“I suppose I ought to learn to drive the team,” Mirabelle said as they rode toward Thornwood. “You wouldn’t have to take time from your work to take me to town.”

Quinn just shook his head. Driving his wife to town wasn’t the enormous inconvenience she made it out to be. He wasn’t such a shabby husband as all that.

“I don’t know how you’ll entertain yourself while I thumb through the bolts of fabric,” Mirabelle said. “You don’t have any sewing of your own to see to, do you?”

His lips tugged upward at her quip. “I do have a bit of fancy stitching I’ve been meaning to finish.”

“You have a talent for needlepoint, do you?” Mirabelle matched his teasing tone.

She had a fine sense of humor. He liked that about her. “Aye,” Quinn replied. “Learned it from m’ da, I did.”

She shook her head in amused disbelief. “You two are full of surprises.”

“You seem to be getting on better with Da,” he said.

“We’re beginning to, and I’m certain it’ll get better and better.”

There was the hopeful positivity he’d seen in her from the moment she’d stepped off the train. It had confused him at first, but he’d grown increasingly grateful for it. She lightened their home and eased many of his worries. She’d changed things for the better since she’d come, and he appreciated that.

“I’ve discovered a bit of cake or sweet bread puts him in a good mood,” she said. “I’ve also learned, through difficult experience, that touching anything that once belonged to your mother, especially the trunk of her clothes, puts him in a sour mood—sometimes for days.”

“He doesn’t even let me touch Ma’s things. He carries a lot of pain there.” As deeply as he’d loved Ma, Da now ached for her. “Thank you for being patient with him.”

“I know what it is to be lonely,” she said. “I can be patient with that.”

She’d been lonely. Was she still?

“How will you pass the time while I do my shopping?” Mirabelle asked.

“You don’t believe I’ll be taking up my embroidery?” He gave her a dramatically overdone look of shock.

Mirabelle laughed lightly. He liked the sound of her laugh; he had from the very first. She simply didn’t laugh often. Why was that? She was a decidedly happy person. She ought to laugh more.

“Are you the kind to spend the day at the saloon, or shall I look for you napping under an obliging tree?” Her smile told Quinn she wasn’t making any accusations.

“As an Irishman, I do have a taste for whiskey, but having seen far too many of my countrymen grow needy for it, I hardly ever touch the stuff.”

“Meaning I ought to look for you asleep under a tree somewhere.” Mirabelle’s smile lit her entire face. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Quinn found it something of a struggle to keep his focus on the road and not on her. Her smile hadn’t disappeared by the time they reached the edge of town. He liked knowing he could bring happiness to her eyes as easily as Trev had. That had been weighing on him. It wasn’t jealousy, not entirely. It simply pricked at him when she looked sad or worried. He wanted her to be happy.

Maybe I’m more like Da than I realize.

Surely there was a balance between being kind and caring about his wife and losing himself the way Da had.

“Here we are.” He pulled the team to a stop in front of the mercantile. He hopped down from the wagon and circled around, reaching the other side just as Mirabelle slid to the end of the bench. She could climb down on her own; he’d seen her manage it more than once. But he’d also seen that she appreciated a bit of help navigating to the ground.

He set his hands on either side of her waist, lifting her easily from the wagon. Such a tiny thing. Why was it her size continually surprised him? Perhaps it was simply that she didn’t seem little. She took on tasks without fear or concession to her size.

“Would you fetch my basket?”

Until she made the request, Quinn didn’t realize he’d stopped, hands holding her, standing as still as could be, right in front of the mercantile. The familiar warmth of a blush spread over his face. How he hated that about his coloring. The slightest embarrassment sent him flushing like a schoolgirl.

Quinn dropped his arms immediately, reaching for her basket without looking at her or in the direction of the whispers he heard just behind them. Likely, other townsfolk were in the mercantile, witnessing him standing about, red as a turnip.

“I’ll come back in a half hour or so,” he told her. “So, take your time. Pick something you like.”

