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Chapter Text

April 29th, 1895

Dear Joel,

You believe in fate? Like every once in a while, God’ll place a gift in a man’s lap, and all he’s gotta do is take it?

I bet you’re shaking your head and cussing me out reading this, probably calling me a jackass, and you ain’t wrong. Think my luck might’ve changed, though.

When I arrived in Saint Paul, that busted latch on my suitcase didn’t go five minutes before popping open. All my things tumbled out, and my shaving kit rolled clear across the platform. It would’ve fallen onto the tracks, but a woman stepping off the train from Chicago snatched it up in the nick of time.

She walked right on over to me and held out my kit. “You drop?” she said.

Tell you what, Joel, I pert near did. I swear on Daddy’s grave, I ain’t never seen a woman so beautiful. Stormy eyes. Hair the color of wheat. Soft, full lips. Ample “attributes.” You get the idea.

She smiled at me, all shy and sweet, and her cheeks went bright red. Guess she didn’t mind the look of me neither.

Being a Southern gentleman, I thanked her kindly for intervening on my behalf and struck up a polite conversation. The poor woman could hardly put two words of English together, kept flipping through a book that had all sorts of dots and circles above the vowels.

Turns out her name is Hanna Nilsson. She’d just come over on a boat from Älmsta, Sweden, a little town not far from the Åland Sea - notice them circles and dots?

From what I could gather, a family up here in Minnesota, the Sjöbloms, hired her to be their household cook. They even paid her way over to the States and bought her train fare. Apparently, Hanna’s late mother had once been schoolmates with a distant Sjöblom cousin, or something to that effect.

Anyway, I waited with Hanna for her employers in the station’s main hall. Couldn’t have some lowlife taking advantage of a pretty lady traveling alone. Mama taught us manners.

Three middle-aged women approached us where we was sitting, introduced themselves as the Sjöblom sisters. Praise the Lord, all three spoke English just fine. They’d ridden down to fetch Hanna and bring her back to their property in Lindström, a rural community of mostly Scandinavian immigrants, about forty miles northeast of Saint Paul.

After exchanging pleasantries, Kristina, the eldest sister, inquired about my background. Reckon God’s got a sense of humor, cause when I told her about our humble cattle ranch, and how I’d just arrived from Texas to work in the logging industry, she offered me a job on the spot.

Her father had recently passed, and the sisters were in need of a capable, hard-working man to run the farm in his absence. With Hanna’s go-ahead, I accepted.

I got a place of my own here, a cozy little cottage behind the big house. Been keeping busy. The sisters pay me plenty, even tell me I’m an answer to their prayers. You believe that?

Money’s better than I would’ve made felling trees. At this rate, I’ll be home in two years instead of three. Maybe I’ll even have me a wife by then.

Hanna’s a phenominal cook. She’s on a mission to “broaden my palate,” as she calls it, feeding me all kinds of dishes I ain’t never heard of before. If I’m being honest, her efforts have been quite successful. My “broadened” waistline can confirm.

Hanna helps me with my chores in the barn sometimes, washes and mends my clothes, and I ain’t got no complaints about her sparkling personality. Despite the language barrier, communication hasn’t been an issue, only requires a bit of patience and a sense of humor - two things I got in spades.

I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve enclosed my wages. Soon enough you’ll be able to put down a bid on that team of draft horses you’ve had your eye on.

Next time you run into the Burrell family, please tell them I send my warmest regards. Wouldn’t object to you writing back.

Here’s the address:
Tommy Miller
c/o Kristina Sjöblom
Lindström
Chisago County, Minnesota

-

Friday, June 5th, 1896

Joel’s hands shook something fierce as he attempted to thread Oliver’s reins through the hitching post’s galvanized steel ring.

“Ain’t got time for this, Miller,” he muttered. “Get your shit together.”

He hadn’t slept worth a damn the night before, and the subsequent fatigue was messing with his coordination. His frayed nerves certainly weren’t helping matters.

He knew he was doing right by his brother, but respecting Tommy’s final wishes didn’t bring Joel an ounce of comfort; it didn’t dull his grief, ease his doubts, or stop guilt from burning a hole in his gut.

