Page 45 of The Rancher's Wedding

Orion watched her intently. It really did feel like he was listening. And it was easier to say all this than Estelle expected.

It helped that Orion wasn’t the least bit judgmental.

“But one thing he did is he chose my husband for me when I was only eleven years old. He didn’t even want my input on the man I was going to spend my life with. And the man he picked was absolutely awful: a disgusting, rude, immature young man who only thought of himself. Just the absolute opposite of Michael.

“And so, I responded to Michael’s advertisement. Now I’m worried that my father will come and take me away from here. I don’t want to leave you or anyone here behind.”

And that was pretty much everything. She breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t so hard. Now she just had to try it on a real human being.

She could do it.

When the time was right, of course.

Chapter Seventeen

Jacob sat in his cabin, frustrated and angry with himself, wondering why he kept pushing away the people who were closest to him. Michael had saved his life, risking his own in the process—yet every time Jacob looked at him, he felt a rush of sadness, remembering that the only reason he still existed in this life was because Michael had picked him over their parents.

He didn’t deserve it.

He sat at his table, eating a bowl of cold grits without even tasting it, just mechanically taking one bite after another. There was no sense of enjoyment or disappointment or awareness that he could be eating something better.

Jacob wondered how Michael could look at him and not feel the same frustration he did.How is it, Jacob wondered,that he doesn’t regret every second I’m wasting when he could have saved Ma or Pa instead?

The next scoop of grits came up empty and Jacob looked down at the bowl. It was mostly gone, but he scraped the rest of what was left off of the sides and took one final spoonful before walking away from the table and over to his bedroom.

It was early yet—the sun hadn’t even set—but there wasn’t anything much left for Jacob to do to occupy his time, save for the stack of letters sitting on the nightstand beside his bed. He’d been reading them over and over again to the point that he could recite them from memory. They were the only things bringing him any joy, and every time he left the cabin, it was from him thinking about the letters. It wasn’t just that they made him happy—it was that they made him want to be happy.

They were, of course, the letters from Megan. Every time one came, he ripped the envelope open and read it as quickly as he could, like a hungry dog devouring its dinner as soon as the food is put in the bowl. And once he finished, he read it over again more slowly, trying to appreciate every word. Then, he was left hungry for more.

In that sense, he felt something resembling jealousy toward Michael. Michael didn’t need to wait weeks to talk to Estelle. They were constantly around each other, sharing experiences and living life together.

One day, he’d want that with Megan. Who was he kidding? If he could have had her right at that moment and for the rest of his life, he’d say yes in an instant. Life wasn’t that simple, though.

Megan was in Philadelphia and showed no signs of leaving. He could ask her to marry him; that was something he could do. He could write the words on paper, as he’d done hundreds of times before. And, every time, he’d throw those letters away. Because he knew if he sent them, he’d have to wait upwards of a month to hear her response. And what if she said no and never wrote to him again? He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.

He looked at the latest draft of his current letter:

Dear Megan,

The fire has been on my mind quite a bit as of late, perhaps because I feel that, slowly, my brother and I are rekindling our relationship. There’s something I want to tell him, though I don’t quite have the words yet. In his mind, he believes he saved my life, but I didn’t want to be saved—at least, not in the moment, and not until the day I met you.

He wasn’t a poet and it often took him several attempts to find just the right words and turns of phrase. Sometimes it would take him all day to do so, but he had the time and it allowed him to truly express how he felt—as well as explore his own thoughts, reaching conclusions that wouldn’t have occurred to him had he just sat around thinking to himself.

Estelle was also writing to Megan. Perhaps she was writing to Megan right now. Right after Jacob had been so rude to her, telling her to go away. Twice. What if Estelle was, right now, writing to Megan and telling her about everything that had happened? Maybe that alone would get Megan to stop writing back.

He had to apologize. Eventually, he would have realized it was the right thing to do, but the thought of Megan made him reach that conclusion sooner. He dragged himself down the pathway to the house and walked inside.

“Hello?” he called, knocking on the half-open door.

Nobody responded, but the door opened on his knock. He saw that the room was empty, though there was a desk with a pen, some ink, and a small pile of paper.

If she wasn’t in now, he could at least leave her an apology note. With his letters to Megan, he noticed he’d felt more comfortable communicating using longhand than with spoken words.

When he sat down, he removed the top piece of paper from the pile, which already had writing on it. He knew it was none of his business and he shouldn’t read it, but once he saw to whom it was addressed, his curiosity got the better of him.

Dearest Megan,

I fear that not telling Michael the truth is going to hurt me in the long run and possibly tear us apart. My father is demanding I come home at once and is threatening to come get me here himself if I don’t. I must tell Michael everything, but I don’t know how. I don’t have the words. And I fear that he will no longer wish to be married to me when he learns that we wed under false pretenses. Please help, in any way that you can. If you can talk some sense into my father and let him know I’m happy, I’d

---