Page 3 of Charlotte

The other brides crowded near the rail, each carrying her own version of hope. Margot Bankston looked amused by everything and impressed by very little. Goldie Fontaine stood quiet and watchful, her chin lifted as if she had already decided the town would not find her easy to startle. Delly said nothing at all, but her eyes moved over the dock with the same sharp care she gave to ledgers and locking doors.

The dock was full of men.

Not merely a few men. A great many men. Most wore clean shirts in a way which suggested cleanliness had been encouraged by outside pressure and might not survive past supper. Several had taken off their hats. Several had not. One man whistled, and another elbowed him hard enough to make him cough.

Lottie felt herself blush. She could not help it.

Delly, naturally, looked like a woman assessing supply, demand, and possible escape routes.

“That,” Delly said, “suggests a severe shortage of women.”

Margot leaned around Lottie. “Is that good or bad?”

“It means our position is stronger than the company implied. We are not supplicants. We are scarce, and scarcity is leverage.”

Lottie looked at her sister. “Delly, you are about to become a bride, not negotiate the price of flour.”

“Marriage involves flour.”

“That is not the point.”

“It frequently becomes the point.”

Before Lottie could answer, the gangway dropped into place, and the dock burst into motion.

Men surged forward to secure ropes, haul trunks, and call directions over one another. The air smelled of lake water, pine, steam, and something warm from the direction of town that might have been bread. Lottie craned her neck and searched the sea of faces. Tall. Quiet. A logger. Perhaps bearded. Perhaps not. The letters had said nothing about a beard, which now seemed like a serious omission.

Then she saw him.

At least, she thought she did.

A tall man stood near the back of the dock crowd, apart from the others. He had a dark brown beard and shoulders broad enough to make every man near him look unfinished by comparison. While the others jostled for a better view of the brides, he stood still.

Her heart gave a ridiculous leap.

His gaze moved once over the rail, stopped near Lottie, then dropped quickly to the crates being unloaded.

There! Then he looked away.

Lottie’s leap became less ridiculous and more uncertain.

Perhaps he had not seen her. Perhaps he had seen her and was shy. A quiet man might reasonably be overwhelmed by a bride arriving with half the town staring and several men making fools of themselves. Lottie decided to be generous.

Then the book trunks came up from the cargo hold.

The dockhands handled the first of them with confidence. That confidence lasted until two men tried to lift it and discovered it held more than stockings. One of them grunted as though personally betrayed.

“What’s in this one?” someone called. “Stove iron?”

“Books,” Lottie said brightly from the gangway.

Four men looked up at her.

“Books,” one repeated.

“Yes.”

“All of it?”