The woman waiting for him inside the nearby station house hadn’t asked for any of this. Less than a week after burying her husband, she’d been shipped off to Texas to marry a virtual stranger, so the child she was carrying wouldn’t be born a ward of the state.

Hanna had no living relatives, either in the US or back in Sweden. When Tommy was killed, no one stepped up with an offer to provide for her care; nobody except for Joel. He was her sole option and her last hope; the only thing standing between her and destitution.

Joel’d be damned if he let his brother’s beloved to fall into ruin and waste away in some godforsaken widow’s shelter. More so, Hanna deserved to raise her child. Joel refused to abide by the government taking custody of his future niece or nephew, not when he had the means to prevent that vile outcome.

He’d never met his sister-in-law, hardly knew anything about her, but by the time the sun went down, she’d be his wife. In Tommy’s stead, Joel would extend her coverture. He would see to Hanna’s basic needs and keep a stable roof over her head. He would be her legal authority and her protector. Hanna was his responsibility now.

Unlike his marriage to Lilah Mae, Joel’s second marriage would be one of platonic practicality, rather than genuine affection. The circumstances were far from ideal, but at least the arrangement would benefit both parties.

After his late wife died, Joel was content being laid to rest a widower. No woman could ever replace his precious Lilah Mae, or hold a candle to her beauty, grace, and poise. But Joel made a promise to his brother, and honorable men stay true to their word, regardless of personal misgivings.

Once the horses were secured to the hitching post, if not a touch haphazardly, Joel huffed a weary sigh and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Ain’t exactly makin’ a stellar first impression here, are we, boys?”

Oliver nickered in agreement, and Joel gave the gentle giant’s sorrel jaw a firm pat. “Haven’t even met her yet and you’re already on her side? Need I remind you who keeps your belly full, you surly bastard?”

“What about you, Orlando?” Oliver’s teammate was imparted with a conciliatory chin scritch. “Think she’ll forgive me? Her train pulled in at ten.”

Joel dipped a finger into his vest pocket and hooked the gold chain attached to his watch. Running a thumb over the timepiece’s cracked glass, he clucked his tongue. “It’s goin’ on one now. She’s probably cursin’ my name, figurin’ I got cold feet and abandoned her. Or maybe she’s the generous type and just assumes I’m some dimwitted country bumpkin who can’t tell his backside from a hole in the ground.”

Orlando let out a curt snort.

“Mm-hmm. I see how it is,” Joel grumbled. “You know, we would’ve been here an hour ago if you hadn’t thrown that damn shoe. If she gives me a hard time for bein’ late, I’m blamin’ you.”

Joel turned towards the Smithville railroad depot’s sprawling two-story station house, ready to embrace his familial obligations. He cut a path across the grass, smacking his palms against his pant legs, scattering the dust that had accumulated over the course of the day, striving to appear slightly less bumpkinish.

From the moment he’d woken up that morning, everything had gone wrong. He burned his wrist on the stove; misjudged the location of his mouth and dumped coffee on his nicest shirt; bashed his forehead on the edge of the kitchen table when he bent down to fasten his boots; and managed to rip the front of his Sunday trousers on a jagged section of porch railing, exposing his nethers to a light summer breeze.

He wrestled on a clean shirt and an intact pair of pants, then added a waistcoat to compensate for his ordinary work clothes. It seemed fitting that all he could offer Hanna was second best. Demoralized but not defeated, he chalked up his string of clumsy mishaps to lack of sleep. Unfortunately, the hits kept on coming.

When he hustled to the barn, intending to tack up Oliver and Orlando for the trip into town, Betsy’s distressed lowing forecasted a substantial delay. She wasn’t due for another ten days, but there she was in labor anyhow. Historically speaking, Mother Nature doesn’t concern herself with man-made constructs like punctuality and convenience.

Joel had a few choice words for his prized Hereford cow as he supervised her delivery, but he still hung around until her calf was on its feet and rootling around for breakfast before he led the horses out to the lane.

Then came the shoe-throwing fiasco. The wagon didn’t go twenty yards from the barn before Orlando’s gait went all cattywampus, indicating yet another damn setback. Mercifully, Joel was able to recover and reaffix the deviant shoe without too much hassle, and the disaster-prone trio was finally on their way.

