He Paid My Father Twenty Dollars and Two Horses. By Dawn, I Learned the Mountain Man Had Been Guarding My Life for Twelve Years.
“
Take off that dress.
”
Those were the first words my new husband said after the cabin door closed behind us.
My blood turned cold.
I backed against the rough pine wall, clutching the neckline of my yellow traveling dress while Harlan Creek stood between me and the only door.
Outside, the Colorado mountains were disappearing beneath an early November snowfall.
Wind dragged through the pines like fingernails against a coffin lid, and the horses we had ridden from town snorted nervously beside the porch.
Inside, the fire crackled.
And Harlan Creek stared at me.
Everyone in Coldwater had warned me about him.
They called Harlan a savage.
A giant.
A mountain brute.
He lived miles from town in a cabin nobody visited willingly.
He trapped wolves in winter, hunted elk alone, and supposedly once broke a drunken miner’s jaw with a single punch after the man insulted him.
Children crossed the street when he came into town.
Women lowered their voices.
Men who bragged loudly in the saloon became remarkably interested in their whiskey whenever Harlan walked through the door.
And three hours earlier, my father had made me his wife.
Twenty dollars and two draft horses.
That was apparently the price of Josephine Hale.
Or so my father had told me.
Now the enormous man everyone feared stood barely ten feet away, broad shoulders filling his wool coat, dark hair brushing his collar, his weathered face impossible to read.
My hands trembled.
“Please,” I whispered.
Harlan’s brow furrowed.
“I’ll behave.”
Something changed in his face.
“Behave?”
“I won’t cause trouble.”
His eyes narrowed.
For several terrible seconds, neither of us moved.
Then his gaze dropped toward my waist.
“Josephine, you can barely breathe.”
“I’m fine.”
Even I heard the weakness in the lie.
The corset beneath my dress was tightened so brutally that each breath felt as if iron fingers were closing around my ribs.
My father had supervised while our housekeeper laced it that morning.
“Harlan paid good money for a bride,” Father had said.
“You’d better look like one worth buying.”
When I protested that I couldn’t breathe, he pulled the laces tighter himself.
Now the room suddenly tilted.
I grabbed the wall.
Harlan stepped toward me.
I flinched.
He stopped instantly.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
Then, without another word, he turned his back on me and crossed the cabin toward a cedar chest beside the fireplace.
He opened it.
From inside, he removed a simple blue flannel dress.
There was nothing fashionable about it.
No lace.
No ribbons.
No stiff waist.
Just soft blue cloth, wide sleeves, and a loose skirt.
He placed it on the table.
Then he laid a pair of blunt sewing shears beside it.
I stared.
“What is that?”
“A dress.”
“Why?”
“So you can breathe.”
My fingers tightened against the wall.
Harlan stepped farther from the table.
“I’m not going to touch you.”
“But you said—”
