His relationship with the Almighty was complicated at best, downright hostile at worst.

But he went anyway because not going marked you as a certain kind of man, and he was trying not to be that kind of man anymore.

He sat in the back pew, half listening to Reverend Michael’s drone on about righteousness and redemption, and tried not to stare at the woman sitting five rows ahead.

Evelyn Hart sat alone, as she always did, in the same faded green dress she wore everyday because it was the only dress she owned.

Her back was straight, her hands folded in her lap, her attention fixed on the Reverend with an intensity that suggested she was either deeply spiritual or deeply committed to appearing so.

Colt suspected the latter.

After the service, people spilled out into the sunshine, gathering in small clusters to exchange gossip and make plans for Sunday dinner.

Colt watched as Evelyn slipped through the crowd like smoke, heading toward the edge of town where the boarding houses clustered.

He followed, not subtly.

Colt had never been particularly good at subtle, but with the kind of determined purpose that suggested he had every right to be walking in this direction, even though they both knew he didn’t.

Miss Hart.

She stopped, her shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly.

When she turned, her face held that same carefully neutral expression from before.

Mr.

Harlo, I owe you an apology.

That surprised her.

He saw it flicker across her face before she locked it down again.

For what? Her voice was cool, polite, utterly uninterested.

For the other day, the question I asked, it was inappropriate, and I’m sorry.

Evelyn studied him for a long moment, those smokeced eyes searching his face for something.

Sincerity, mockery, hidden motives.

Colt wasn’t sure.

Whatever she found must have satisfied her at least partially because some of the rigidity left her posture.

Apology accepted, she said quietly.

They stood there in awkward silence, the Sunday morning crowd flowing around them like water around stones.

Would you? Colt cleared his throat, suddenly feeling like a school boy asking his first girl to dance.

Would you like to take a walk? There’s a nice path along the creek.

It’s shaded.

He watched her calculate the offer, weighing risks and benefits with the precision of a banker assessing a loan.

A walk with a man was courting behavior, and courting had expectations attached to it.

But refusing might offend him, and offending a man, any man, could have consequences for a woman in her position.

The fact that she had to make this calculation at all, made Colt’s chest tight with anger, not at her, but at the world that put her in this position.

Just a walk, he added quickly.

No expectations.

I give you my word.

Something shifted in her expression.

Your word? Yes, ma’am.

And what is Colt Harlo’s word worth? It was a fair question, if brutally direct.

Colt met her eyes steadily.

I’ve never broken it yet.

Another long moment of assessment.

Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

All right, Mr.

Harlo.

a walk.

The path along Willow Creek wound through a stand of cottonwoods that provided blessed relief from the sun.

The water ran shallow this time of year, trickling over smooth stones and creating a sound that was almost musical.

It was, Colt realized, probably the most peaceful spot in the entire territory.

They walked in silence for a while, Evelyn keeping a careful distance between them, her eyes fixed on the path ahead.

Colt found himself acutely aware of every sound.

The rustle of her dress, the soft scuff of her boots on the dirt, his own breathing, which suddenly seemed too loud.

“You’re from Kansas,” Evelyn said abruptly.

Colt glanced at her in surprise.

“How’d you know?” “You said ma’am three times in 2 minutes.

And you have a very slight accent, the way you flatten your vowels on certain words.

My father was from Kansas.

Topeka was Her expression shuddered.

He died 4 years ago.

I’m sorry.

Are you? Most people say that, but they don’t really mean it.

They just say it because it’s expected.

Colt considered this.

You’re right.

I didn’t know your father, so I can’t honestly be sorry he’s dead.

But I am sorry that you lost him because that clearly still hurts you.

Evelyn stopped walking.

She turned to look at him fully, and for the first time since he’d met her, something genuine flickered in her expression.

“Surprise maybe, or recognition.

” “That’s honest, at least,” she said softly.

“I try to be.

” They started walking again, and this time when Evelyn spoke, her voice had lost some of its careful guardedness.

“My father was a banker.

We had a good life.

A house in Philadelphia, nice things, security.

My mother died when I was young, so it was just the two of us.