With a white-knuckled grip on the station house’s door handle, Joel paused to catch his breath and compose himself. The moment he crossed the threshold, his life would be irrevocably altered, never to be the same. He’d reached the point of no return.

He clamped his eyes shut and gave the heavy oak door a solid yank, then stepped inside.

Much to his dismay, the station was at full capacity; its waiting room a whirlwind of commotion: the incessant yammering of judgemental old biddies, the shrill tittering of high-society ladies engaged in vapid gossip, and the ear-piercing shrieks of inadequately-supervised children running amok.

Face twisted in indignation, Joel uprooted the weathered black derby from his head and swept a trembling hand through his hair. He scanned the rows of occupied benches for… well… hell if he knew. Apart from Tommy’s flowery description of a beautiful woman with stormy eyes and wheat-colored hair, he had no clue what his sister-in-law looked like.

After spending three days cooped up in the confines of a train car, Hanna had endured the better part of three hours surrounded by self-righteous Texas busy-bodies. The nit-picking brood of mother hens no doubt relished the opportunity to cast aspersions upon an unaccompanied pregnant woman with a limited grasp of the English language.

Hidden in plain sight, Joel’s reluctant fiancée was trapped in the ninth circle of “polite Southern” hell. He needed to track her down and haul her out of there as quickly as possible, preferably without causing a scene.

Hollering out “Hanna” may have proven an effective strategy, but it was a surefire way to both disgrace himself and humiliate his soon-to-be wife. Likewise, wandering the aisles and pestering random young women would draw the wrong kind of attention.

Right cue, the waiting room lapsed into suffocating silence. Every eyeball in the place was suddenly on Joel. Hushed whispers and scandalized gasps split the air, all aimed in his direction.

“What’s he doin’ here?”

“I thought he only left his property on Wednesdays and Sundays.”

“Reckon he’ll go off on somebody? I heard just last week he tore into Buddy Powell’s youngest for pettin’ one of them fancy horses of his. Scared the bejesus outta the poor boy.”

Heat crept up Joel’s neck and his heart proceeded to pound like mad. With the brim of his hat clenched in his fist, he clawed at his collar, frantically wrenching open the top button of his shirt so he could take a proper breath.

Why was he like this? He wrangled thousand pound steers on the regular; was damn good at it too, but faced with an awkward social situation, he had the finesse of a newborn foal.

Tommy always had a knack for handling people, even as a kid. He could win anyone over with his natural charm and easy smile. He loved a debate, thrived in conflict, and saw folks’ prejudice as a chance to nudge the ignorant towards enlightenment.

Joel detested the very notion of people. Humans were irrational and unpredictable. They held grudges, spoke from both sides of their mouths, were ruled by vanity and their own superficial self-interests. There was a reason why he only ventured into town when absolutely necessary.

The residents of Smithville hadn’t been particularly welcoming of Joel and Tommy when they first arrived in town. Folks were suspicious of the newcomers, who showed up out of nowhere and paid cash for a considerable swath of the old Guilford plantation.

Tommy’s unexplained absence had fueled rumors that the brothers weren’t on the friendliest of terms. Coupled with Joel’s reclusive tendencies and enigmatic behavior, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the waiting room crowd was eager to bear witness to the elder Miller’s bumbling ineptitude.

The lengthy blast of a steam whistle signaled an inbound locomotive, further confirmed by the station master’s booming announcement. “The 1:15 train from Houston is now arrivin’. Ticketed passengers, please proceed to the platform. Boardin’ will begin in five minutes.”

The station house was once again a flurry of activity. Joel sighed in relief, grateful to escape the scrutiny of his neighbors. He resumed the search for Hanna, weaving his way among the room’s seemingly endless gridwork of benches.

When he rounded the last aisle, the station master blocked his way forward, hands on hips and mouth curled in a loathsome smirk. “Ain’t gonna find her in here.”

Joel was thrown by the older man’s casual disrespect. “Beg your pardon?”

“Petite blonde. Foreigner.” The station master crooked a bushy eyebrow. “That’s who you’re lookin’ for, ain’t it?”

“Uh… yes, sir.” Joel bit his tongue. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. “I’m here to collect Hanna Miller. She was set to arrive on the ten o’clock train from Austin.”

“You’re awful late.”

