Chapter 36
ALICE
“You understand, Mrs. Sherman,” the US Attorney says, “if he’s found, you’ll still be essential to the case. More charges will follow.”
I nod, tell them what they need to hear. They write it down.
The more time passes, the more the day starts to sweep itself away—clerks close their ledgers, the courthouse hushes to a quiet drone—the more I allow myself what I ache to believe: that silence means he’s out there, alive and moving.
They call it a day. In the hotel lobby, Virgil watches me with the look of a man who has caught a thief at his table. He accompanies me upstairs and orders tea to my room. When it arrives, we sit in a small parlor there.
“I suppose,” he says over his tea, “that fainting in court was rather convenient, wasn’t it? To collapse like that right as the defendant runs.” He lets the words stew. “You must understand how it looks.”
I say nothing, but Virgil does not wait for my answer in any event.
He rises, and something in him bursts and spills out like a broken spigot.
The gentleman drops away in one motion. Grabbing my wrist, he snatches me so hard my cheek catches in my teeth.
I try to pull back. He flings me across the settee as if I were a sack of flour.
His palm comes down on my cheek with blind, burning force.
Pain surges, and a shocked yelp escapes my lips.
My hands fly to my face, hot and stinging under my palm.
A metallic taste rises. I’ve bitten my own cheek.
The lamps buzz, the clock on the mantle ticking.
Virgil’s face is a dark thing in the light. “You did this on purpose,” he hisses. “You set him free. You set him free, and you fell in love with him like a fool.”
He comes again. I do not fight well; all I can do is hold up my arms in an attempt to stop his blows. Each one lands—hard—against my arms, my ribs, my middle. I think of Kodiak and how he’d protect me if he could. How I wish he were here to stop this.
When he stops, it is because he wants to.
He breathes hard, brushing at his cuffs as if to rid them of my scent.
“You will tell no one you did this,” he says, as if I alone could stain him now.
“And you will pray I find him. I will not ask the law to take him. I will find him myself. I will find him, and I will make him pay. Even if I have to kill him with my own hands.”
I taste copper, and a small part of me thinks of Kodiak and smiles, though the smile is cracked and wet with blood. I picture Kodiak’s laugh—the cocky sound of a man unafraid of death—and I laugh too.
“Do what you must,” I say.
He glares with disgust, standing a moment as if debating whether to beat me again for my insolence, then thinks better of it. He leaves me there with my palm pressed to my mouth.
I wander to the window and open the curtains. The stars over Galveston twinkle with infinite light and distant promise. The heavens helped us find one another before; what is destined cannot be broken, no matter how hard Virgil or Pinkertons or government men may try.
The train ride north is punishing. My body aches from what Virgil did, though the bruises hide well enough beneath my collar and sleeves. He doesn’t speak to me the whole way. He reads his ledgers, checks his watch, and folds his handkerchief into smaller and smaller squares.
By the time we reach Ohio, the sky has gone pale and the leaves have begun to rust with red and orange. The inn is quieter than I remember. The road to the house is the same—gravel crunching under the carriage wheels, pines bending over the drive—but everything feels smaller now. A place I outgrew.
Virgil steps out first. He helps me down—not out of kindness but habit. There’s a man waiting by the porch, broad through the shoulders. I look twice. He’s tall and broad like my Kodiak. The reminder that my bear is somewhere out there surviving without me turns into a lump in my throat.
“Mrs. Sherman,” the man says warmly. Up close, he’s nothing like my Kodiak—his face drawn tight at the center, every feature crowding the next, as though afraid of being left out.
“Name’s Mr. Collier. New owner of the Collier Inn.” His voice is deep and rough.
Virgil clasps Collier’s hand firmly. “Ah, Mr. Collier. We have documents to settle. Please wait until the ink dries and the funds clear before removing our family name from the sign, will you?” He says it half serious, half in jest.
“You’ve sold the inn?” I ask.
Virgil turns to me. “Under my leadership, the Sherman portfolio has shifted focus to luxury hotels in major cities. Now that Joseph’s gone, we’ve no use for a country inn.
But Mr. Collier’s been of great help. He’s kept the house and the accounts in order while this messy business with the outlaw gets settled.
I’ll be returning to Cincinnati tomorrow—too much work to attend there to linger here. Collier will see you’re settled.”
Virgil turns back to him, offering another handshake. “Mr. Collier, thank you for your assistance and charity. Mrs. Sherman may no longer be a member of my family, but she is a loyal employee. I’ll return in a month’s time to settle things.”
