The damn sun was making Hawk's new collar itch something fierce as he stood stock-still on the Copper Ridge platform, feeling 'bout as out of place as a desert toad in a ballroom. Twenty minutes early. Twenty minutes of standing here like some kinda prize bull at auction, with every busybody in town finding excuses to wander past.

Cornbread lounged at his feet, one good eye half-closed against the glare, looking too pleased with himself by half. That dog had more sense than to get himself into this kinda situation.

"Ain't too late to head back to Sweet Water," Hawk muttered, low enough that only the dog's ears twitched in response. Weren't true anyhow. Five letters exchanged, money sent to that matchmaking outfit in St. Louis, and arrangements all made. No turning back now without proving himself the coward his Tennessee kin had branded him when he fled rather than don Confederate gray.

He tugged his father's silver buckle straight and fished out his pocket watch. Checked it. Put it back. Pulled it out again. The 3:15 from Prescott was running late, as usual. Small mercy, that—more time to remember them three compliments he'd practiced to his cattle half the night.

"What'd you reckon, Cornbread? Think she'll take one look and hightail it back East?" The dog snorted, which Hawk took as agreement.

Hawk's gaze drifted to the copper-rich hills beyond town, then down to his hands. He'd scrubbed them raw this morning, but no amount of soap could erase the calluses, the bent pinky finger that hadn't healed right after that ornery stallion, Shit-For-Brains, had thrown him years back.

He felt the pressed primrose crinkle in his pocket. Sarah had loved wildflowers. No, best not think on Sarah now. That wasn't fair to the woman stepping off that train soon, wasn't fair to himself neither.

The distant whistle sent Cornbread to attention and set a flock of sparrows scattering from the station roof. Hawk's heartbeat quickened like it had that night he'd slipped away from conscription officers, like it did during storm-spooked cattle drives.

"Stand up proper now," he told Cornbread, though his own boot heel was tapping an anxious rhythm on the wooden boards. "She sees you acting like some untrained mutt, she'll wonder what other messes she's walking into."

As the train rounded the bend, belching black smoke against the merciless blue sky, Hawk squared his shoulders. He wouldn't shame himself by running, not from this new chance at living instead of just surviving. The second bedroom was finally finished, whitewashed and waiting. Tonight, by lamplight, he'd show her there was more to Hawk Hawkins than most folks in Copper Ridge ever got to see.

The train whistle shrieked again, closer now, and Hawk whispered, "Lord have mercy," not even certain if it was prayer or curse. Either way, it was the most honest thing he'd said all day.