“Yeah. I’m aware.” Joel lowered his gaze in embarrassment. “Had a rough go of it this mornin’. You seen where she went?”

“Might’ve done.” The station master adjusted his cap, then tugged on the cuff of his uniform jacket, all twitchy like. “Pretty little thing. And that accent….,” he trailed off. “I’m curious. Man to man, how much it cost; the fees and whatnot?”

“Excuse me?” Joel didn’t have the foggiest idea what the nosy creep was prattling on about.

The older man grazed his knuckles along his jawline. “She’s one of them mail-order brides, ain’t she?”

“She ain’t.”

“No shame in it. Men get lonely. We have needs. Who’s to say there’s a right or wrong way for a feller to procure himself a wife?”

“I got someplace I need to be.” Joel was deeply uncomfortable with the suggestion that his sister-in-law had been “procured,” like she was a pair of overalls or a piece of farm equipment. “You gonna tell me where she is, or should I go ask somebody else?”

The station master rasped out a smarmy chuckle. “I got bad news for you, pal. That field done been plowed. Agency give you a discount ‘cause your intended’s with child?”

Joel saw red. He launched himself at the older man, grabbing him by the lapels and leaning in close so his tongue-lashing wouldn’t be overheard. “Listen here, you sack of shit. You could crawl in the dirt for a thousand years and you still wouldn’t be worthy of Mrs. Miller. How dare you insinuate she’s anything other than a fine and virtuous woman?”

“Take it easy,” the station master sniveled. “I just figured….”

“You figured what?” Joel spat. “That it’s even remotely appropriate for you to slander another man’s wife?”

“I’m sorry! I thought she was dupin’ you. God’s honest! I didn’t know you two were already married.”

“Damn right you didn’t know, ’cause it ain’t none of your business.” Joel released the man. “Now where is she?”

The station master took a step back and straightened his rumpled uniform jacket. “Last I checked, she was outdoors, sittin’ under them trees by the colored waiting room.”

Joel clapped the man on the back. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“No, sir.”

-

Joel shouldered past the slack-jawed station master and made a beeline for the nearest exit. The moment his boots hit the wooden planks of the train platform, he veered right and broke into a sprint, a sense of renewed urgency propelling him onward at a breakneck clip.

He couldn’t fault Hanna for seeking the peace and quiet of the outdoors. He’d been in the station house for a handful of minutes, and the chaos was overwhelming. If he had been on time, Hanna wouldn’t have been left to fend for herself. The blame rested squarely on him. He’d never forgive himself if harm had befallen her.

After running for what felt like miles, Joel raced around the far end of the building, only to stop dead in his tracks, breath stolen by the stunning view before him. Beneath the shade of a mature pecan tree, a woman sat lounging in the grass; legs stretched out in front of her, head tilted back, eyes closed.

The woman was Hanna, he was sure of it. He’d found her, and she was safe.

He approached her slowly, squirreling away the moment’s details to ponder over at a later, less momentous date. He was looking at his future, and for the first time since he could remember, it wasn’t entirely bleak.

The woman’s hair was a mix of blonde and golden brown, pinned up in a loose pompadour bun and topped with a wildflower crown of buttercups and four-nerve daisies. As the wind rustled through the leaves above her, sunlight danced across her face, bathing her soft features in an etherial glow.

“Christ, Tommy,” Joel murmured. “How the hell’d you land a woman like that? ‘Beautiful’ don’t even scratch the surface.”

Over her simple, full-length black skirt and plain white blouse, a gray suit coat was wrapped around the woman’s shoulders, dwarfing her small frame. Joel recognized the wool herringbone-patterned coat all too well. He’d purchased it himself, had given it to Tommy the day he’d left for Minnesota.

Joel went to remove his hat, only to discover it still clenched in his fist. He choked down the lump in his throat and bit the bullet. “Hanna? Hanna Miller?”

The woman’s eyes fluttered open. They were a spellbinding grayish-blue. “I am Hanna.” She sat fully upright and straightened her shoulders. “Is ‘ha,’ like laugh.” It was a gentle correction disguised as a quip, but her tone held no humor.

Joel tried again, amending his Americanized pronunciation. “Ha-nna.”

“Ya. You are Yoel?”

