The Wounded Native at the Widow's Inn

Chapter 1

By the time Edwin Pike reached the word wife, Martha Bellamy had already decided exactly how she would turn him down.

She kept both hands folded over the account book on the front desk and listened while he explained all of the many ways marriage would, apparently, benefit them both.

“You’ve done an admirable job here,” he said. “No one could say otherwise.”

She bit back a smirk. That was generous, considering half of Willow Crossing had spent the past year saying otherwise.

Edwin glanced around the lobby, and her gaze followed his.

The room had been handsome once. It still was, for the most part, as long as you were looking from a distance.

The dark wood gleamed where Martha had polished it that morning, and the brass hooks behind the desk shone beneath the lamplight.

Up close, the wallpaper curled at one seam, and the runner on the stairs had worn thin enough to show the floorboards.

“You shouldn’t have to do all this alone,” he continued, and spread his hands, his eyebrows raising at the “all this” around them.

Martha held her expression steady, though irritation flared.

He was not a cruel man, and she knew he meant no offense. She took a deep breath, taking in his kind, if slightly foolish eyes, the soft slope to his shoulders.

No, he was not heartless, and that made turning him down harder, though not hard enough to change her answer.

Edwin owned a feed store at the north end of town. He had a house well-built enough and a gentle, if slow, manner of speaking. He had brought flowers the first time he called. The second time, he had brought a list of repairs the inn needed that he could help with.

Today, apparently, he had brought a proposal.

“I could take over the heavier work,” he said. “The books too, if you wanted. You’d still have your say, naturally.”

Naturally.

Martha looked down at the account book. A drop of ink had dried beside the butcher’s outstanding balance. Beneath it sat the amount owed to the coal merchant. She had written both figures in a smaller hand than the others, as though shrinking them might make them less real.

“You’ve thought this through,” she said.

Edwin’s shoulders eased. He mistook simple politeness for encouragement. Men often did, in her experience.

“I have. I know it may seem soon.”

Amos had been dead a year and eleven days. Hearing his name, even just in the privacy of her own head, shot of slice of pain through her heart.

Edwin patted her hand clumsily, and she tried to hide her wince. “You cared for your husband,” Edwin added. “Everyone knows that. But a woman can’t be expected to remain alone forever.”

Martha’s fingers tightened beneath the desk.

She could tell him she was not alone. Eliza lived in a room off the kitchen.

Percy slept above the stables when the cold allowed and in the attic room when it did not.

Guests filled the halls, complained about food, lost keys, tracked mud over freshly cleaned floors, and rang the desk bell when Martha was standing directly in front of them.

There were days when she couldn’t find even five quiet minutes.

Then, there were also nights when the empty space beside her in bed seemed wider than whole territory.

But loneliness was not the same as helplessness.

“I’m grateful,” she said. “Truly. You’re offering me security, and I understand what that means.”

Edwin smiled.

“But I can’t marry you.”

His smile vanished so quickly she might have laughed, though she knew it would be the worst thing she could do in that moment.

He shifted his hat from one hand to the other. “May I ask why?”

There was no answer he would like.

Because I do not love you would sound childish to a practical man. Because I do not want you would sound unkind. Because the thought of handing any man authority over my life makes my chest tighten was too honest.

“I’m not ready,” she settled on at last.

“It’s been a year,” his voice had taken on a whining quality now, and her patience had drained fully away.

Martha looked toward the front windows. Snow had gathered in the corners of the glass. A wagon rolled past, its wheels grinding through old ice, and then back at him.

“Yes,” she said. “It has.”

Edwin’s face reddened. “I only meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

A heavy thump sounded overhead.

Martha did not look up.

The second thump was followed by a man’s muffled curse.

Edwin cleared his throat. “This place is too much for one person.”

Before Martha could respond, hurried footsteps pounded down the stairs.

Mr. Dobbins appeared on the landing, one hand clutching his dressing gown and the other gripping the banister. He had arrived the previous evening with his wife and two daughters.

“Mrs. Bellamy,” he called. “This is unacceptable. Simply unacceptable!”

Martha stepped out from behind the desk. “What happened?”

“The water happened. Or failed to happen. By the time the second bucket reached our room, the first had gone cold. My wife is upstairs with soap in her hair and a chill overtaking her as we speak.”

“I’m sorry, let me make it right.” Her cheeks flushed despite the cold, embarrassed at Edwin’s point being so plainly made right in front of him.

“You said hot water could be brought up,” Dobbins shot back. “Why isn’t it hot?”