Mirabelle hooked her arm through the handle of her basket. She turned back at the door and gave him a wave and a smile. He returned the silent farewell. She slipped inside and out of sight. Quinn remained rooted to the spot for a moment, fighting the oddest urge to follow her. She’d been away for mere seconds, and he missed her. He missed her.

He missed her.

This convenient arrangement of theirs was turning worryingly complicated.

Mirabelle was deeply grateful that the calico ball specified plain and inexpensive fabrics. Quinn was not a wealthy man, despite having a successful cattle ranch. He had vaguely mentioned some debts he needed to pay off. She didn’t wish to add to his financial burden.

The mercantile had several shelves of calicos and muslins. An ivory fabric with tiny, multicolored flowers caught her eye. It was lovely and delicate. It was not, however, practical. She would struggle to keep it clean, being so light in color. Perhaps if she only wore it now and then . . . but that would defeat the purpose of having another dress to wear.

A bolt in a solid shade of dark green pulled her interest for a moment. She did like green, and it seemed a good color for her complexion, but she’d like something a little prettier. And she really wanted something blue.

When she was a child at the orphanage, one of the other little girls had been adopted by a family who brought her a blue dress to replace the gray they all wore. Mirabelle had dreamed of a blue dress ever since. She’d briefly had a dress in a shade of dark blue while working for a seamstress in St. Louis, but it had been so dark it might as well have been black. She wanted a happy blue, a cheerful blue.

Why, then, was she looking at any fabrics that weren’t blue? The mercantile had several options. White with little blue flowers. Blue with gray stripes. A solid, muted blue. She pulled from the shelf a blue gingham. It was not so light that she would struggle with staining, but not so dark that it lost the cheerfulness she wished for. The blue had a hint of green in it, rendering it almost gem-like.

She ran her fingers over the fabric. It wasn’t soft—calico seldom was—but it was smooth and would be comfortable. The weave was tight enough that it wouldn’t wear out quickly. And it was blue.

She pushed back a smile, not wishing to appear ridiculous growing giddy over such a plain fabric. She held it carefully to her, not wishing the fabric to be taken by someone else before she could obtain her bit of it. A spool of blue thread and a few pins and needles rounded out her purchase. The house had all the foodstuffs and other supplies they needed. This trip had been made exclusively for her to choose fabric for her calico ball dress.

Quinn might not have been desperately in love with her, but he was kind and thoughtful. That was what she had hoped for. Why, then, did it no longer feel like enough?

Jane and Horace stood at the counter, making a purchase of their own. Mirabelle had been so engrossed in making her selection she hadn’t even seen them there. She stayed back, allowing them a chance to finish their business.

Horace’s arm slipped around Jane, pulling her close to him. He pressed a kiss to her cheek. She rested her head on his shoulder. Horace grabbed the paper-wrapped bundle of purchases and tucked it under his arm, keeping his other arm around his wife.

“I love you, my sweet Jane,” he whispered as they passed.

Jane had been married as long as Mirabelle had. They were both mail-order brides, both married to men they hadn’t known before their arrival. Mirabelle had been happy about receiving a simple look of gratitude. Jane was receiving declarations of love.

Mirabelle pushed the thought away. Love was not a given when one agreed to marry a stranger. She had no right to feel cheated.

She made her purchase quickly and with minimal comment. Two women came inside while Mr. Carlton wrapped her fabric and notions in brown paper.

“Thomas proposed to Bernadette last night,” one of the ladies said to the other. “We are so pleased for them.”

“Of course you are; they are so happy and in love.”

Happy and in love.

Mirabelle took up her purchase and slipped from the mercantile, trying hard not to think about Jane and Horace and their tender expressions of love or the fortunate Bernadette and her loving happiness.

I knew what I was accepting when I agreed to an arranged match. I knew. I cannot complain now. And yet, she couldn’t ignore the ache in her heart. It had begun small and easily overlooked, but had grown of late. She longed to be cared about, to be loved a little. Though she saw Quinn every day, she was lonely.

