Wendy Galinetti
She found the note tucked under the biscuit tin, sticky with jam and sweeter than the words she’d longed for but never dared to say.
Miss Olivia,
You are the best cook. I like that you let me eat pie for breakfast sometimes. You are nice and pretty. I think my pa likes you more than the horses. Will you marry us? I want you to be my ma.
Love, Jamie
Her heart gave one slow, aching turn, like a windmill catching a breath of wind after too long still. Outside, boots thumped down the stairs—Wade Coulter and Jamie, her note writer, heading to the livery. Olivia pressed the note to her chest.
She’d run the boardinghouse alone ever since Nora died—her sister, her heart. They’d come west together five years ago with a Cheyenne-bound railroad family. Olivia cooked, and Nora cleaned. When the family moved on, the sisters used their wages to buy the old doctor’s house here in Alder Ridge, a dusty rail town with big hopes.
Nora married a shopkeeper. The coughing sickness took her, sudden and cruel. After that, Olivia kept the house going on her own, steady as sunrise, hollow as a cracked teacup set high on a shelf where no one reached.
Then Wade had arrived, renting the upstairs room. He drove a stage by day and worked late at the livery, building up the business until he could give up the road for good. A week ago, he’d come back bloodied from a hold-up outside Rawlins, with a split brow, raw jaw, and a limp.
He hadn’t said much about it. Wade never did. But he always came down late for supper and listened while she talked about Mrs. Penrose’s runaway cat or the new curtains she’d sewn.
He listened. And sometimes he smiled.
Jamie wasn’t so guarded. At seven, he followed his pa to the livery, went to school, then hovered in the kitchen. Olivia gave him bread with raspberry jam and a soft hug. He stacked kindling, peeled carrots, and left behind little gifts—wildflowers, wooden carvings, and now this note. She read it again, her breath catching on a quiet laugh.
Just this morning, Jamie had stood in the kitchen, watching her cut crosses into the tops of biscuits.
“Why do you always do that?”
“To let the fairies out.” She shrugged, voice lilting with amusement. “You don’t want mischief baked into your biscuits, do you?”
Jamie snorted. “There’s no such thing as fairies.”
“Maybe not. But my ma always said it, and I like remembering.” She smiled. “Somehow, she always knew when I was up to mischief.”
She saw it now—how he’d looked away, ears turning red, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. Jamie had already written the letter. He’d been waiting to see what she’d do with it.
“Oh, you sweet, brave boy,” she whispered, a knot tightening in her throat.
Better to blush once than lie forever.
Another thing her mother used to say, whenever Olivia was too scared to speak her heart.
That evening, after the boarders cleared their plates, Wade came down as usual. Olivia waited until he’d eaten half his stew, then poured him coffee and set the envelope beside his bowl.
She smoothed her apron. “I had an offer today.”
Wade looked up. “Offer of what?”
“Marriage.”
His spoon paused midair. “Marriage?”
“Aye,” she said, her Irish lilt thickening with nerves. “Quite unexpected.”
“Someone in town?”
“Someone in this house, as it happens.”
His eyes sharpened. “One of the boarders?”
She tilted her chin, heart thudding. “Aye, of a sort.”
He didn’t speak, but the muscle in his jaw jumped.
“You’re surprised then?” she said, holding her ground while her heart beat wildly.
“I suppose I am.”
“You didn’t think anyone would find me suitable?” Her tone stayed light, though her pulse thundered.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but you’ve had months to say something else.” Her voice wavered, but she pushed through. “You were nearly killed in that stage hold-up, Wade Coulter. And if you had been, I’d have spent the rest of my life wondering if you ever looked at me as more than the woman who keeps your plate warm.”
“I think of you.” The words slipped out rough and raw.
“Then why haven’t you—”
He stood, chair scraping, and rounded the table. “I’m trying to do right,” he said, fists flexing at his sides.
She blinked. “Because you lost your wife?”
He exhaled. “Because you deserve someone who didn’t already fail once.”
Her fingers curled against the edge of the table, then lifted to brush the healing scrape along his jaw. “You didn’t fail,” she said softly. “You lived. And so did I.”
That broke something in him.
He cupped her shoulders and kissed her, fierce and hungry, like a man who’d held back for too long. His lips were warm and real, and the hollow in her heart filled, sudden and sweet.
She didn’t hear the creak on the stairs.
Wade did.
He pulled back, breath ragged.
Jamie peeked through the banister with eyes wide.
Wade straightened.
Jamie scooted down a step. “Did she say yes?”
Wade shook his head.
“But she kissed you.”
“He kissed me!” Olivia corrected, smoothing her hair.
Jamie pointed at the envelope. “Did you read my letter?”
“I did. It was quite persuasive.”
Wade met her eyes. “Your offer?”
“Aye.”
She handed him the note. He scanned it, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Jamie’s right. I do like you better than my horses.” When he looked up, something tender flickered in his eyes. “You’re a fine woman, Olivia Bennett. Though you never gave me pie for breakfast.”
Her laugh caught in her throat. “You never asked.”
“I’m askin’ now. Will you have us?”
Her smile wobbled, a blush blooming warm across her cheeks. “I will.”
She turned to Jamie. “I knew you were up to mischief.”
Jamie grinned. “Good thing you let the fairies out.”
Her novel, A Dangerous Heart, released in July 2025.
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