Chapter 2
ALICE
Cold, slick fabric clings to my fingers as suds slip in rivulets down my wrists.
The rhythm of scrubbing and rinsing merges with the cicadas’ song, rising and falling with the breeze.
Footsteps shuffle behind me. Gideon, the porter’s son, approaches, hands clasped behind his back.
“Miss Alice,” he says, his too-short trousers revealing his skinny ankles.
He lifts his hands. Nestled there is a smooth stone threaded with crystalline veins. “I found this by the creek,” he says. “It’s for you.”
I take the stone, feeling its cool weight in my palm with a smile. His chest swells.
“This is lovely, Gideon. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Alice.”
I pat the spot next to me, and he sits eagerly.
“Mr. Sherman said the astrometers are coming back. Did you hear?”
“Astronomers,” I correct gently. “And yes.”
“It’s a big group of ’em, I heard.”
“Mmm.” I wring water from the linens, scrubbing them against the board. “They’re visiting to study the night sky from the tower. There’s talk of a comet passing soon.”
His mouth parts, eyebrows springing up. “Ain’t never seen no comet before.”
I hold up the stone. “They’re made of rocks just like this, traveling through space around the sun.”
“No kiddin’.” He pauses. “You got anything inside that needs mendin’?”
“Not today. Don’t the horses need tending to?”
He tugs the hem of his trousers, as if he could coax them longer. “I ain’t been near the stables much.”
“Why not? You love the horses.”
“The new hand. Lucas. He’s been…teasin’ me, ’bout m’trousers and other stuff. Pa says if I don’t stand up to him, I’ll be picked on my whole life. I want to, Miss Alice. It’s just…he’s so much bigger’n me.”
“Well, if he lays a finger on you, tell me, and I’ll straighten him out.”
He grins at that, then leans in. “Lucas don’t know nothing about your supplies. I hid ’em good.”
My heart tightens with gratitude, and unease.
“Where?”
“In the hayloft. Behind a loose plank in the wall.”
Relief softens my shoulders. I brush my thumb across his cheek. “Thank you, Gideon.”
That night, once the guests settle, I slip into the stables by the glow of my oil lamp. The ladder creaks as I climb to the loft. At the wall, I find the loose plank.
Behind it sit two burlap bags.
I pull them out and check the contents: a canteen of water, jerky, biscuits, canned beans, corn, stew, and salmon; a leather pouch holding twenty dollars in one-dollar bills and a scatter of quarters, dimes, and nickels; one change of clothes; and a pair of sturdy work boots.
My fingers skim each item like a familiar ritual. My escape kit. But even with all this, there’s something missing. Something I’ll need if I’m to make it beyond the roads, the woods, the highwaymen, and the wild animals.
A pistol.
Women vanish on the trail. A gun would offer protection.
I just have to find one without drawing suspicion.
After breakfast service, Fred appears with weekly provisions, the wagon wheels kicking up dirt, horses huffing under the heat.
Not a hint of a breeze moves the air. My blouse clings to my back.
Fred brings the horses to a halt, hops down, wipes his brow, and stretches.
I smile, imagining Gideon copying the same motion, as if his young bones were just as weary as his father’s.
Lucas meets Fred at the wagon, and the two of them start unloading provisions and linens. I watch from the porch as they make several trips.
I lift the top bundle and spot a bolt of cotton duck fabric—stiff, weighty.
Perfect.
I pull it free.
“Miss Alice,” Lucas says, tipping his hat. The sun has browned his arms, the tops tinged pink.
“Lucas,” I answer coolly.
“Mr. Sherman around? Fence by the south pasture’s down. Need his say-so before I fix it.”
“Mr. Sherman and his brother are in the city for the auction. Go ahead and fix it.”
He hesitates. “Reckon I oughta wait for Mr. Sherman’s word.”
My grip tightens on the fabric, but I keep my tone even. “If a horse gets out, you’ll be in more trouble for doing nothing. I trust you know how to fix a fence.”
He draws in a slow breath. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, turning to leave.
I watch him go, biting my tongue. Heaven forbid one of them take an order from a woman. I should’ve let him face Joseph’s wrath, but a bad day for Joseph is always a worse day for me.
Fred approaches again, empty crate in hand. “Got your change, Miss Alice.”
I lower the fabric bolt and wipe my palms before taking the small cloth bag. Inside: two dimes, a quarter, five pennies.
“Actually, Fred, wait here a moment.”
He nods. I head inside the office, unlock the tin change box and retrieve a small bag of nickels, dimes, and quarters. Back on the porch, I hand the bag to him.
“Could you exchange these for bills next time you’re in town? Too much loose change to manage, and the guests would appreciate it too.”
“Sure thing, Miss Alice.” He tucks the pouch away.
Once he’s gone, I log the transaction in the ledger—minus the five cents per dollar that won’t return to the inn. That portion has another home: hidden between beams in the hayloft.
When night falls, I retreat to my sewing room. The Singer gleams beneath the lamp as I unroll the cotton duck.
Earlier, I’d found a worn pair of trousers in the laundry pile. I lay them out, trace their shape, ready the panels. The crank hums, the needle darts, and thread binds cloth. By the time I finish, the trousers are plain and sturdy. I hold them to the lamplight, inspecting the seams.
At first light, I walk to the stables with the new trousers under my arm. “Gideon,” I call.
He raises his head from the horse he’s grooming. “Miss Alice?” He wipes his hands and hurries over.
“I’ve got something for you,” I say, offering the folded pants.
He takes them with both hands, awed. “These are for me?”
“Of course. I think they’ll fit better now that you’ve grown.”
