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sucked in a shuddering breath. “Can’t I please return to England?”
    Her petulant query stirred Geoffrey’s anger again. “Return to . . . ?” He clamped his jaw and turned his back so he wouldn’t see her beseeching gaze. His dreams crumbled before him. All the years of waiting—years of faithfulness and effort—now seemed wasted in light of her childish request.
    Spinning back around, he snapped, “And if I agree to this ludicrous appeal, how do you intend to pay for the return passage?”
    She blanched, her throat convulsing.
    “I haven’t the funds to return you to England, Emmaline.” He spoke honestly—his expendable funds had been used to bring her to him. But, he acknowledged to himself, even if he did have the money, he wouldn’t spend it so recklessly.
    “I have the . . . dowry Father sent,” she whispered.
    A wave of agony surged through him. The dowry was to be his wedding gift. He opened his mouth to remind her of the purpose of the dowry, but a hand closed around his elbow. Shifting his gaze, he found Reverend Stanford at his side.
    “Is everything all right?”
    “No.” Geoffrey pushed the word past clenched teeth and chose not to elaborate. How could he explain the problem when he didn’t understand it himself?
    Reverend Stanford held out one hand toward Emmaline. “Miss Bradford, are you ready to recite your vows?”
    Emmaline shrank back. “No, sir, I am not.”
    The reverend’s eyebrows shot high. For a moment he pulled in his lips and looked back and forth from Geoffrey to Emmaline. Then, with a tug on Geoffrey’s arm, he drew him aside. “Geoff, it seems your bride is all atwitter.”
    “Atwitter?” It was a humorous word, but Geoffrey didn’t feel like chuckling.
    “Yes. It isn’t uncommon for someone to suffer an attack of nerves before a wedding. Considering the length of time that has passed since you last saw her, she probably needs a day or two to adjust to the idea.”
    Geoffrey wanted to shout that she’d had five years to adjust to the idea. Instead, he said, “But I cannot wait. I need to return to the ranch. It’s nearly dark already.”
    Reverend Stanford tapped his lips with one broad finger. “I have a suggestion. Let Emmaline spend the night here with us. A good night’s sleep, a chance to look around town tomorrow and see what a nice place it is, and she should be able to set her fears aside.”
    “Do you believe so?” Geoffrey hoped he didn’t sound as unsure as he felt.
    “Nervousness passes,” the reverend replied with a smile. “If we push her now, she might resent you. Would you not rather start your new life as man and wife on a happier chord?”
    Geoffrey considered the minister’s words. The disappointment of Emmaline’s reaction pressed on his heart like a heavy stone. Yes, he wished for a more joyful start to their married life. He gave the reverend a slow nod.
    “Good.” Reverend Stanford clapped Geoffrey’s back, then strode to Emmaline. “Miss Bradford, come with me. My wife will show you to our guest room. You will stay with us.”
    Emmaline’s gaze skittered to Geoffrey and then back to the minister. “With y-you?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And . . . and then . . . ?”
    At her hopeful tone, Geoffrey clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth hurt.
    “We’ll talk more in the morning,” Reverend Stanford told her. Looking toward the chapel, he called, “Lorna? Come show Miss Bradford to our guest room, please.”
    Like a docile lamb, Emmaline followed the reverend’s wife into her house. She didn’t even look back when Geoffrey swung into the wagon seat, snatched up the reins, and set the horses to trotting.

SIX
    S UNLIGHT SPILLED ACROSS Emmaline’s face, teasing her from a restless, dreamless sleep. She scrunched her eyes tight, unwilling to emerge from the cocoon of the musty featherbed. But the bright sun could not be ignored. With a small grunt of displeasure, she tossed aside the light cover and sat on the edge of