“Sometimes.”

“Mine does too.”

“Then we’ll understand each other.”

He closed his shirt.

“Damage means you survived, Mrs. Oldgate. Doesn’t tell me what you’re worth.”

Something tightened painfully in Mercy’s chest.

She had not heard words like that since Thomas died.

Dutch placed a leather wallet on the table.

“That should settle whatever Pratt says you owe. I’m leaving at first light.”

Mercy looked at the money.

Then at him.

“Are you buying a wife, Mr. Calder?”

His expression changed.

“No.”

He pushed the wallet toward her.

“I’m buying you the freedom to decide.”

For the first time in two years, Mercy found herself completely unable to answer.

Chapter Two: The Price of Freedom

Cyrus Pratt was furious.

“Absolutely not!”

His fist struck the desk hard enough to rattle the ink bottle.

Mercy stood across from him in the mining consortium office.

Dutch waited beside the door.

Pratt’s pale eyes moved between them.

“Calder is a wilderness brute. A man who lives with wolves. You know nothing about him!”

“I know he hasn’t insulted my hand,” Mercy replied.

Pratt’s mouth tightened.

“You owe the company forty-seven dollars for lodging, coal, and provisions.”

Dutch placed fifty dollars on the desk.

“Paid.”

Pratt didn’t touch it.

“She also owes for medical treatment following the collapse.”

Mercy frowned.

“The company paid those bills.”

“Advanced the money,” Pratt corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“How much?” Dutch asked.

Pratt hesitated.

“Two hundred dollars.”

Dutch’s eyes narrowed.

“Interesting.”

“What is?”

“How a woman working fourteen hours a day for two years keeps getting poorer.”

Pratt stood.

“You have no authority to question our accounts.”

“No,” Dutch replied. “But a territorial judge does.”

The office went silent.

Pratt looked suddenly older.

Finally, he snatched the fifty dollars from the desk.

“Take her, then.”

Mercy felt the words like a slap.

Dutch did not move.

“She’ll decide whether she’s coming.”

Pratt turned toward Mercy.

His expression had changed again.

Now he looked almost frightened.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he whispered.

Mercy lifted her chin.

“Perhaps not. But for once, the mistake will be mine to make.”

They married the following morning in a small church beside the freight depot.

The minister was elderly and nearly deaf.

The witnesses were a blacksmith named Amos Bell and his wife, Ruth, who had brought Mercy a wool shawl as a wedding gift.

There were no flowers.

No music.

No elaborate promises.

When the minister asked Dutch whether he would cherish his wife, the trapper answered so firmly that even the deaf old man heard him.

“I will.”

Mercy repeated her vows with a trembling voice.

When Dutch slipped a plain silver ring onto her right hand, he noticed that she was shaking.

“You can still change your mind,” he murmured.

Mercy looked into his gray eyes.

“Can you?”

“No.”

“Then neither can I.”

Outside, October sunlight lay across the muddy street.

Dutch helped her onto a sturdy brown mare.

Before they left, Ruth Bell pressed a little cloth parcel into Mercy’s hand.

“For the journey.”

Inside were biscuits, dried apples, and a tiny embroidered handkerchief.

Mercy recognized the stitching.

A blue bird surrounded by yellow flowers.

It was a pattern she had once made for her baby boy.

Her breath caught.

“Where did you get this?”

Ruth looked puzzled.

“From the dress shop. It was in a basket of discarded cloth.”

Mercy stared at the embroidery.

She remembered sewing that exact design on a blanket while she was pregnant.

After the collapse, the blanket had vanished along with everything else.

She folded the handkerchief carefully.

“Thank you.”

Dutch watched her tuck it inside her dress.

He said nothing.

But as they rode out of Harwick, his expression darkened when he saw the blue bird.

Chapter Three: Four Days Into the Wilderness

The mountains were beautiful in a way Mercy had never imagined.

Golden aspens burned against dark pines.

Cold rivers flashed between enormous boulders.

Snow lay on distant peaks like powdered silver.

The first day, she struggled to keep her horse steady on the narrow trails.

The second, rain soaked them through.

By the third morning, Mercy’s injured hand throbbed so fiercely that she could barely hold the reins.

Dutch noticed.

“Give me your hand.”

“I’m fine.”

“Didn’t ask.”

She glared at him.

He waited.

Finally, she held it out.

He examined the swollen knuckles without squeezing.