Before he can respond, boots thunder across the yard. Lucas barrels in, breathless.
“Gideon! Mr. Sherman needs shackles and a chain. Quick!”
The trousers fall onto a hay bale as Gideon bolts into a stall. He returns with heavy iron and hurries out. I follow.
Inside the inn, the scent of copper thickens the air. Joseph and Virgil drag a man from their wagon—injured, limp, skin gone pale. Blood blooms across his shirt. His boots scrape the steps as they haul him to an empty guest room.
“Chain him to the bed,” Joseph orders.
Gideon obeys, fastening a shackle around the man’s wrist and looping the chain through the bedframe, leaving roughly five feet of slack.
“What are you doing?” I move toward Gideon.
Joseph grabs my arm and yanks me back. “He could be dangerous,” he snaps. “We can’t take chances.”
“That’s no excuse for cruelty!” The words erupt from me. “He needs a doctor, not chains.”
A flash of movement—Joseph’s hand strikes my cheek.
“Calm yourself, woman.” He jerks his chin at Gideon. “Keep her out of the way.”
Gideon approaches. “Are you all right?”
I force a smile. “Just startled.”
“Maybe some fresh air’ll help,” he says.
We sit on the porch. My cheek still burns. The fields waver in the afternoon gold.
Joseph appears. “Back to work, son.”
“Yes, sir.” Gideon hesitates.
“We found him under suspicious circumstances,” Joseph says. “Fits the description of a known criminal. Until we know more, we’re being cautious.”
I say nothing.
“He needs care,” he adds. “That’s where your strengths lie. Can you put aside your hurt feelings and help, or are your sensibilities too delicate?”
“If my sensibilities are so delicate, why would you have me alone, tending to a dangerous man?”
He scoffs. “He’s quite helpless, Alice. I’d be surprised if he lives through the night. There’s nothing he can do to you in that state, and I’ve no time to play nursemaid. ”
No matter the man’s crimes, the thought of such an awful death aches in my ribs. I lift my chin. “I will see to his care.”
“Good. And keep it quiet.”
Alcohol, linen strips, needles and thread, scissors, ointment, iodine. I gather everything I can from the medicine chest in the inn’s office, my hands trembling as I place the supplies into a woven basket. I carry a kettle of boiled water wrapped in a dish towel.
Suspicious circumstances. Not a real explanation. And now here I am, tiptoeing up the stairs to tend to a strange man—one who will eventually wake to find himself chained like a prisoner.
I ease the guest room door open. A faint groan escapes his cracked lips, his blue work shirt clinging to his chest with blood and sweat. Boots hang off the bed, trousers still tucked in.
A shallow cut bleeds above his right brow. I check for more head wounds but find none. Unbuttoning his shirt, I work fast but gently. Maybe he’s a ranch hand. A farmer. His body is built for labor.
My fingertips rest briefly on his chest as I watch the steady rise and fall of his breath. Sweat glistens across his neck. He’s sun-darkened but pale in the cheeks. He’s lost too much blood.
Then I see it. A small, clean puncture wound just under his ribs. A knife? Maybe. I lean in, ear to his chest. No gurgling. No wheeze. His lungs sound clear. It mustn’t be too deep. Thank God. All I can do now is close it up.
Surely this will wake him. Shackles lock his wrists, chained to the rails of the iron bedframe. I didn’t want them there, but right now I’m grateful. If he lashes out, at least I’ll have a chance to flee.
I steady myself, open the iodine.
The moment it touches the wound, he stirs. Mumbles something.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “You’re safe. I’m closing the wound. I’m sorry—it’ll hurt. Please try to be still.”
He groans. A gasp tears from his throat as he jolts upright, chains clattering.
“Shhh, please. You’re all right. You’re doing just fine,” I say, stitching fast. Sweat beads on his brow. His lip trembles as he bites down, suppressing a scream.
I wish to God we had something stronger whiskey.
When I finish, I wipe away what blood I can and bandage the wound.
“All done,” I whisper, gathering the stained cloth and excess supplies into a small sack.
Then he shifts again, rolling slowly onto his side, exposing his back.
My breath stalls.
“Oh, good God.”
The white linen beneath him is drenched in blood. No wonder his skin’s gone ghostly.
I slice the back of his shirt open with the scissors. Beneath it, more blood, more wounds. One near the shoulder, another low by the kidney.
I move faster now, scrubbing the area clean, then pouring iodine over the wounds. He flinches but doesn’t speak. Iodine pools in the gashes like a seasoned hog roast. I thread the needle and begin again.
When I finish, I tap his side. He rolls onto his back with a grunt.
“It’s going to be all right,” I murmur, dabbing a cloth along his lips. They’re dry, cracked, nearly bloodless.
He barely moves, but his hazel eyes open for a moment. Stormy, unfocused. When they lock with mine, something flickers in me.
Who is this man?
“Miss Alice!”
A voice rings out down the hall. I jolt, heart hammering. I shut the door quietly behind me.
“Miss Alice?”
It’s a maid. Mabel. She seems flustered, hands wringing against her white apron. I try to smooth my expression and tuck the panic away.
“Yes?”
“It’s the sleeping quarters for the Astral Society meeting,” she says. “We’ve had more confirmations than expected. We’re two beds short.”
I take a breath, steadying myself. “We can shuffle some of the regular guests.”
“And the kitchen,” Mabel adds. “Mrs. Baxter says we haven’t enough ingredients she needs to feed them all.”
“I’ll send Fred into town. Make a list.”
“Right away, Miss Alice.”
She hurries off, leaving me lingering at the stranger’s door, lost in the fog of the last hour.
No time to think. No time to feel.
There’s far too much to do.