Mail Order Mercy (Alaskan Brides #9)

Chapter One

Dorothy Peabody opened her eyes in the dark because Grace was crying.

It wasn’t a loud cry. Grace was only eight months old, and she had learned, far too young, not to make too much noise in the cold cabin.

It was a small whimper at first, the kind that pulled Dorothy from sleep faster than any shout could have done.

Dorothy reached for the baby before she was fully awake, drawing her close beneath the quilt and praying the warmth of her own body would be enough until morning.

The fire had nearly gone out. A faint red glow showed beneath the ash in the stove, but it gave little heat. Dorothy could feel the cold in the tip of her nose and in her fingers as she loosened the front of her worn nightdress and settled Grace to nurse.

Across the room, Clara and Tommy slept together on a pallet close to the stove.

Clara’s dark hair had come loose from its braid and lay in a tangle around her thin face.

Tommy had one small fist tucked beneath his cheek and the other clutching the corner of Clara’s blanket.

Dorothy had put them there because it was the warmest place in the cabin, though there was precious little warmth to be had.

She looked toward the wood box. Three pieces. Only three. If she used one now, there would be two left for the day. If she waited, the children would wake cold. If she fed the fire, there would be nothing left by nightfall unless she could find a way to gather more.

Dorothy closed her eyes and counted what remained in her stores, though the list had long since become familiar: a heel of bread wrapped in cloth, a small handful of beans, flour enough to dust her fingers but not enough for biscuits, a bit of tea, no bacon, no milk except what Grace took from her.

Some days Dorothy wondered how there was any milk left in her at all.

Two days, she told herself. If she was careful, she could make it last two days.

She had been careful for six months.

Henry had been gone six months, killed in an accident at Everett Thompson’s lumber mill.

Six months was long enough for some people to stop lowering their voices when they spoke to her.

It was long enough for others to assume she had found a way to manage.

It was not long enough for Dorothy to stop reaching across the bed in the night, expecting to find her husband there.

By the time dawn colored the small window gray, Dorothy had put one piece of wood into the stove and stirred the beans into a pot with more water than they deserved. Clara woke first, as she always did, blinking at Dorothy with solemn eyes that seemed too old for four years.

“Is there breakfast, Mama?” Clara asked.

Dorothy smiled because Clara needed a smile more than she needed the truth. “There will be in a little while.”

A knock sounded at the door before Dorothy could decide how much water she could add without making the beans taste like nothing at all.

Ella Sanders stepped inside with a basket over one arm and a covered pail in her other hand, bringing a gust of cold air and the smell of fresh bread with her.

“I made too much again,” Ella said, as if it were a failing she could not overcome.

“David says if I don’t stop cooking for a houseful, we’ll both be round as barrels by spring. ”

Dorothy looked at the basket. Bread. Potatoes.

A small packet of dried meat and what looked like a paper-wrapped chub of meat.

A jar of goat’s milk. Apples wrinkled from storage but still sweet enough to make Tommy clap his hands when he saw them.

There were other things tucked beneath a cloth, things Ella would pretend not to notice Dorothy counting.

“Ella, you can’t keep doing this.” Dorothy’s voice came out softer than she intended. “You and David have your own home to see to. You can’t feed four extra people every week.”

Ella set the basket on the table and unwound her scarf. “Friends don’t keep accounts.”

“Maybe they should.” Dorothy shifted Grace higher on her hip. “I thought about taking in washing. I did. But where would I put the tubs? Where would I hang anything to dry? I can barely keep enough wood for the stove, and Grace still nurses so often I can hardly set her down.”

Ella took Grace from Dorothy’s arms without asking, the way only a friend could do. “Then you don’t take in washing today. Today you let me bring too much bread, and tonight you come to supper.”

Dorothy shook her head at once. “No. I can’t.”

“You can,” Ella said. “You will. It’s only a small supper. David and I. Belle and Everett, if Everett can get away from the mill. Maybe Albert Travis.”

Dorothy looked down at her dress. It had been mended in three places and needed mending in two more.

Clara’s sleeves were too short. Tommy’s trousers showed his ankles.

Grace had outgrown nearly everything except the shawl Dorothy wrapped around her.

“I have nothing to bring, Ella. Not even a pie. And the children—”

“The children are welcome exactly as they are.” Ella’s voice softened. “And your friendship is all I need you to bring.”

Dorothy wanted to refuse again. Pride rose up in her, sharp and useless. Then Tommy bit into one of the apples Ella had brought and smiled as if it were Christmas morning. Dorothy swallowed her pride because pride did not fill little stomachs. “All right,” she said. “We’ll come for a little while.”

*****

AT EVERETT THOMPSON’S lumber mill, Albert Travis worked as if the logs had personally offended him.

He had always been a dependable worker, but since Henry Peabody’s accident, he had become something more than dependable.

He was the first man to arrive and often the last to leave.

He took extra shifts without complaint. He lifted what should have taken two men, sawed until his shoulders burned, and stacked boards until his hands were raw beneath his gloves.

That last morning had run through Albert’s mind too often since: his own hand on a splintered handle, Henry’s easy laugh when Albert asked him to trade places for an hour, the ordinary favor that had become anything but ordinary once the support failed.

Work was easier than remembering.

Everett came to stand beside him near the saw, his face serious beneath the brim of his hat. “Ella Sanders’s having a supper tonight. Belle and I are going. David said you were invited.”

Albert kept his eyes on the board he was guiding. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so, or you don’t want to see Dorothy Peabody?” Everett asked.

Albert’s jaw tightened. “Henry was my best friend.”

“I know he was.” Everett’s voice was quiet. “That may be the very reason you should go.”

Albert had not visited Dorothy since the crowded supper Ella had hosted weeks earlier.