He says it like a kindness. Like he’s done me a favor. He doesn’t meet my eye again. He leaves, his carriage rattling back down the road.
Collier scans the yard, then turns to me. “Mrs. Sherman, you’re even lovelier than Virgil promised,” he says.
My few belongings rest in a valise at my feet, and my insides draw tight—a slow, spiraling knot. I lower my gaze to my shoes, willing myself not to flinch.
“Virgil tells me you were once married to his brother, lived in the main house. I should warn you that you’ll find things different.”
“How different?” I ask, my voice small.
He gestures toward the rear of the property, where the narrow servants’ wing juts off the main house. “You’ll be housed there. Modest but sufficient. The housekeeper’s quarters are already occupied.”
I blink. “The servants’ wing?”
“There’s no need for you to rattle around the master’s rooms anymore. I’ve taken that as my residence. The staff can use the help—cooking, cleaning, mending, laundry. You’ll earn a modest wage for women’s work. Better than charity, I’d say.”
He says “women’s work” like it’s a silly thing.
I stand while he gives instructions to a maid about supper, my hand on the porch rail, my hip tender where the bullet found me. The place I once walked through as mistress now belongs to a man who buys and sells homes like ledger entries.
I find my bedroom in the servants’ wing, apart from the main hall down a long corridor. There the walls are plain plaster, stained with years of touch. A row of small windows are set high, meant to let in air but not a view.
The bedroom itself is no bigger than a pantry. Just enough room for a narrow iron bed, a chipped washbasin, and an old dresser that tilts from the loss of a leg. The walls are close, made closer by the sloped ceiling that angles low on one side.
There’s no lock on the door, just a hook latch from the inside. Still, it is quiet.
That night, when the lamps burn low, I sleep—peaceful enough, knowing somewhere out there my Kodiak is alive.
Morning comes, gray and cold. The air smells of coal and soap—lemon now, not rosemary. I move slow, careful not to wake the ache beneath my ribs or the deeper pain along my hip. Every motion reminds me of what Virgil’s temper can do.
The servants’ bell clangs from the kitchen below.
I’ve rung that bell a thousand times in another life.
Now it calls me. I pull my shawl tighter and make my way down the back stairs, one hand on the rail.
The house hums—clatter of dishes, whisper of women’s voices, creak of busy footsteps.
They’re all here: Mrs. Baxter at the stove, Mira sorting linens, Fred beside the pantry, chatting before taking inventory. They look up when I enter.
For a heartbeat, no one moves. It’s only been a few months since I’ve seen them, and yet everything feels so different.
Mrs. Baxter sets her ladle down. “Miss Alice,” she says softly, unsure if she may still call me that. Her eyes glisten as she wipes her hands on her apron.
“Mrs. Baxter,” I manage. The name falters in my throat like cracked glass.
She embraces me and my arms wrap around her. Behind her, Mira ducks her head to hide a smile. Then footsteps.
Mr. Collier appears in the doorway, ledger under his arm, expression unfeeling. “Mrs. Sherman,” he says, the title a mockery now. “The breakfast service is delayed. Kindly make yourself useful with the washing until the others finish. We’ll discuss your duties afterward.”
I bow my head. “Yes, sir.”
The others go still again. Mrs. Baxter whispers, “Don’t mind him. He’s a brute and we all know it.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I’m only grateful to see you all again.”
“Ain’t right, what they’ve done. Not a bit,” she snorts.
“Enough,” I murmur. “Please.”
I move to the basins. My hip protests, but the water’s warmth is mercy on my hands. I scrub until the ache dulls to something I can live with.
By midmorning, the sun peeks weakly through the kitchen window. The door creaks open and a small shape hovers there, shifting from foot to foot.
“Miss Alice?”
I turn. Gideon stands in the doorway with the same mop of hair and eager eyes. For a moment, everything inside me softens.
“Gideon,” I whisper, voice catching. “Look at you. I’ll have to let out the hem at your ankle again.”
He grins wide. “Been helpin’ in the stables. Mr. Collier says I’m near strong as a man.”
I smile for real then, though it hurts my split lip. “I don’t doubt that.”
He steps closer, uncertain. “I’m real glad you came back. It was awful without you.” His brightness chases some gray away. “You’ll stay now, won’t you? Things’ll be better with you here.”
I reach out and brush a curl from his forehead. “Mind your work, sweetheart. Don’t let Mr. Collier catch you idling.”
He nods solemnly and trots off.