"The policy is firm, I'm afraid. Once a match has been confirmed and travel arrangements finalized, cancellation within the sixty-day window requires the matched partner's written consent as well. Your partner has already departed their point of origin."
Already departed. Already on a bus or a train or whatever Sanctuary Match uses to deliver humans to other humans who didn't ask for them. Already heading toward a town and a cabin and a man who has nothing to offer anyone right now except bad coffee, a freezer full of stew, and enough grief to fill every room in this house twice over.
"This is insane," I tell Rebecca, though the word I actually want to use would get me disconnected.
"I understand this is unexpected. Many of our clients find that keeping an open mind leads to wonderful connections."
"Rebecca."
"Sir?"
"My grandmother signed me up for this behind my back. She's gone. I'm in no position to be somebody's match. Can you call the woman and explain? Redirect her somewhere else?"
"Our ethical guidelines require that both parties meet before any reassignment. The matched partner has invested significant preparation into this transition. We can't simply redirect a person, Mr. Cross. She's not a package."
Fair point. Doesn't make me feel any better about it.
"So what you're telling me is that a woman I've never met is going to step off a bus tomorrow expecting a partner, and there's nothing I can do about it."
"What I'm telling you, Mr. Cross, is that your grandmother went to considerable effort to arrange this. She filled out a forty-page compatibility profile. She provided photographs. She wrote a personal letter to your match describing your character, yourhome, and your community. Whatever her reasons were, she clearly wanted this for you."
Forty pages. Photographs. A personal letter. Gran, who could barely send an email without calling me to ask which button was the enter key, sat down and wrote forty pages about me to a stranger.
My throat tightens. The anger drains out so fast it leaves me hollow, and in the space where it was, something worse settles in. The understanding that an eighty-two-year-old woman spent the last months of her life trying to make sure her grandson wouldn't be alone after she was gone.
Because she knew. She knew she was dying before any of us did, and instead of telling me, she called a matchmaking service in Vancouver and wrote forty pages about why I was worth loving.
"Mr. Cross? Are you still there?"
I clear my throat. Push off the doorframe. Look out the window at the mountains going gold with the last of the afternoon light, Gran's porch swing swaying in a breeze that has no business being this gentle.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm here."
"Would you like me to send you a copy of her letter? We have it on file."
"No." The word comes out rougher than intended. "No, just. What time does the bus get in?"
"Nine fifteen tomorrow morning. Crimson Hollow transit station."
Nine fifteen. Sixteen hours from now. A woman with a suitcase and a folder full of my dead grandmother's promises is going to step into the morning light of a town that isn't hers, looking for a man who isn't ready.
"I'll be there," I tell Rebecca, and hang up before she can wish me an open mind.
The cabin settles around me. Quiet. Gran's desk still sits open, her reading glasses on top of the crossword book, pencil tucked in the spine. She was working on a Thursday puzzle. Harder than Wednesday, easier than Friday. She always said Thursdays were the sweet spot.
I close the drawer. Pick up my cold coffee. Pour it down the drain.
Then I go outside to talk to the cattle about it, because they're the only ones left who'll listen.
CHAPTER TWO
NAOMI
The bus smells like diesel and someone's leftover tuna sandwich. Twelve hours of that combination has me ready to kiss the ground when we finally pull into Crimson Hollow, British Columbia, population whatever-it-is, at nine thirteen in the morning.
Two minutes early. First time anything in my life has arrived ahead of schedule.
My suitcase is in the overhead compartment. One suitcase. Everything I own that matters fits in a single navy blue roller bag with a broken zipper on the front pocket. Clothes. Toiletries. My grandmother's Bible with the cracked leather cover. A manila folder full of letters from a dead woman named Edith Cross who wrote to me about mountains, cattle, fresh starts, and her grandson Sullivan.