He made sure I had an education, piano lessons, everything a young woman was supposed to have.

She paused, her fingers tracing the worn fabric of her dress.

Then he made some bad investments.

Very bad.

When he died, there were debts, significant debts.

Everything had to be sold to pay them.

Everything.

Everything.

The house, the furniture, my mother’s jewelry, my father’s books.

even the piano.

Her voice remained steady, but Colt could hear the weight behind the words.

I was 19 years old with no family, no money, and an education that was completely useless for actually surviving in the world.

So, I came west.

People said there were opportunities out here.

They didn’t mention that most of those opportunities involved marrying whatever man would have you or working in establishments that, well, she didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to.

How’d you end up in Broken Creek? Ran out of money for the stage fair.

This is just where I stopped.

A bitter smile touched her lips.

Sometimes I wonder if I’d had another $5.

Would I have made it somewhere better? Or is every Frontier Town just a different flavor of the same struggle? Probably the same struggle, Colt said honestly.

But some struggles are worth fighting, and some aren’t.

Evelyn stopped at a large flat rock near the creek’s edge and sat down, arranging her skirts with practiced precision.

“Why are you being kind to me, Mr.

Harlo?” The question was direct, almost confrontational.

Colt lowered himself onto the rock beside her, careful to maintain a respectful distance.

“Why does there have to be a reason?” Because there’s always a reason.

Men don’t do things for free, especially not for women like me.

Women like you, poor, alone, vulnerable.

She said the words without self-pity, just cold assessment.

I’m not stupid, Mr.

Harlo.

I know what I look like to men in this town.

I’m either a charity case or an opportunity, and I don’t like being either one.

Colt was quiet for a moment, watching the creek flow past.

My father was a drunk, he said finally.

Mean drunk, too.

Beat my mother until she couldn’t stand anymore, then beat me when I tried to stop him.

drank away every farm we ever had, every chance we ever got.

By the time I was old enough to leave, I hated him so much I could taste it.

He could feel Evelyn’s eyes on him, but he kept staring at the water.

I swore I’d never be like him, never be weak, never be poor, never be at someone else’s mercy.

So I worked, saved every penny, slept in barns, went hungry more times than I can count.

All of it pointed toward one thing.

Getting my own land.

Being my own man.

Never having to depend on anyone or have anyone depend on me.

That sounds lonely, Evelyn said quietly.

It is, but it’s safe.

Colt turned to look at her.

You asked why I’m being kind to you.

Honest answer? I don’t know.

Maybe because you remind me of myself 5 years ago.

proud, scared, fighting like hell to maintain some dignity in a world that wants to strip it away.

Maybe because I know what it’s like to be invisible.

Or maybe he hesitated, then pushed forward.

Maybe because kindness doesn’t need a reason to exist.

Evelyn was quiet for a long time.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

I have three dresses, Mr.

Harlo.

Not one.

Three.

Colt’s breath caught.

One I wear everyday because it’s the most practical.

One is too fine for daily work.

It was my mother’s, and I can’t bear to wear it out with hard labor.

And one is, she swallowed hard.

One is torn beyond repair.

I keep trying to fix it, but the fabric is so worn that every time I mend one spot, another rips.

I wash the green dress every night and wear it every morning because the alternative is admitting that I’m one torn seam away from having nothing decent left.

Her voice cracked on the last word.

The church ladies look at me and think I’m lazy or too poor to care about my appearance.

The men think I’m loose or desperate.

The truth is I’m just trying to hold on to the last shreds of respectability I have because once those are gone, I don’t know what happens next.

and that terrifies me more than anything else in this world.

Colt’s hand moved before he could think about it, reaching out to cover hers where it rested on the rock between them.

She flinched but didn’t pull away.

You’re not going to lose your respectability, he said firmly.

And you’re not alone anymore.

Not if you don’t want to be.

Evelyn looked up at him and for the [clears throat] first time he saw tears in those smokeced eyes.

Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Mr.

Harlo.

I told you I never break my word.

Then you’re either the best man I’ve ever met or the best liar.

I guess you’ll have to stick around long enough to find out which one.

