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reached up to remove the tip of her bonnet’s feather that was poking him in the eye.
    Prudence could feel the heat flood her cheeks and quickly sat up. She straightened her bonnet, which had somehow been pushed to one side. “What has happened?” she exclaimed, shuffling out from the wedge between Mrs. Scales and Mr. Matheson to the edge of the bench, desperate that no part of her was touching any part of that
very
virile man. But her hip was still pressed so tightly against his thigh that she could feel the slightest shift of muscle beneath his buckskins.
    It was alarmingly provocative. Prudence didn’t move an inch for several seconds, allowing that feeling to imprint itself in her skin.
    â€œI assume we’ve broken a wheel,” Mr. Matheson said. The coach dipped to the right and swayed unsteadily. The driver cursed again, loudly enough that the round cheeks of the two sisters turned florid.
    Mr. Matheson reached for the door and launched himself from the interior like a phoenix, startling them all. Prudence leaned forward and looked through the open door. The coach was leaning precariously to that side. She looked back at her fellow travelers and had the thought that if the two ladies tried to exit the coach at the same time, it might topple over. She fairly leaped from the coach, too, landing awkwardly against a coachman who had just appeared to help them down.
    â€œWhat has happened?” Prudence asked.
    â€œThe wheel has broken, miss.”
    Mr. Matheson, she noticed, was among the men who had gathered around the offending wheel. He’d squatted to study it, and Prudence wondered if he was acquainted with wheels in general, or merely curious.
    There ensued quite a lot of discussion among the men as Mr. Matheson dipped down and reached deep under the coach with one arm, bracing himself against the vehicle with his other hand. Was it natural to be a bit titillated by a man’s immodest address of a mechanical issue? Certainly she had never seen a gentleman involve himself in that way.
    When Mr. Matheson rose again, he wiped his hand on his trousers, leaving a smear of axle grease. That did not repulse Prudence. She found it strangely alluring.
    â€œThe axle is fine,” he announced.
    There was more discussion among the men, their voices louder this time. It seemed to Prudence that they were all disagreeing with each other. At last the driver instructed the women and the old gentleman away from the coach while the men attempted to repair the wheel. Mr. Matheson was included in the group that was shooed away.
    The team was unhitched, and some of the men began to stack whatever they could find beneath the coach to keep it level when the wheel was removed.
    â€œMy valise!” Prudence cried, and darted into the men to retrieve it, pulling it away before it could be used as a prop.
    Then Mrs. Tricklebank and Mrs. Scales made seats on some rocks beneath the boughs of a tree, taking the old man and the boy under their wings and fussing around them. There was no seat left for Prudence, so she sat on a trunk.
    They watched the men prop the carriage up with rocks and luggage and some apparatus from the coach itself, then remove the wheel. Mr. Matheson had returned to the problem and was in the thick of it, lending his considerable strength to the work. Prudence wondered if he had some sort of occupation that required knowledge of wheels. She couldn’t see why else he might be involved. It wasn’t as if there weren’t enough men to do the work. The only other slightly plausible explanation was that he somehow
enjoyed
such things.
    The elderly gentleman grunted a bit and moved around in an effort to find some comfort, forcing the sisters to the edges of the rocks.
    â€œHe may be an American and a bit crude, but one cannot argue that he cuts a fine figure of a man,” Mrs. Scales said wistfully.
    Prudence blinked. She looked at Mrs. Scales and realized that both sisters