One matronly woman glared at Emily, her beak-like nose flaring. “Some people have no consideration for others,” she grumbled, her voice loud enough to gain the attention of those still standing in line.

Emily apologized and offered to help the passenger with her valise, but the woman would have none of it. Instead, she made quite a show of lugging her single satchel up the steps of the omnibus, grunting and groaning and complaining like an old crow.

Emily disregarded the woman’s theatrics, but it was harder to ignore the curious stares directed at her stylish blue traveling suit. She had been so anxious to make her escape, she’d not thought about clothes. The last thing she needed was to call attention to herself. Had she been thinking straight, she would have purchased something more sedate like a simple gingham or calico dress, though she doubted such a thing could have been found in all of Boston.

The same was true of the plain cloth bonnets locals seemed to favor. Her own felt hat, stylishly trimmed with feathers, now seemed hopelessly out of place.

Sidestepping a pile of horse manure, Emily boarded the omnibus, her bandbox in hand. She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and wiped off the dusty leather seat before adjusting her bustle and sitting.

The driver took his seat and waited until the last of his passengers had boarded before shaking the reins and clicking his tongue. As if to protest the heavy load, the two roans snorted as they plodded forward, scattering more dust with their heavy hooves.

Emily fanned her heated face with the soiled handkerchief and gazed out the glassless window. Compared to Boston’s sturdy redbrick buildings, the adobe shops with the false fronts and rough-hewn signs looked like they could be blown away with one good gust of wind.

No cobblestones lined the thoroughfare. Instead, a bumpy dirt road wound through town, flanked by wooden sidewalks.

She looked for the drugstore owned by the man she’d traveled all this way to marry but didn’t see it. Instead, they passed a general store, a bank, a gunsmith, and a leather shop, but no ladies’ hat or dress emporiums. A sign reading Haywire Book and Sweet Shop gave her a flicker of hope. The selling of books suggested that maybe the town wasn’t as primitive as it appeared.

Emily reached into her purse and pulled out the dog-eared letter that had been carefully tucked inside. Unfolding it, she reread the simple instructions written in bold handwriting. She was told to check into the hotel. A driver would pick her up at four o’clock sharp and drive her to the courthouse. Her betrothed would meet her there to exchange vows.

She chewed her lower lip and forced herself to breathe. Never had she imagined herself a mail-order bride. But then neither had she dreamt she would be forced to leave Boston in shame, with hardly a penny to her name.

Her only hope was that her soon-to-be husband was as kind and caring in person as he appeared to be in his letters.