Joel momentarily lost the plot. Hearing his name come out of that gorgeous mouth shook something loose inside his brain. In one of his letters, Tommy had mentioned that in Swedish, the letter j makes a “y” sound, and that the way Hanna said “Joel” was “adorable,” but knowing it and hearing it for himself were two different things.

“Yoel?” There it was again.

“Uh… yeah… err… I mean… yes. Yes, ma’am. I’m Joel.” Good Lord, Miller. Betsy’s calf could’ve formed a more coherent sentence.

Hanna gifted him a subtle smile. “Hello, Yoel.”

Joel fiddled with the brim of his hat, and his heart did a funny little flip in his chest. “Hello, Hanna.”

Chapter Text

May 28, 1895

Tommy:

Glad to hear you made it to Minnesota and found suitable work. I suppose it’d be more accurate to say the work found you. Whatever brings you home sooner is alright by me.

You asked if I believe in fate. Reckon I did when I was younger, but if fate’s what robbed me of my Lilah Mae, I don’t want no part of it.

As for the Swedish gal, I’d advise you to think long and hard before involving yourself with her. She stands to lose a hell of a lot more than you do if things go sideways.

Don’t sully the young woman’s reputation or get her dismissed from her job for a quick roll in the hay. You get an itch, either scratch it yourself or pay a visit to the local cathouse.

Not much going on here. 2/5 of the spring calves are on the ground, both female. That leaves three to go - should be any day now.

My next project is adding a top-line of barbed wire to the northeast pasture. Hopefully it’ll keep them brainless steers from wondering off the property. I swear, if I gotta untangle Rusty from that bramble patch down by the river one more time, he’ll be hanging in the smokehouse.

You missed out on some fine cooking last Sunday evening. The Burrells brought over supper, and we had something of an impromptu picnic out in front of the house.

Ida made a big ole pot of her black-eyed peas with ham hocks, a whole mess of collard greens, and a skillet of cornbread. You’d have been in hog heaven. I can just picture you kicking back on Mama’s quilt, butter smeared across your chin and grease dripping off your mustache, serenading the chef with the hightest of praise.

The Burrells stayed until late in the evening, even sweet-talked me into dusting off Daddy’s guitar. We sang old hymns and negro spirituals together, sitting around a bonfire under the stars. I passed along your regards, which they return.

Henry’s little girl is growing like a weed. I swear she gets taller every time I see her. Her mama’s been teaching her the constellations, so she took me to task for my celestial ignorance.

Sam and Mina are fixing to get married once the cotton’s in. They’re hoping for an early December wedding. It’ll be a chilly jump over the broom, that’s for sure.

The boys say this year’s crop is looking real good, that they may even need to call in reinforcements. Suppose I oughta do the neighborly thing and lend a hand, although I don’t know how much help I’ll be - I ain’t picked cotton since we was teenagers.

That’s all I got.
Take care of yourself.
Joel

-

Friday, June 5th, 1896

Beneath the pecan tree outside of Smithville’s station house, Joel crouched down in the grass beside Hanna.

Afforded a closer view of his sister-in-law, he noticed the rosy tint of her nose. She’d been crying recently, probably within the past hour. Her eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, the delicate skin around them dark and puffy. She likely hadn’t had a solid night’s rest since the accident.

Joel recalled how empty he felt those first few weeks after Lilah Mae passed. He stumbled around like a ghost, completely numb and barely functioning. The world around him became washed-out and colorless, as though everything pure and decent and worthwhile had been buried six feet in the ground with his wife.

He’d had more than five years to mourn Lilah Mae, but her loss still haunted him. Tommy’d only been gone for ten days, not nearly long enough for Hanna to process his death, let alone grieve him.

Time wasn’t on Hanna’s side. Her status as a pregnant widow meant she had no legal right to the child she was carrying. Until she was under Joel’s protection, her bereavement would be mired in uncertainty.

Once they were married, Joel would ensure Hanna was given the time and space she needed. He’d leave her be, let her acclimate to life without Tommy in her own way and at her own pace.

Figuring he couldn’t go wrong with a compliment, he pointed in the general vicinity of her hair, using two fingers instead of one, so she wouldn’t take him for a roughneck hick. “That’s a nice crown you got there. You make it yourself?”

