The stagecoach brought her to my door like a promise I never made. Ursula Jeffords, my mail-order bride, with curves that belong under my hands and eyes that hide the same orphanage scars I carry. I told myself this was only for the land.
I need her submission to secure the ranch. She needs my command to feel she belongs anywhere at all. But when my hand rests on hers over the scattered contracts, the order comes out low and final. She will follow me to the loft. She will take the correction that binds her to me, the discipline that makes this marriage real.
I wait for the moment she yields or flees, knowing either could break what little I have left.
