I signed the mail-order contract with Dalton Pearce to escape the loneliness that has chased me since I was orphaned, but my quicksilver temper sent me running the moment I felt his claim closing in. The ranch will be lost to our rival unless we file the marriage today, and his measured sternness makes it clear that the contract requires his punishing corrections to be witnessed and valid.
The unsigned paper waits on the sun-baked porch rail with the whole day running out. I mask my fear with temper, even as I crave the security his authority promises through the punishing correction he will deliver.
Will I let him punish me to claim our marriage, or will I run again before his hand can make me stay?
