Mirabelle’s guests had arrived a half hour earlier or so. That had been Quinn’s cue to do some work away from the house. He didn’t begrudge her the company. He simply wasn’t keen on having visitors himself. She could have her bit of socializing; he would stick to his work.

“’Tis a regular hen party in there, it is.”

Da had obviously come into the barn, though Quinn hadn’t heard him enter. Quinn hadn’t his father’s knack for moving about quietly.

Da pulled up a tall stool and sat nearby. “So much chatter in the house just now. You’d think a colony of magpies had nested in the chimney.”

“Women do like to talk.” Quinn kept at his work. Da didn’t come out to the barn often, and Quinn was glad to see him there, but he’d learned over the past four years that if he made much of a fuss over Da’s doing anything other than his usual quiet contemplation, the man got himself into a huff and retreated ever further.

“That woman of yours sure beats all, she does. Either talking a body’s ear off or silent as the grave. Never anything in between.”

That was a fair description of Mirabelle. Quinn still wasn’t sure what to make of her.

“I haven’t asked you since you kindly informed me of her existence the morning she was due to arrive,” Da said, “but I mean to ask m’ question now.”

Quinn looked up from his saddle and directly into Da’s piercing and determined gaze.

“Why’d you do it?” Da asked.

“Do what?”

Da came noticeably close to rolling his eyes. “Don’t act like I’ve no more brains than a rock. You know perfectly well what I’m asking you.”

“I married for the same reason any man does,” Quinn said. “I needed a woman around the house. The place’s been falling to bits with just the two of us.”

“That, son, is why a man hires a maid. It’s not reason enough to marry.”

Quinn looked over at Da. “How quickly you’ve forgotten what’s happened every time we’ve hired a maid up to the house. Just as soon as we get one accustomed to our ways and preferences, some bloke swoops in and marries her. That’s how it is around here. So few women, so many men in need of one. This was a better solution.”

“’Tis a fool’s solution, lad. You don’t marry a woman because you need someone to clean your house and cook your meals, but because you love her, because she’s everything in the world to you.”

Quinn shook his head in exasperation. “And where was I to find this love of my life, Da? In town? You can count on your own fingers the number of unwed women within fifty miles of here, and there’s not a one of them I could live under the same roof with and not want to throttle her within a week.”

Da folded his arms across his chest. “How do you know you won’t end up at daggers drawn with this woman just as you would with those others?”

Quinn couldn’t know that, not for sure. “A marriage arranged by telegram is less complicated.” It was the explanation he’d given himself many times over. “Neither of us have any expectations of affection or attentiveness. Any woman I courted into a marriage would expect both of those things.”

Da didn’t express any relief or agreement with Quinn’s logic. Did he really need to be even more specific?

“All I expect from Mirabelle is a clean house, food on the table, and help with the work around here. All she expects from me is a roof over her head, shoes on her feet, and food to eat. We understand each other. This way is less complicated.”

“I suspect neither of you will be satisfied with your ‘less-complicated’ arrangement for long. ’Tis a painful thing, realizing you’ll never have what you truly want.”

Da could have been talking about himself as much as anyone. He’d courted and married a woman he loved to distraction, and now he was left without the person he truly wanted. He’d been rendered old beyond his years, alone and broken, spending his days lost in memories. No. Quinn’s way was best.

The sound of approaching hooves and the turning of wagon wheels brought an end to their discussion. They moved to the barn doors in time to identify the arrival. Horace Franklin.

“Here to collect his woman, no doubt,” Da said.

Horace’s new wife had arrived on the same train as Mirabelle and was one of her guests. Quinn crossed to his wagon just as he climbed down. They shook hands and exchanged the usual brief greeting, followed by comments on the herds and conditions as they walked toward the house.

Quinn opened the door, and Da and Horace stepped inside. The women were sitting around the parlor, sewing, but looked up as the men came in. The black-haired woman’s eyes settled immediately on Horace, and her lips turned up in an almost besotted smile. Quinn glanced at his neighbor to find a nearly identical look on his face.

They’d not known each other any longer than Quinn and Mirabelle had, and their marriage had been arranged in the same way. Why, then, did the two of them look so lovey-dovey?

“Are you ready to come home, Jane?” Horace asked, his tone solicitous and gentle in a way Quinn was not accustomed to hearing. Horace wasn’t an ornery sort by any means, but he was usually as unsentimental as Quinn himself.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Jane gathered her sewing. Horace moved to where she sat and helped her put the fabric scraps into her basket. The two of them repeatedly glanced at each other, smiling a little, lingering over the moments when their eyes met.

Horace Franklin has gone and lost his wits.

With her sewing basket arranged and packed, Jane rose from her chair. Horace seemed to remember himself and turned to address Mirabelle’s other guest.

“Marcus asked me to fetch you home as well,” he said.

Mirabelle helped gather that lady’s things. Horace and Jane were too busy whispering something to each other. Quinn leaned against the rock fireplace, oddly fascinated by the whole thing. He’d seen men act lovesick before—heaven knew his da had invented that state of being—but he’d never before seen a man lose his head in a matter of days over a mail-order wife.

Mirabelle walked out with her new friends to the waiting wagon, though Jane hardly needed the company. Horace hadn’t moved so much as an inch from her side. The man was lost on her. Quinn inwardly shook his head. If Horace didn’t keep his wits about him, he’d end up a broken man, just like Da.

Quinn watched the women bid farewell to one another. They hugged a great deal and waved as Horace’s wagon rolled around the bend and out of sight. Mirabelle returned to the house, though with a look of regret.

Her disappointment pricked at him. “Did your visit not go well?”

“It was very pleasant,” she said. “They said there’s to be a calico ball. They both seemed to know what that was, but I’ve never heard the term before.”

He folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the fireplace. “It’s a tradition hereabouts—a town social where the menfolk wear their working clothes instead of their finest and the womenfolk make themselves ordinary dresses from plain fabrics instead of silks and satins and the fancier togs a lady might usually wear to a dance.”

“A dance?” Her face lit at the word. The eagerness he’d seen in her expression that first day as she’d surveyed the town returned in full force. “There’ll be dancing?”

“There’s always dancing. Will, who works here, and Sam, who you’ve met, play the fiddle and guitar. Another man plays the accordion. The three of them keep the calico ball lively.”

“With dancing?” The answer seemed to matter to her.

“A whole evening of it.”

She sighed, the sound one of pure joy. “Dancing. I’ve always wanted to—” She stopped abruptly, her thoughts seemed to have gone elsewhere very quickly.

Quinn had no trouble filling in the gap. She’d always wanted to go to a dance . . . to dance with someone. “Have you never danced before?”

“Not ever,” she admitted.

He’d danced now and then at the calico balls over the years and at other sociables. He couldn’t say he was particularly adept; his size alone made his attempts at anything graceful extremely awkward.

“I’m something of a lumbering buffalo when I dance. I prefer leaving the doing of it to others.”

Her smile slipped. “Do you not mean to attend the calico ball?”

“I’ll take you, if you’re wanting to go.” He’d no objections to that.

Her brow pulled ever lower. “But you won’t dance?”

“Believe me, you’d rather I didn’t.”

A hesitant little smile tugged at her mouth. “I don’t know how to dance at all. You can’t possibly be worse than I am.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Her amusement grew. “One I look forward to.”

He felt an odd tug as he watched her move into the kitchen, an unexpected urge to follow her, no matter that he had chores aplenty waiting for him.

She did her work and he did his; that was their arrangement. Yet he found, in that moment, he was tempted to remain with her and try to make her smile again.