Caleb had been gone nine days when the weather turned.
Morning began warm.
By afternoon, clouds crowded over the mountains, nearly black against the pale summer sky.
Silver Creek residents knew mountain weather could turn without warning, but even longtime settlers watched the horizon uneasily.
Beatrice stood outside the schoolhouse as the first wind arrived.
Dust twisted across the road.
Mr. Finch emerged beside her.
“That’s moving fast.”
A low growl of thunder rolled through the valley.
Children inside began talking excitedly.
Beatrice looked north.
Caleb was somewhere beyond those ridges.
“He knows mountain weather,” Mr. Finch said.
She glanced at him.
“Was my concern that obvious?”
“To anyone with eyes.”
Rain hit twenty minutes later.
Not rain like Boston.
Not steady gray drizzle.
Montana rain came sideways beneath roaring wind.
Lightning split the sky.
Within an hour, the road became mud and Silver Creek’s creek rose visibly beneath the bridge.
Families rushed to collect children from school.
Beatrice stayed until the last child left.
Then Martha arrived in a wagon.
“You’re soaked.”
“So are you.”
“I’m old enough to know better.”
They hurried home.
The storm lasted all night.
At dawn, word reached town that a section of the north trail had washed out.
Beatrice refused to panic.
Caleb was experienced.
Prepared.
Capable.
She repeated those words through breakfast.
At noon, a rider came into town leading another horse.
Caleb’s horse.
Without Caleb.
Beatrice was outside before the rider reached Martha’s gate.
“What happened?”
The young man, Isaac Bell, looked grim.
“Found the horse about seven miles north. Saddle still on.”
Beatrice’s blood ran cold.
“Where is Caleb?”
“Don’t know.”
Martha appeared behind her.
“He could have gone on foot.”
Isaac nodded.
“Could’ve. Trail collapsed near Stone Creek.”
Beatrice was already reaching for her cloak.
Martha caught her arm.
“Where are you going?”
“To find him.”
“You aren’t going into those mountains alone.”
“Then I won’t go alone.”
Within thirty minutes, six men prepared to ride north.
Chester was among them.
Beatrice approached with her boots laced and hair tied back.
Caleb’s friend Isaac frowned.
“No.”
Beatrice continued tightening her saddle strap.
“No what?”
“You’re staying here.”
“I know the lower trail.”
“So do we.”
“I have medical training.”
Everyone stopped.
Beatrice sighed.
“I assisted a physician in Boston for two years after my mother died. I am not a doctor, but if Caleb is injured, I may be useful.”
Chester stepped forward.
“She should come.”
Isaac looked between them.
Then nodded.
“Stay beside me.”
The search party left.
Rain had stopped, but damage covered the valley.
Trees lay across portions of trail.
Mudslides cut through slopes.
Stone Creek, normally narrow, had become a violent brown river.
They found Caleb three hours later.
Beatrice saw the broken wagon first.
Then a man beneath an overhang of rock.
“Caleb!”
She was off her horse before anyone stopped her.
He sat against the stone, one leg stretched unnaturally.
Blood darkened his shirt near his shoulder.
His eyes opened.
For a second, confusion crossed his face.
Then he saw Beatrice.
“What are you doing here?”
She dropped beside him.
“Lovely to see you too.”
His mouth twitched.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
She began examining him.
His shoulder wound was shallow.
His ankle concerned her more.
“Can you move your toes?”
“Yes.”
“Any numbness?”
“No.”
“Head injury?”
“Don’t think so.”
“That is not reassuring.”
Caleb looked at Chester.
“You brought her?”
Chester shook his head.
“Have you met her?”
Even injured, Caleb laughed.
Getting him back to Silver Creek took hours.
Beatrice rode beside the wagon.
Every jolt tightened Caleb’s face.
He never complained.
When they finally reached town, Martha prepared her spare room.
For three days, Beatrice cared for Caleb.
She cleaned the shoulder wound.
Wrapped his ankle.
Changed compresses.
Forced him to drink broth when he claimed he was not hungry.
Argued with him when he attempted to stand.
“You are the worst patient I have ever had.”
“I’m your only patient in Montana.”
“And already the worst.”
He lay back against the pillows.
“Bossy.”
“Alive.”
“Because you came looking.”
“Because six people came looking.”
“You came.”
She stopped adjusting the blanket.
“Yes.”
His eyes held hers.
“Why?”
Beatrice looked away.
“You already know.”
“I’d like to hear you say it.”
“You nearly died and have chosen now to become demanding?”
“Near death clarifies a man.”
“You are not near death.”
“See? Your nursing is excellent.”
She almost threw the folded cloth at him.
Instead, she sat.
“Because I care about you.”
The joking left Caleb’s face.
“How much?”
She exhaled slowly.
“I am still determining that.”
“Fair.”
“What about you?”
“I determined it.”
Her heart stumbled.
“When?”
