May 14, 1866
It’s already May. We are arriving in Eclipse, Texas tomorrow. The train was uncomfortable, the stage coach barbaric. I must remember not to think things can’t get worse—each time I do, fate proves me wrong.
May 16, 1866
This place is so different from Boston. There are no green lawns, or graceful houses. Everything is red dirt and wind. I hate it already. How can father think of moving us here?
May 20, 1866
Father and I met an interesting man today. His name is Ambrose Quince. We were in the bank, speaking to the Eclipse Bank President, Stephen Pauley, when Mr. Quince introduced himself. I was flattered to have the attentions of two men. I am practicing my coquetry.
Papa says he believes Mr. Quince has taken a fancy to me. I would never marry someone from here, not even a man like Mr. Pauley who resembles the men in Boston. I want to go home. Besides, Mr. Quince is much older than I am. He must be at least twenty-five.
May 25, 1866
Mr. Quince has assured Father that there are herds of mustang horses that run wild on his ranch, the Double-Q. Mr. Quince and his brother, Hamilton, own a great amount of property. Papa is very impressed with both of them.
We rode across the Double-Q ranch yesterday and Mr. Quince asked me to call him by his given name, Ambrose. I am not sure I should. We disagreed over my saddle. He said a lady’s side-saddle was a death wish. I pointed out that a lady would never straddle an animal.
Ambrose laughed aloud and my father blushed until his ears turned red. I thought it very rude that my words caused such amusement when that had not been my intent.
June 10, 1866
My father is dead. I cannot bear the pain. He rode out alone yesterday and did not return. I was frantic and after much reluctance on the sheriff’s part, convinced him to send a deputy to look for Papa. Mr. Quince and his brother joined the hunt.
They brought my father’s body back to me. He had fallen from his horse amidst a nest of snakes. I could not look at him. What kind of terrible place is this?
June 15, 1866
I want to return to Boston. My money is in the Eclipse Bank and I need only buy a ticket on the stage to start my journey home. Then I remember—I have no one waiting for me there—and no home to return to. Papa sold our house in Boston before we left.
June 18, 1866
Ambrose Quince has declared himself and asked for my hand in marriage. He held me in his arms and for the first time since Papa died, I felt safe. I don’t know what to do.
June 25, 1866
I am a married woman. Ambrose made me his bride today. I miss my father. He should have been the man giving me away instead of Hamilton Quince, who glowered through the ceremony.
I will be a wife by tomorrow morning. Ambrose speaks of making me his— I don’t know what that means and shiver nervously.
June 26, 1866
I blush to write these words. I did not know. I did not know. Should not girls be told how their bodies are to be used?
I bathed, donned nightgown, and sat in front of the tiny mirror on the side table, brushing my hair. I focused on how I would decorate his bedroom—no our bedroom—instead of the nervous tremors that filled my stomach.
Ambrose had also bathed before he joined me. I tried not to stare at him, but I had never seen a shirtless man before. A pelt of hair on his muscled chest caught my attention. Drops of water glistened there, as though he’d hurried through his ablutions, eager to join me. His hair curled wetly and I urged him over so that I could blot the excess water from his head.
He squatted in front of me and laid his forehead against my neck, kissing my shoulder while I dried him. I felt an unexpected tenderness for him and relaxed under the glide of his mouth as he nibbled and teased my flesh.
He untied the ribbon that held my peignoir closed, and brushed his lips across my flesh as it swelled from my bosom. “You mustn’t,” I told him.
“Today you
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