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“Thanks.”
He noted that she didn’t even spare him a glance when he departed.
Spring was sitting at her outside dining table. “That was quick.”
He sat. “She wants to finish the stall.”
Spring’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Made you play second fiddle to horse manure?”
He didn’t respond.
“I know you’re accustomed to a woman who’ll bend and bow, but Regan’s not that type. If you’re seeking someone more like Adele, you should send Regan home and keep searching.”
Colt stared off into the distance. At this point he wasn’t certain what he wanted. He already knew how limited his future choices might be. Even though the territorial government was doing everything it could to entice good women to consider making their homes in Wyoming, the response had been low. The cities were small and unpolished; the winters long and harsh. There were few theaters, lending libraries, or fancy dress shops that seemed to ease women’s lives, but he had a woman who seemed willing. Did he want to throw her back like a too-small fish because she appeared to lack Adele’s sweet deferential nature?
Spring added, “That she isn’t already on a train back to her family says to me that she’s willing to meet you halfway. Are you prepared to do the same?”
He considered Spring’s question. “She and I need to talk first.”
A few minutes later, he saw her exiting the barn. He noted the confidence in her stride and the sway in her hips as she approached the pump. Adele had sometimes needed help priming the one at his place, but not Regan Carmichael. Expertly working the handle, she displayed confidence in that task as well. The water spilled out, she cleaned her hands, wiped them dry on the front of her denims, and made her way to where he waited.
Spring got to her feet. “I’ll be inside.”
He nodded and focused on Regan’s approach. By all accounts she was a beautiful woman. Short in stature, she had clear ebony skin and a pair of sparkling black eyes that had snapped at him angrily yesterday in Whit’s office. In contrast, they’d been cool and almost distant during this morning’s short encounter in the barn. He found himself taking in her figure again. The snug denims emphasized her curves and his mind strayed to their potential wedding night. Like most well-raised women, she’d probably hope her husband did his business quickly, and would only bother her with his needs when necessary.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said upon reaching the table.
He stood and gestured her to take a seat. “Your work ethic is admirable.”
“Thank you.”
She sat and he followed. Colt wasn’t sure where or how to begin the conversation, so he simply plunged ahead. “Your letters made me believe we’d be compatible.”
“And now?” she asked frankly.
He wondered how long it would take him to get accustomed to her blunt way of speaking. “Now, I’m trying to reconcile the woman I thought you to be from your letters with the woman seated here.”
“They’re one and the same. I answered your letters truthfully. You never asked if I knew how to shoot.”
She had him there, he admitted.
She continued, “I was raised in Arizona Territory, a sometimes dangerous place. My sister and I were taught to carry a firearm for protection.”
“By this neighbor?”
“Yes. His name was Mr. Blanchard and by my Uncle Rhine, who insisted we learn. Mr. Blanchard was a dear and honorable man. He died recently. I didn’t appreciate you casting aspersions on what I may or may not have learned from him.”
Her displeasure was plain.
“My apologies for being disrespectful. Being shot tends to make a man short-tempered.”
She held his gaze unflinchingly as if to remind him she’d already offered her apology, more than once. Colt found himself drawn to the determination she radiated. “What else did I fail to ask?”
“What type of work I did.”
He paused and studied her. “And that was?”
“I drove the mail wagon from Tucson up country to the mining camps.”