“Somewhere between the church roof story and you threatening to tie me to this bed if I tried walking.”
Beatrice stared.
“You cannot say something like that casually.”
“I’m not saying it casually.”
Caleb pushed himself slightly upright.
“Beatrice, I’m in love with you.”
Everything inside her became still.
No one had ever said those words to her.
Not romantically.
Not plainly.
Not with calm certainty.
She wanted to answer.
Instead fear rose first.
“What happens when you know me better?”
Caleb frowned.
“I’ll know you better.”
“What happens when I disappoint you?”
“You will.”
Her face changed.
He continued.
“So will I.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
He held out his hand.
After a moment, she took it.
“You think love means finding someone who never disappoints you.”
“No.”
“You think it means being perfect enough that they never leave.”
Beatrice looked down.
Caleb squeezed her hand.
“I’m not Halloway.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t make me answer for what he did.”
The words were not harsh.
But they struck deeply.
Beatrice pulled her hand away and stood.
“I need air.”
She left.
Outside, evening light spread over Silver Creek.
Martha found her near the garden.
“You look like someone handed you the thing you wanted and frightened you with it.”
Beatrice laughed miserably.
“That is remarkably precise.”
“What did Caleb say?”
“He loves me.”
Martha smiled.
“And?”
“And I wanted to run.”
“Why?”
“Because now I have something to lose.”
Martha’s expression softened.
“That’s generally how loving someone works.”
Beatrice wrapped her arms around herself.
“I survived Chester because I expected him to reject me.”
“You expected pain, so pain felt safe.”
Beatrice turned.
Martha nodded.
“The dangerous thing isn’t being rejected, Beatrice. The dangerous thing is believing rejection is the only ending you deserve.”
Beatrice’s throat tightened.
Inside, Caleb shifted painfully in bed.
She looked toward the house.
“I don’t know how to trust this.”
“You don’t need to know all at once.”
That night Beatrice returned to his room.
Caleb was awake.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“Pushing.”
She sat beside him.
“I’m glad you told me.”
“But?”
“No but.”
He waited.
Beatrice gathered courage.
“I have spent years preparing myself for men not to choose me.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“I became good at disappointment. I’m less skilled at happiness.”
Caleb’s expression softened.
“Practice.”
She smiled.
“I suppose.”
He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles.
No demand.
No proposal.
Only patience.
Over the next two weeks, Caleb recovered.
During that time, Chester visited twice.
The first time he brought supplies.
The second, he came to speak privately with Beatrice.
They stood behind Martha’s house.
“I’ve decided to stop asking you to reconsider,” he said.
Beatrice looked surprised.
“That sounds sensible.”
He smiled faintly.
“I deserved that.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“I probably deserve it repeatedly.”
Then he looked serious.
“Stone loves you.”
Beatrice did not respond.
“I can see it.”
“So can half of Silver Creek, apparently.”
“I’m glad.”
That surprised her more.
“You are?”
“No.”
They both laughed.
Chester continued.
“But I’m trying to be.”
Beatrice looked at the man she had crossed the country to marry.
She felt affection for him.
Strangely.
Not romantic affection.
Something quieter.
They had hurt each other without intending to.
And now they were becoming something neither had planned.
Friends, perhaps.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she said.
Chester nodded.
“I think I need to determine what that is before asking another woman to leave Boston.”
“An excellent start.”
He smiled.
Then he said, “For what it’s worth, I was wrong.”
“About?”
“You.”
Beatrice waited.
“You weren’t too much.”
His voice was quiet.
“I was too afraid.”
For a moment, old pain opened.
Then closed.
“Thank you.”
Chester left.
Beatrice stood beneath the cottonwoods until Caleb called from the porch.
“What did he want?”
She turned.
“Are you jealous?”
“Yes.”
The immediate answer made her laugh.
Caleb leaned on a cane.
“Should I be?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He began walking toward her.
“You’re supposed to stay off that ankle.”
“I wanted to see you.”
“You could call.”
“I did.”
“That is not medically sufficient.”
He reached her.
“Then support me.”
Beatrice slipped an arm around his waist.
Caleb grinned.
“Excellent treatment.”
“You are impossible.”
“You’re staying anyway.”
She looked at him.
The teasing faded from his face.
Beatrice realized he had not meant only beside the garden.
She answered softly.
“Yes.”
Caleb’s breath caught.
“Montana?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
She placed her hand against his chest.
“I’m still practicing happiness.”
His smile was slow.
“I’ve got time.”
Then Beatrice kissed him first.
From Martha’s kitchen window came a loud cheer.
Beatrice jumped.
“Martha!”
The curtain disappeared.
Caleb laughed until his injured ankle hurt.
For several weeks, happiness seemed frighteningly easy.
Then a letter arrived from Boston.
It contained news that would force Beatrice to decide whether the woman she was becoming in Montana could finally confront the family that had taught her to doubt herself.