‘She was just a little girl – Four little girls, and they had this glorious string of names: Cassa, Carma, Levada and Lynn—’

‘How do you know my girls?’ Mrs Chawder swung her head around to face him.

Jonathan half rose out of his chair. ‘Do you remember a runaway named Johnny? I rode out to Denver with a woman called Eliza Gowdy – four little girls – a little boy, too – years and years ago—’

Mrs Chawder’s eyes narrowed. ‘I done you a favor, eh?’

‘So you’re Eliza Gowdy. After all these years—’

‘So you owe me, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Jonathan said. ‘Yes, I owe you. I certainly do.’

‘Then do this wedding. Tomorrow. Before – Just do it. I ain’t got much time.’ She eased herself down into a straight chair. ‘I got to get Carma settled before – I’m a sick woman, Preacher. I ain’t got long to live. You’ll do it, won’t you? Tomorrow?’

Jonathan studied her a moment. ‘I gather’, he said as delicately as he could, ‘that the – uh – groom doesn’t know.’

‘’Course he knows. You can’t marry off a woman less of which the groom knows he’s marrying her. What’s the matter with your head, Preacher?’

‘What I’m saying, Mrs Chawder,’ he said, struggling now for patience instead of delicacy, ‘is that I gather he doesn’t know about her condition.’

Eliza’s face froze. ‘What condition?’

‘When is the baby due, ma’am?’

Eliza stared at him a moment, then laughed – a thin, high sound that she cut off by slapping one hand across her own mouth. ‘Ain’t nothing like that,’ she said. ‘My Carma’s a good girl. Carma! Carma! You come on in here. Preacher’s here. Wedding’s tomorrow. Carma!’

Carma’s hair was like her mother’s had been, like Eliza Gowdy’s of years and years ago on the Midwest Pacific from Kansas to Denver. It was gathered at the base of her neck in a large bun – a luxury of hair, thick, blond – and her only appealing trait. She was large-boned with huge hands and heavy features.

‘Won’t you sit down, Carma?’ Sarah said. Carma shook her head and remained standing.

The silence began to grow oppressive. ‘Do you want to get married tomorrow, Carma?’ Jonathan said at last.

Carma said nothing.

‘She must speak for herself, Missis Chawder,’ he said.

‘What for?’ Eliza said. ‘What kind of question is that? I can see you ain’t done weddings before. She’s scary, that’s all. She ain’t met the man but once yet.’

‘Then how can she—?’ he began.

‘Now you look here, boy,’ Eliza said, ‘we ain’t rich folks up here. A woman marries or goes whoring – ain’t nothing else. Answered the ad in the paper, didn’t she? This old man got a farm west of here and he needs a woman on it. Carma needs a husband. Tomorrow she gets one. Leastways, she does if you can learn how to do a wedding between now and then.’

Jonathan spread his hands, palm up, and shook his head.