Quinn’s wagon was not sitting outside the mercantile. Mirabelle hadn’t taken as long as they’d guessed. She never had found out what he meant to do to pass the time while she made her selections, so there she stood, alone.

She took a deep breath, attempting to dispel her heavy mood. Logic told her she was being ridiculous, but her heart simply wouldn’t listen. Seeing and hearing of others who had the love she longed for stung. She didn’t know how to make that wish less important to her.

Concentrate on finding Quinn. He’ll likely not mind heading home early.

She made her way up the street. She’d learned at a young age that appearing as though nothing in the world was weighing on her helped her pretend she was carefree.

She passed the bathing emporium and the barber shop. Though Quinn might easily have been in either location, she didn’t feel comfortable searching for him there. The saloon was across the street, not many buildings down. But that establishment also held a firm place on her list of locations she didn’t mean to step inside.

Her eyes fell on a wagon and team that, if she wasn’t mistaken, belonged to Quinn. They were stopped across the street near the preacher’s house. Indeed, it seemed to be not far from the church. Mirabelle carefully made her way across the street and walked in that direction. The closer she came, the more certain she was. But what had brought Quinn to the church on a Tuesday morning? He’d admitted himself that he was not a particularly religious man.

The wagon sat just a pace beyond the building. She didn’t stop until she reached it.

The churchyard. She spotted Quinn quickly, sitting beneath a tree amongst the gravestones. He held a book in his hand, his hat on the ground beside him. He leaned back against the trunk, reading.

An odd place to spend an afternoon. For a moment, she started to turn around, feeling uncomfortable interrupting his quiet moment. She knew how hard he worked, and how constantly. He deserved a respite from all that.

But where would she go?

She clutched her basket more tightly and fixed her expression into one of ease. She made her way slowly around the grave markers to where he sat. He looked up a moment before she reached him. A question filled his eyes, one he asked the moment she was within speaking distance.

“Finished already, are you?”

She nodded. Heavens, why does this hurt so much? I knew what to expect when I accepted this arrangement.

Quinn’s brows pulled in. He watched her, as if searching for some explanation he knew she wasn’t giving him. He would think her ridiculous if he knew she was sulking because of people’s happiness. She felt rather pathetic, in fact. She sat on the grass beside him, pretending to be extremely interested in the book lying open on his lap.

“Did something happen, Mirabelle?” he asked. “You look so unhappy.”

Mirabelle didn’t lift her gaze. She didn’t trust herself to keep her heavy heart hidden. She simply shook her head. “I am usually a happy person. I certainly haven’t given that impression since arriving in Thornwood those weeks ago.”

“Sure you have. You’re a little overwhelmed is all, yeah?”

“More than I wish I was.” She wanted to be more capable, less beaten down. “I know you’re depending on me to do the work required of me.”

“And you’ve done it,” he said. “Every bit of it. I’ve no complaints.”

No complaints. There was a stark difference between her husband having no complaints about her work and the words of tenderness Jane had received from her husband. When she’d agreed to this mail-order marriage, she’d convinced herself “no complaints” would be enough for her. What was she going to do now that she knew she was wrong?

“Did you find everything you came for?” he asked.

She knew he referred to her errand at the mercantile that day, but her thoughts were on far more than that. Had she found what she’d been expecting in this marriage and this life she’d accepted? “I found what I’d expected to find.”

Quinn slipped one of his hands around hers, holding it gently. The gesture was entirely unexpected, but utterly welcome. She needed the reassurance that, though there was not love between them, he didn’t entirely overlook her—that for at least that one moment, she wasn’t completely alone.

She leaned forward, allowing her forehead to rest against his shoulder. “I’m so very tired.” Her voice broke a bit as she spoke.

“We’ve time before needing to head back. Rest a spell.”

“I’d be keeping you from your work,” she reminded him.

His arm wrapped around her and tucked her close, allowing her to sit in the reassurance of his embrace. “Rest, Mirabelle. I think you need it.”

She closed her eyes, holding back a surge of emotion.

Oh, Quinn. I need so much more than that.