wonder if I would make any friends at all.”

Quinn set his sights on the road, guiding the horses down the familiar path. The day Mirabelle had stepped off the train, Quinn had congratulated himself on finding a quiet wife. He’d discovered in the days since then that, once she got to talking, Mirabelle was more than capable of chattering on.

Quite without warning, he could sense Mirabelle looking at him again. How was it he could feel her gaze? It didn’t make any sense. He let his eyes drift from his horses to his wife. She was, in fact, watching him.

“Are you certain you don’t mind?” she asked.

How many times did she mean to ask? “I not only don’t mind, I don’t particularly care one way or the other.”

Until that moment, he hadn’t really understood what seeing a face “fall” looked like. Mirabelle looked away from him, as if watching the scenery, but her eyes didn’t seem to focus on anything in particular. Her smile disappeared. The amusement in her face was gone.

He was likely expected to say something, to make amends. But if he hadn’t done anything wrong, what was he supposed to apologize for?

“Will your father mind if I have two ladies visit me?” Mirabelle asked the question quietly, but with the firmness of purpose he’d seen in her every moment of their acquaintance.

Da might very well mind. He might mind a great deal. But getting Da to return to the world of the living was high on Quinn’s list of priorities. Having two of the local ladies come around was a step in that direction.

“I’ll talk to Da,” Quinn said. “But I don’t think he’ll have any objections.”

Mirabelle didn’t look convinced. And she’d lost some of the fire she’d had before.

“Is something the matter?” he asked, guiding the horses down the lane leading home.

“I’m fine.” She punctuated the declaration with a firm nod of her head.

But she clearly wasn’t. Why was it women clammed up when they were upset instead of just talking things out? Well, if she didn’t want to talk, he wasn’t going to make her. They’d accomplished their list of chores in town. They’d be busy with their chores at home soon enough. Work was always a good distraction.