Because the kitchen stove had begun smoking again. Because they had three occupied rooms upstairs and only one girl carrying water. Because the pipes Martha had dreamed of installing would cost more than she could earn in a year.

Instead she said, “I’ll see to it. Please, give me just a moment to handle this and I’ll get you your water.”

Mr. Dobbins crossed his arms. “We’re paying for service.”

“And you’ll receive it.”

The lobby door opened behind Edwin, letting in a blade of cold air. Martha caught the scent of lye soap before Eliza Henshaw appeared through the side passage, her sleeves rolled to the elbows and a strand of hair stuck to her cheek.

“You called?” Eliza asked.

“I was about to.”

Eliza took in Mr. Dobbins’s dressing gown, Edwin’s hat twisting between his hands, and Martha standing between them.

Her mouth tightened in what might have been amusement.

“Mr. Dobbins needs two fresh buckets taken upstairs,” Martha said. “As hot as possible.”

Eliza’s expression changed. “The wringer broke again.”

Martha stared at her. “When?”

“Ten minutes ago. The handle came loose, and the gear slipped.”

Mr. Dobbins made an impatient sound. “My wife—”

“I heard you,” Martha said, sharper than she intended.

He blinked.

Martha drew a breath. “I apologize. Eliza will bring the water. I’ll send fresh towels as well.”

“What about the washing?” Eliza asked.

“Leave it.”

“We’ve got sheets soaking.”

“Then they’ll soak.”

Eliza gave her a look that said they both knew what would happen if linen sat too long in lye water. Martha knew. But what else could be done?

“Eliza,” she said quietly.

“I’m going.”

Eliza disappeared toward the kitchen.

Mr. Dobbins remained where he was. “I expect this to be reflected in our bill.”

“Of course.”

She had no intention of reducing it by more than a few cents, but the promise sent him upstairs at last.

Silence settled over the lobby.

Edwin set his hat on his head. “You see what I mean.”

Martha turned to him.

He looked embarrassed. “I only want to help.”

She almost laughed. Every person who wanted to help seemed to begin by telling her she could not manage.

“I know,” she said. “And I’m sorry my answer isn’t different.”

He waited, perhaps expecting her to soften. When she did not, he nodded.

“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“I surely do.”

He stepped outside, the door closing behind him.

Martha remained still until he crossed the street, and only then did she let her shoulders drop.

“Well,” Eliza said from the side passage. “He took that better than the blacksmith.”

Martha turned. “The water?”

“Heating.”

“I thought you were taking it up.”

“I thought I’d warn you first that if I carry one more full bucket up those stairs, I’m liable to marry Edwin myself.”

“You’d last three days,” Martha scoffed.

“Four, if his house has indoor plumbing.”

Despite herself, Martha smiled.

Eliza leaned against the doorframe. At twenty-three, she carried herself with the certainty of someone much older. “He’s not the worst of them,” she said, her voice thoughtful. “You might at least have considered it.”

“’Not the worst’ isn’t a reason to marry someone,” Martha said. “Besides, what he wants is the inn.”

Eliza folded her arms. “You could do worse than a man who would be able to lend a helping hand around here.”

“I already have helping hands. They don’t leave muddy boots by the door.”

That earned a laugh, but Martha could feel Eliza watching her.

It wasn’t that she meant to remain alone forever. She simply could not imagine making room for another man and all of his expectations and belongings when Amos still filled every corner of the inn.

His brass key hung in the office. His coat remained in the cedar chest upstairs. His handwriting covered the first pages of the ledger, confident and slanted before illness had reduced it to an uneven scrawl.

A year had passed, as Edwin had pointed out, and yet Martha still caught herself listening for his step in the hall.

“The wringer,” she said briskly. “Can it be repaired?”

Eliza’s expression answered first. “Probably.”

“How much is probably?”

“I don’t know. The last man charged two dollars.”

“The last man tightened one bolt.”

“He was very proud of that bolt.”

Martha rubbed the ache above her brow. “Where’s Percy?”

“Stable.”

“Send him in.”

Eliza pushed away from the doorway. “After I rescue Mrs. Dobbins from the great cold-water tragedy?”

“Please.”

Martha returned to the account book, but the numbers had blurred together. Two dollars for the wringer. Coal due Friday. Meat bill overdue. Three rooms occupied tonight and one expected tomorrow, assuming the stage arrived before the storm thickened.

The inn was earning money. The problem was that no matter what she did, it seemed to bleed what it made faster than she could earn it.