And there on a rock beside Willow Creek on a Sunday afternoon in the hard summer of 1882, Evelyn Hart did something Colt Harlo had never seen her do before.

She smiled.

It was small, tentative, like something that had forgotten how to exist and was just now remembering, but it was real.

and it transformed her entire face.

“I suppose I will,” she said softly.

They sat there together as the sun climbed higher and the creek sang its endless song.

Two people who’d been alone so long they’d forgotten what it felt like to be anything else.

The town moved on without them, indifferent and chaotic and brutal.

But something had shifted, something small, but profound.

For the first time in years, neither of them was invisible anymore.

The Sunday walks became ritual.

Every week after church, Colt would wait by the cottonwood tree at the edge of town, and Evelyn would appear like clockwork, still wearing that faded green dress, but carrying herself differently now, less like she was bracing for a blow, more like she remembered what it felt like to be seen as a person rather than a problem.

They never planned it explicitly.

Neither of them said time next week or made formal arrangements.

But every Sunday there they were walking the path along Willow Creek while the rest of Broken Creek ate their dinners and minded their business.

Or more likely didn’t mind their business at all.

“People are talking,” Evelyn said one afternoon in early August, 4 weeks after that first walk.

She said it matterof factly without apparent concern, but Colt caught the tension in her shoulders.

“Let them talk.

” Easy for you to say.

You’re a man.

Talking doesn’t hurt you the same way.

She was right and they both knew it.

A man seen walking with a woman was courting or making his intentions known.

Respectable enough.

A woman walking with a man was either spoken for or being courted.

And if nothing came of it, well, people would wonder what was wrong with her that he’d looked but not committed.

The calculus was brutal and unfair, but it was the reality they lived in.

“What are your intentions, Mr.

Harlo?” Evelyn asked, stopping on the path to face him directly.

The question was bold, almost aggressive, but her voice shook slightly.

Because if this is just if you’re just passing time until something better comes along, I need to know now.

I can’t afford to have my reputation damaged for nothing.

Colt met her eyes steadily.

My intention is to keep walking with you every Sunday until you tell me to stop.

Beyond that, I don’t know.

Do I need to know right now? Most women would say yes.

Are you most women? A smile ghosted across her lips.

No, I suppose I’m not.

Then maybe we can just see where this goes without putting a name on it yet.

Evelyn was quiet for a moment, studying his face with that intense assessing look she got when she was trying to decide whether to trust something.

Finally, she nodded.

All right, Beakult.

It was the first time she’d used his given name, and hearing it in her voice did something strange to his chest.

Yeah.

Don’t make a fool of me.

If you’re going to leave, leave clean.

Don’t let me build something in my head that isn’t real.

The vulnerability in those words hit him harder than any punch ever had.

I won’t, he said quietly.

I promise.

You and your promises.

But she was smiling when she said it.

They started walking again, and Colt found himself talking more than he usually did, about the land he wanted to buy, about the ranch he planned to build, about a future that had always been solitary in his mind, but was starting to develop room for someone else.

Evelyn listened with an intensity that suggested she was cataloging every word, storing them away to examine later in private.

When she spoke, her questions were practical and sharp.

How many acres are you looking at? 20 to start.

There’s a parcel east of town near the creek.

Good water, decent grazing.

20 acres isn’t much for cattle.

It’s enough to start.

I’ll expand as I can afford it.

And if you can’t afford it, if the cattle die or the market crashes or a hard winter wipes you out.

Colt glanced at her, surprised by the bluntness of the question.

Most women, at least the women he’d encountered in his limited experience, would have made encouraging noises about his dreams, not interrogated their feasibility.

Then I’ll rebuild, he said.

I’ve started from nothing before.

I can do it again.

That’s not an answer.

That’s stubborn optimism.

You got a better approach.

Diversification.

Don’t put everything into cattle.

Keep chickens.

Plant a kitchen garden.

Maybe raise a few pigs.

Multiple income streams mean if one fails, you don’t lose everything.

Colt stopped walking.

You’ve thought about this.

Evelyn flushed slightly.

I read a lot.

The widow has some agricultural journals in her sitting room.