“Öh....” Hanna averted her gaze, flush blooming on her cheeks. “Ya. Keep hands and mind busy.” She reached up to remove the wreath of bright yellow wildflowers.

On impulse, Joel pitched forward and snatched her wrist. “Don’t.”

Hanna startled, and rightly so. “Sorry,” she murmured, bowing in submission. “I leave it.”

Shit.

He’d overstepped, came on too strong and frightened her. In her vulnerable state, the last thing the poor woman needed was him pawing at her and bossing her around.

He released her wrist, something dangerously close to yearning swirling in his gut. “Don’t gotta apologize. I was outta line touchin’ you like that. M’sorry, Hanna. Won’t happen again.”

She clasped her hands together in her lap. “Is okay.”

“No it ain’t,” he sighed. “You wove yourself a real pretty crown. A Texas tiara fit for down-home country queen. I think you oughta wear it, but only if you want to.”

A gentle breeze shifted the canopy of branches overhead. Sunlight filtered through the leaves and glinted off Hanna’s wedding ring. It was a warning, a bittersweet reminder. Hanna didn’t belong to him, never would.

Tommy’s claim on her was as good as a cattle brand. Her heart would always be the younger Miller’s. Joel was a stopgap measure, a pitiful substitute for the genuine article.

“Whelp.” He donned his hat, then slapped his palms on his knees and rose to his full height. “We best be off. Reverend Peters is waitin’ on us at the church. My wagon’s just ‘round the corner. You ready?”

“Ya.” Hanna stretched up her arms. “Help, please? Legs are sleepy.”

Joel’s lips twitched at her botched turn of phrase. He stooped to offer her his hands, allowing her to choose when and how to accept them.

Her fingers curved over his; cautious, tentative, and impossibly soft. She tightened her grip, and Joel hauled her to her feet.

The front of Tommy’s suit coat parted as she stood, and her “condition” introduced itself, her need for coverture undeniable. The belt of her skirt sat well above her waist, failing to hide her belly, round with child.

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air between the soon-to-be newlyweds, the unspoken weight of Hanna’s tragic circumstances sobering them both.

Hanna pulled away and buttoned Tommy’s coat, her face twisted in anguish and her eyes welling with tears.

There was nothing Joel could do for her, short of getting her to the church and putting the day’s miserable business behind them.

He gestured to the stack of luggage piled in the grass several feet away, anxious to get a move on. “Them yours?”

“Ya.” Hanna swiped at her cheeks as she staggered towards her belongings: a steamer trunk, a sturdy suitcase, and an ash wood pack basket.

Joel trailed after her, assuming the authoritative role on reflex. “I’ll carry the big one. Think you can manage the rest?”

“Ya.” She slipped the leather straps of the pack basket over her shoulders and picked up her suitcase, then nodded to the steamer trunk. “Is heavy.”

Joel gripped the trunk’s handles and hefted the beast off the ground. A crude grunt rumbled in his throat as he lumbered in the direction of the wagon, every muscle in his body straining from exertion. “Jesus, woman. What’cha got in here, bricks?”

Hanna sputtered out a wheezy snicker before clapping her hand over her mouth.

He hoped she hadn’t stifled the laugh out of fear. He’d sit her down when they got home, assure her he wasn’t some arrogant, easily-offended tyrant, that she could be herself without him flying off the handle.

Over the weeks to come, he’d prove himself reliable and trustworthy. He’d show Hanna that despite his gruff demeanor, he was capable of being patient, lenient, and kind.

She matched his stride as the rows of hitching posts drew near, observing him in her periphery to monitor his progress.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Du är en hårdnackad man.”

“What’s that?” Joel set the trunk down to give her his undivided attention.

She paused mid-step and pursed her lips, as though debating whether or not she should translate. “Ehm…. Tommy say you are much stubborn.”

Joel puffed out a snort and folded his arms over his chest. “That right?”

“Ya.” Hanna crossed in front of him on her tiptoes. She placed her suitcase next to his left foot, then lunged for the steamer trunk’s right handle, hooking it with her fingers. “He also say wife is more stubborn than brother.”

Joel laughed again, loud and rowdy this time. “I don’t doubt it, sweetheart.”

She seemed pleased with his response. A coy smirk tugged on her mouth, which Joel couldn’t help but reciprocate. She’d blessed him with a glimpse of her authentic spirit, the infamous “sparkling personality” Tommy had ranted and raved about in his letters.

