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“Please, I . . . I cannot . . .” Tears flooded her eyes. One loud sob shattered the sacredness of the ceremony. Dropping the wilted bouquet of rose verbena, she lifted her skirt and raced out of the church.
    Geoffrey shot a startled look toward the reverend, who stared at Emmaline with a look of disbelief on his face. The reverend’s wife rose from the front pew and gestured toward the open doorway at the head of the aisle. “Shouldn’t someone . . . ?” She moved toward the door.
    Geoffrey stepped into her path. “I shall go.” He forced a confident smile he didn’t feel. “She is tired from the long journey, and grief at the loss of her great-uncle has overwhelmed her. I shall allow her a few minutes to collect herself. Please wait.” He strode out of the chapel, worry for Emmaline battling with embarrassment for himself. The moment he stepped out of the church, he spotted her leaning against the side of the wagon. She had buried her face in the bend of her elbow, and harsh sobs shook her frame. Worry overrode his embarrassment.
    He cleared his throat, warning her of his approach. Her shoulders stiffened, and the sobs abruptly ceased. Yet she didn’t turn from the wagon, and when he grazed her arm with his fingertips, she jerked away as if she found his touch painful.
    He licked his dry lips. “Emmaline?”
    “P-please. Go away.”
    Stung, he pressed his sweaty palms against his pant legs. His mind skipped backward in time, to when she was fourteen. Her favorite cat had run away, and he had held her in his arms and comforted her. Should he gather her in his arms and soothe away whatever fear held her captive? He frowned at the sky. The sun was disappearing fast. He didn’t have time to coddle her. They needed to complete the ceremony and return to the ranch before darkness fell.
    Squaring his shoulders, he decided on a no-nonsense approach.
    “Come now, Emmaline. Reverend Stanford is waiting. Let’s go inside and—”
    “No!” She spun around, her eyes wild. “I cannot go inside. I cannot do what you expect of me.”
    Confused, Geoffrey shook his head. “What are you saying?”
    She clasped her hands to her lace-covered throat. “I cannot marry you! Please do not force this marriage upon me.”
    Force? He took two stumbling steps backward. He had forced nothing! She had agreed to this union before he left England. She had come to him using the tickets he’d purchased with his hardearned money. Did she not stand before him in a dress obviously sewn for this very occasion?
    “Emmaline, you speak rubbish. I am not forcing you to do anything!”
    She shrank against the wooden slats of the wagon bed. Her reaction reminded him of a skittish lamb. She would bolt if he didn’t curb his temper. He drew a deep breath, blew it out with puffed cheeks, then spoke in a low, even tone. “No one is forcing marriage upon you. You agreed to marriage before I left England, remember? You came to me knowing we would be wed.”
    He glanced at the rapidly darkening sky. “The time has come for us to exchange our vows. So let us return to the ceremony.” He reached for her arm.
    She scuttled sideways. “I cannot!” She sounded nearly hysterical.
    Geoffrey glanced over his shoulder. The reverend and his wife stood in the chapel doorway, witnessing his humiliation. He turned back to Emmaline and spoke quietly but firmly. “Yes, you can. And you must.”
    Tears filled her red-rimmed eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Her chin quivered. Sympathy rose in Geoffrey’s chest. Gentling his voice, he said, “Emmaline, I realize things have moved rather quickly since your arrival, but you must see the necessity of exchanging vows without delay. Already the hour is late—traveling is treacherous in the dark. We must go back inside and complete the ceremony before we go to the ranch.”
    “B-but I do not wish to go to the ranch.”
    He stared at her in bewilderment. “Where else would you go?”
    “Back . . . home.” She