I’ve been studying.

Why? The flush deepened.

Because knowledge is free and I [clears throat] don’t have much else.

But Colt heard what she wasn’t saying.

Because I’m planning to.

because I’m thinking about a future that might include land and security and something other than washing dishes in someone else’s boarding house.

You’re smart, he said.

Being smart doesn’t count for much when you’re a woman with no money.

It counts for something.

It should count for everything.

Evelyn looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read.

Something between hope and disbelief, like she wanted to accept the compliment, but didn’t quite dare.

You’re different than other men I’ve met,” she said finally.

“Is that good or bad?” “I haven’t decided yet.

” But she was smiling again, and Colt decided that was enough.

But uh the first crack in their careful equilibrium came on a Tuesday in mid- August.

Colt had been working a week-long job helping Daniel Morrison repair his barn.

Hard, hot work that paid well, and left him too exhausted to think about much beyond food and sleep.

He hadn’t seen Evelyn in days.

hadn’t had time to walk past the boarding house or manufacture reasons to be in her vicinity.

He told himself it was fine.

They weren’t attached.

They were just whatever they were.

But when he finally finished the job and collected his pay, the first thing he did was head to Murphy’s general store, position himself in his usual spot, and wait.

She didn’t come.

He waited for an hour, watching the afternoon shadows lengthen, telling himself he was being ridiculous.

She had work.

She had responsibilities.

She didn’t owe him her time or her presence.

But doubt crept in anyway, insidious and persistent.

Had she changed her mind? Had the church ladies gotten to her, convinced her that walking with a rough cattleman was beneath her dignity? Had some other man, someone more established or respectable, caught her attention.

The thoughts were irrational, and he knew it, but they nodded him anyway.

Finally, as the sun started its descent toward the horizon, Colt gave up and started walking toward the boarding house.

“He’d just check,” he told himself.

“Just make sure everything was all right.

” He found her in the back garden, kneeling in the dirt between rows of vegetables, her hands buried in the soil.

The faded green dress was dusty and sweat stained, her hair coming loose from its pins, her face flushed from the heat.

She looked up when his shadow fell across the row of beans she was weeding and her expression went through several rapid transformations.

Surprise, pleasure, then something that looked almost like panic.

Colt.

She scrambled to her feet, brushing ineffectively at her dirty dress.

I didn’t expect I’m not You all right? The question seemed to throw her.

Of course, why wouldn’t I be? Haven’t seen you in a week.

I’ve been working.

The widow had me deep cleaning the upstairs rooms and then Mrs.

Henderson was sick, so I took her shifts in the kitchen and she stopped abruptly.

Why were you looking for me? The vulnerability in the question gutted him.

Yeah, Colt said simply.

I was.

Something shifted in her expression.

Relief maybe or vindication.

She glanced back at the house, then at the garden, clearly calculating something.

I have another hour of work here, she said slowly.

But if you wanted to, you could sit on the porch.

There’s shade.

I could bring you some water.

It wasn’t an invitation to help.

It wasn’t even really an invitation to stay.

It was more like she was testing something, whether he’d actually wait, whether his interest extended beyond the easy Sunday walks into the mundane reality of her daily life.

Colt understood the test and accepted it.

“I’ll wait,” he said.

He sat on the rickety porch steps and watched her work.

She moved efficiently through the rows, her hands quick and sure, pulling weeds and checking plants with the kind of focused attention that suggested she’d done this a thousand times before.

Every so often she’d glance toward the porch as if confirming he was still there.

He was.

When she finally finished, the sun was setting and her dress was stre with dirt and sweat.

She looked exhausted and real and more beautiful than any Polish society lady Colt had ever seen.

“I’m filthy,” she said almost apologetically as she climbed the porch steps.

“You’re working.

Nothing shameful in that.

” Evelyn sat down beside him close enough that he could smell the earth on her skin and the faint lavender scent she somehow managed to maintain despite everything.

They sat in companionable silence, watching the sky turn orange and purple.

I missed you, she said quietly.

Colt’s heart did something complicated in his chest.

Missed you, too.

That scares me.

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