Joel grabbed hold of the suitcase and the opposite trunk handle, then steered the pair of them towards the wagon.

When they arrived at the tailgate, he shooed Hanna away, looking to avoid a quarrel over how much lifting a pregnant woman ought to be doing.

Hanna wandered off without putting up a fuss, although she did throw out one more comment as she went. “See? Is better with two.”

He was inclined to agree.

-

Once the luggage was secured, Joel rounded the wagon to untie the horses.

He strolled past Oliver and Orlando, shaking his head at their chicanery. They were tripping over themselves to gain Hanna’s affections; smooching her temples, prodding her hairline with their noses, and gumming the lapels of Tommy’s coat.

Joel didn’t mind. If anything, the boys’ enthusiasm for their new mistress was a ringing endorsement of her character.

He took heed of their shrewd strategy, figuring he’d be wise to follow suit. He wouldn’t be smashing his nose into Hanna’s hair any time soon, but some calculated flattery and metaphorical ass-kissing couldn’t hurt.

At the hitching post, he surveyed the mess he’d made of the boys’ reins, a shameful testament to his earlier turmoil. He got to work unraveling the chaos, his sour mood sweetened by Hanna’s honeyed cooing.

“Hej, sötnos. Vem är en stilig pojke?”

Joel had no clue what she was saying, but it didn’t matter. The promise of her soothing voice accompanying his daily routine cracked something open inside of him, something he thought Lilah Mae’s death had snuffed out.

“Hej, älskling. Du är också ganska stilig.”

On principle, he’d outright rejected the prospect of remarriage, refused to tarnish the sacred vows he made to his late wife. But Hanna wasn’t just some random woman.

“Är din ägare god mot dig?”

If Lilah Mae were alive, she would’ve insisted on providing shelter and support to Tommy’s widow. She would’ve persuaded Joel to construct a home on their property for his sister-in-law. She would’ve fought tooth and nail to ensure Hanna wasn’t separated from her child, even if it meant exploiting legal loopholes.

“Tror du att han kommer att vara god mot mig?”

A flicker of warmth ignited in Joel’s chest; its meager flame raw, fragile, and a bit reckless.

Hanna would be his wife in name only. He could build a life with her that didn’t dishonor Tommy’s memory. Likewise, he could share a home and raise a child with her while remaining faithful to Lilah Mae.

After one last yank, the reins came loose from the post. Joel gathered them in his grasp and sidled up to his intended. “You makin’ friends?”

With disarming tenderness, Hanna swept her knuckles over Orlando’s muzzle. “Are much handsome.”

Joel’d never been the jealous type, but he suddenly found himself itching to trade places with a damn horse. “American Belgian Drafts are an ideal breed for farm and ranch work. Great for haulin’ too.”

Hanna peered at him over her shoulder, eyebrows raised in curiosity. “You bringed from Belgien… öh… Belgium?”

“Nah. These two were born in Texas.”

Keen to extol his boys’ merits, Joel prattled on. “The original stock was imported from Belgium, but Americans bred for different traits than their European counterparts. The result is a slightly taller, but less stocky build. They present in a variety of colors. My boys’ are what’s referred to as ‘sorrel.’ Their manes and tails are considered ‘flaxen.’”

He finished with a joke to lighten the mood. “Now there’ll be three blonds on the ranch.”

Hanna stared at him, more like stared through him, lips parted and eyes glazing over. She obviously hadn’t understood a single word he’d said. “They have names?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He chuckled at her diplomatic rerouting of the conversation, then wedged his fingers beneath Oliver’s bridle so the squirming bastard would hold still. “This one’s Oliver, and that there’s Orlando.”

She spun around on her heels, eyes shimmering and a rapt grin on her face. “Som Ni Behagar… ehm… As You Like It…. Shakespeare, ya?”

Joel winced. “Was just the names they come with.”

Hanna thumbed the top button of Tommy’s suit coat. “In play, Oliver and Orlando are brothers. They not like each other. Orlando is hero, brave and strong. Oliver is bad man, but has heart change. Brothers make peace. End is happy.”

She locked eyes with the man who, within the hour, would be her husband. “Are good names.”