A Forgotten Mail-Order Bride Helped a Wounded Cowboy, Not Knowing He Owned the Largest Ranch

Chapter 6

She taught him the way her mother had taught her — hands in the dirt, names and uses braided together like thread.

“Mugwort.” Amelia pulled a stem and held it up so he could see the silvery underside of the leaves. They felt soft between her fingers, almost fuzzy, releasing their sharp green smell at her touch. “Good for wounds and infections. You crush it into a paste with a little water. The smell tells you when it’s ready — bitter, like medicine ought to be.”

Cole took the stem from her hand. Their fingers brushed, brief and warm. He turned the plant over, studying it with the same careful attention he gave everything.

“How do you know it’s mugwort and not something that’ll make things worse?”

“The leaves.” Amelia knelt beside another clump, pointed to the distinctive shape. Damp earth soaked through her skirt at the knees, cool and rich-smelling. “See how they’re cut, almost like feathers? That silver-green underneath. Nothing else around here looks quite like it.”

He knelt beside her. His shoulder was close to hers — close enough that she could feel the warmth coming off him, smell the wood smoke and sweat and something underneath that was just him.

Amelia stood up quick and moved to the next plant.

“Yarrow.” She kept her voice steady. “White flowers. Good for fever, for bringing down swelling. You can steep it in hot water for tea, or wrap the leaves straight on the skin.”

Cole followed her, slower, his ankle protesting the uneven ground. But he didn’t complain. Just watched, listened, and asked questions that showed he was truly hearing what she said.

“What about that one?” He pointed to a low-growing plant near the water’s edge, leaves broad and deep green.

“Doc.” Amelia crouched down. “Good for rashes, insect bites, that sort of thing. The roots are the useful part — you have to dig for them.” She pulled some leaves aside to show the thick root beneath. “But you’ve got to be careful. There’s another plant looks similar, grows further from the water. That one will make you plenty sick.”

“How do you tell them apart?”

“Practice.” She let the leaves fall back into place and straightened up. “My mama made me learn every plant in the woods behind our place. Tested me till I could name them with my eyes closed.”

Cole was quiet for a spell. When he spoke again, his voice had gone soft.

“She sounds like a good woman. Your mother.”

Amelia’s throat tightened. She turned away, pretended to study a cluster of chamomile growing between two flat rocks.

“She was practical,” she said. “That’s what kept us alive.”

They worked their way along the creek bank — Amelia pointing out plants, Cole listening and learning. The sun moved across the sky, slow and warm. Shadows lengthened. The air grew cooler as the afternoon wore on, carrying the sweet smell of water and green growing things.

Amelia lost track of time. Lost track of the careful distance she’d been keeping.

There was something about teaching that opened her up, flowing without the usual guards — her hands moving to show what her mouth described. And Cole listened. Really listened. Not the way men usually did, half their attention somewhere else, just waiting for their chance to talk. He took in every word. Asked questions that proved he understood. Stored each piece of information away like it mattered.

Like she mattered.

The thought caught her off guard. She stumbled on a root, and Cole’s hand shot out to catch her elbow — warm and strong, steadying her before she could fall.

“Careful there.”

Amelia pulled away too quick. She saw something cross his face — surprise, maybe, or something that might have been hurt — before he covered it over.

“Thank you kindly.” The words came out stiff. “I’m fine.”

They stood there, the creek singing between them, the afternoon light turning everything to gold. She could still feel where his hand had been, warm against her arm.

“We should head back,” she said. “Before dark.”

Cole nodded. But he didn’t move. Just stood there, watching her with those gray eyes that seemed to see more than she wanted to show.

“Amelia.”

Her name in his mouth did something strange to her chest. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time. She waited.

“When I’m healed up,” he said. “When I can walk proper again.” He paused, swallowed. “I’ll have to go.”

She’d known it was coming. Had been bracing herself for it since that first morning he’d woken up in the cabin. But hearing him say it out loud — hearing the words in the warm afternoon air — made something twist beneath her ribs.

“I know.” She kept her voice flat. Careful. “You’ve got your own life to get back to.”

“Yes.”

The word dropped between them like a stone into still water.

Amelia turned toward the cabin. Took one step. Two.

“What about you?” Cole’s voice stopped her. “Where will you go?”

She didn’t turn around. Couldn’t.

“Crestwood, I reckon. Find work there. A laundry, maybe. Or a boarding house. There’s always work for women who aren’t afraid of hard labor.”

“By yourself.”

“That’s how I got here.” She turned to face him then, and something in her voice came out sharper than she meant it to. “That’s how I’ll leave.”

The silence stretched. The creek rushed on, heedless of them both. A fish jumped somewhere downstream — a silver flash, a splash.

“It doesn’t have to be that way.” Cole’s voice was barely louder than the water. “Alone, I mean.”

Amelia’s breath caught. She looked at him, and there was something raw and unguarded written plain across his face.

“What are you saying?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. The openness vanished so fast she almost thought she’d imagined it, replaced by his usual careful blankness.

“Nothing.” He looked away toward the cabin. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

But Amelia couldn’t forget. Couldn’t unknow the way he’d looked at her in that unguarded moment — like she was something worth having. Something worth keeping.

She walked back to the cabin without another word, her thoughts churning like the creek over its stones. At the door, she paused and turned.

“Cole.”

He looked up from where he’d stopped by the wood pile.

“That man who sent for me. Mercer.” She held his eyes, her voice steady, though her hands trembled where they gripped her apron. “The station master said he’s the wealthiest man in the territory. Hundreds of acres. Thousands of head of cattle.”

Cole’s face went still as pond water.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you asked what I wanted from him.” She met his eyes and held them. “I told you a roof, walls, somewhere to belong. I didn’t know he was rich when I answered that advertisement. Didn’t find out till I stepped off that train.”

She watched his face for something, anything. Found nothing but that careful emptiness.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because I want you to understand.” Amelia turned away and pushed the cabin door open. “Whoever ends up taking me in, it won’t be for money. It’ll be for this.” She gestured at the cabin, the creek, the herbs drying on the table inside. “For somebody who sees me. Not what they can get from me.”

She stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her.

Behind her, in the golden light of late afternoon, she heard Cole draw a sharp breath.

And she heard him whisper something too quiet to make out.

Something that sounded almost like a name.

A name that wasn’t Cole.