He had walked Dorothy and the children home that night, then told himself she needed women around her, not a mill hand who could hardly speak Henry’s name.

Ella went. Belle went. Others in town surely went.

He stayed away and called it respect because the truth hurt too much.

“I’ll think on it,” Albert said.

By the time Dorothy reached the Sanders’ home that evening, her arms ached from carrying Grace, and Tommy’s small hand was cold inside hers. Clara clung to Dorothy’s skirt, stepping carefully so she would not slip in the packed snow.

Ella opened the door before Dorothy could knock. Warmth rolled out of the house, along with the smell of meat, potatoes, fresh bread, and something sweet. Tommy leaned forward as if he could climb into the smell itself.

“Come in before you freeze,” Ella said. “David, take Tommy’s coat. Clara, I saved a place for you right near the stove.”

Albert was already there, standing near the wall with his hat in his hands.

When Dorothy stepped into the room, he was struck again by how much thinner she looked than she had at Ella’s earlier gathering.

She had always been slight, but now she looked as if the winter had been taking pieces of her day by day.

Her cheeks were hollow, and the shadows beneath her eyes had deepened since the funeral.

He had seen Ella and the other women share food with Henry’s family. He had even walked Dorothy and the children home once. Then he had assumed those small kindnesses meant everything necessary was being done. He had assumed because assuming had allowed him to stay away.

“Dorothy,” Albert said, his voice sounding rough even to his own ears.

She gave him a polite smile. “Albert.”

There was too much between them for more than that. Henry had laughed with Albert, worked beside him, trusted him with things he trusted few men with. Albert had carried one side of Henry’s coffin. Dorothy had watched him do it and never saw him again.

Ella moved everyone to the table before the silence could grow heavy enough to crush them all. Belle talked about a shipment expected when the river opened again. Everett asked David about a repair on the Sanders roof. The conversation went on around Dorothy like the sound of the river under ice.

Tommy ate as if someone might take the plate from him. Dorothy touched his arm once, a silent reminder, but Ella only smiled and put another spoonful of potatoes near him.

Clara was quieter. She ate slowly, watching the adults when she thought no one noticed. Albert noticed. He noticed everything about Henry’s little girl because guilt had suddenly sharpened his eyes.

When Ella passed the biscuit plate, Clara took one and broke it in half. She ate one half with tiny bites and slipped the other into the pocket of her dress.

“Would you like another, Clara?” Ella asked gently.

Clara shook her head, then leaned toward Ella and whispered, “I’m saving this one for breakfast. We don’t have any flour left at home.”

The table went very still.

Dorothy’s face flushed red. “Clara.”

Clara’s eyes filled with confusion. “I was being careful, Mama.”

Dorothy closed her eyes for one brief moment. She had wanted to hide it. She had wanted to keep one small piece of dignity wrapped around herself like a shawl. Now Clara’s careful little secret lay bare on Ella’s table beside the biscuits.

David cleared his throat and looked toward Albert, not accusingly, but with a question that cut deeper than accusation. “When did you last check on Henry’s family after you walked them home from our gathering?”

Albert looked down at his plate. “I didn’t. Not properly.”

David said nothing more. He didn’t need to. Albert heard Henry’s voice as clearly as if his friend had been standing behind him. Look after them if anything happens to me. Henry had never said those exact words, but he had not needed to. Some things were understood between friends.

Albert had hidden behind his grief. He had let Ella and Belle and the rest of Yeti do what he should have done. He had abandoned his best friend’s widow because looking at her hurt too much.

Dorothy stood soon after, Grace heavy and sleepy against her shoulder. “Thank you for supper, Ella. Truly. The children are tired, and I should get them home.”

“I’ll walk you,” Albert said before he could talk himself out of it.

Dorothy looked surprised, but she nodded. “Thank you.”

The air outside had sharpened after sunset. Dorothy carried Grace beneath her shawl and held Tommy’s hand, while Clara walked close enough that she kept stepping on the hem of Dorothy’s skirt. They had not gone far before Tommy began to stumble.

“I can carry him,” Albert said.

“He’s all right.” Dorothy’s answer came too quickly.

Tommy tripped again, and Clara bumped into Dorothy’s side, nearly making her lose her footing. Albert did not ask a second time. He scooped Tommy into one arm and lifted Clara with the other, settling each child against him as if they weighed no more than kindling.

Dorothy opened her mouth, then closed it. Tommy rested his head on Albert’s shoulder at once. Clara watched Albert with wide, serious eyes. “You’re strong,” she said.

Albert swallowed. “Your papa was stronger.”

Clara nodded as if that settled the matter. Dorothy looked away toward the narrow path ahead of them.

The Peabody cabin sat at the edge of town, smaller than Albert remembered. Or maybe he had never looked at it closely enough before. There was almost no smoke rising from the chimney, only a thin gray thread that disappeared into the dark.

Dorothy opened the door and stepped inside quickly, as if ashamed to let him see too much. Albert carried the children to the threshold and set them down. Cold air breathed out of the cabin. It was not much warmer inside than it was outside.

“Thank you for walking us,” Dorothy said. Her voice was polite and tired.

“Dorothy—” Albert began.

She shook her head before he could say whatever poor apology he had found. “Good night, Albert.”

The door closed between them.

Albert stood still in the snow. Through the thin wall, he heard Tommy’s small voice. “Mama, why is our house always cold?”

There was a long pause before Dorothy answered. “Because winter is stubborn, sweetheart. But so are we.”

Albert looked toward the dark chimney, then toward the mill road. Henry was gone. Dorothy was alone. Three children were cold and hungry in the cabin before him.

For the first time in six months, Albert stopped thinking about how much it hurt to remember his friend and started thinking about what Henry would have expected him to do.