Chapter 3
Eliza found Martha before sunrise with a butcher’s invoice in one hand and a flour-streaked apron tied over her nightdress.
“The meat didn’t come,” she said.
Martha stopped halfway down the kitchen stairs. “What do you mean it didn’t come?”
“I mean Horace Beckett’s boy drove past us and delivered to the boardinghouse beyond.”
The kitchen was already warm from the cookstove. Bread dough rested beneath a cloth near the window, and a pot of oats simmered over the fire. Percy sat at the worktable peeling apples, though most of the peel remained attached to the fruit in uneven strips.
He looked up. “Maybe he forgot.”
“Horace doesn’t forget money,” Eliza said.
Martha continued down the stairs and took the invoice from her. Three deliveries were listed, along with the amount still owed.
Twenty-one dollars and forty cents.
She had paid five dollars two weeks ago. Before that, she had given Horace nearly everything left after purchasing coal.
“He promised me another week,” Martha said.
“He promised to think about another week.”
Martha glanced at her. “Well, when you say it that way it sounds much worse.”
“I thought so too.”
Martha set the invoice on the table.
They had fourteen guests staying at the inn. Six had already paid through the end of the week, but the money had gone toward flour, lamp oil, and an emergency repair to the kitchen chimney. Two more guests had promised payment when the stage came through with the mail.
“What do we have?” Martha asked.
“Potatoes, onions, beans, and half a ham bone.”
“For fourteen people?”
“Eighteen if Mr. Dobbins invites those men from the mining office again.”
Martha glanced toward the ceiling as though she might see him through it.
“We’ll charge him for every plate if he does.”
“He’ll complain,” Eliza warned.
“He complains when the sun comes through his window.”
Percy smiled down at his apple.
Martha looked at the invoice again. “I’ll speak with Horace now.” She stood and rubbed at her hair, feeling her blonde curls springing free of their ribbon. She shook her hair out and retied it more neatly before stepping to the door.
Eliza began kneading the bread harder than necessary. “Take your coat.”
Martha paused and then turned around. “I know how winter works,” she said tartly.
“Do you? You went to the stable yesterday in your slippers.”
“The horse was loose.” Martha pulled her apron free and draped it over the back of a chair. “Keep breakfast moving. I’ll be back before the guests come down.”
Eliza glanced at her clothes. “You’re going like that?”
Martha looked down at her plain brown dress. It was clean enough, though one cuff had been mended twice, and the hem carried a faint mark where she had stepped in lamp oil.
“I’m asking for credit, not a dance.”
“That’s fortunate.” Eliza said, one brow lifting.
Percy held up the sorry excuse of an apple. “Did I peel enough?”
“It’s perfect,” Martha said.
Eliza waited until Percy returned to his work before lowering her voice.
“And if Horace says no? What then?”
Martha looked toward the window. Beyond the frosted glass, the sky had begun turning from black to gray.
“I set traps yesterday.”
Eliza’s hands stilled in the dough. “In the river?”
“Near the bend.”
“You went down there alone?”
“I’ve done it before.”
Eliza sighed and shook her head, her hands going back to their work. “Be careful.”
Martha collected her coat from the peg by the back door. “I always am.”
Eliza made a skeptical sound.
Outside, Willow Crossing had not yet shaken itself awake. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, flattened by the low sky. Snow covered the road in a thin layer, though wagon wheels had already cut dark grooves through it.
Martha pulled on her gloves and headed toward the butcher shop.
A year ago, she might have sent Percy with a note and waited for an answer. That was before she understood how quickly a polite refusal could become a permanent one. People found it easier to deny a woman when they did not have to look at her.
The bell above the general store door rang as two women stepped outside.
Martha recognized Mrs. Harper and Mrs. Lane from church. Both glanced toward her, then lowered their voices without lowering them enough.
“Edwin Pike would be good to her.”
“She won’t see sense until the roof falls in.”
“I heard part of it already has.”
“The west wing is a goner. My husband says it’s only a matter of time.”
Martha kept walking.
The women offered smiles as she passed.
“Morning, Mrs. Bellamy,” Mrs. Harper said.
“Good morning,” Martha said, smiling tightly at her.
“Cold one,” mused Mrs. Lane.
“It is.” Martha did not give them the satisfaction of looking hurried.
Their voices resumed once she had gone several steps.
“No man wants to be refused forever.”
“She thinks she can do everything herself.”
Martha’s pace remained steady.
The trouble was that they were partly right.
She could not do everything herself. The west wing of the inn had proved that well enough. The wringer had proven it still further. Horace Beckett’s unpaid account waited to prove it yet again, to the whole town, since he wasn’t a man known for his discretion.
But needing help did not mean she needed a husband.
She had known women who married because winter was coming. Some found kindness. Others found another kind of storm.
Martha had already tied her life to one man’s choices. She would not do it again because Willow Crossing had grown uncomfortable watching her struggle.
The butcher shop stood between the mercantile and a narrow alley leading to the saloon. A painted steer hung above the door.
Inside, the air smelled of salt, sawdust, and fresh blood.
Horace Beckett stood behind the counter sharpening a knife. He was broad through the chest and shoulders, with gray threaded through his beard. He looked at Martha once, then returned his attention to the blade.
“I wondered when you’d come.”
“You could have sent word before you refused delivery.”
“I did. Three invoices.” He grunted. “All unpaid.” The knife moved slowly along the stone. “I told you the account needed settling.”
“You told me you would consider giving me another week.”
“I considered it.”
Martha removed her gloves and stared at him straight. “I can pay five dollars today.”
“No.”
“And you’ll have seven by Friday.”
“No.”
“The stage is due. I have two guests waiting on funds. As soon as they get it, they’ll pay me and I’ll pay you. If I don’t have meat, they won’t pay me.”
Horace set the knife down. “And if the stage doesn’t come?”
“It will.”
“Snow says otherwise.”
Martha glanced toward the hooks behind him. Several cuts of beef hung out of reach. A row of wrapped parcels waited on the side counter, each marked in charcoal.
None of the packages bore her name. So he really meant not to give any to her. “I’ve bought from you since Amos and I opened the inn.”
“And I’ve carried your account more months than I should.”
“I’ve always paid.” She protested. “Eventually.”
“Eventually.”
Martha folded her gloves over one another. “I’m not asking you to erase the debt.”
“I know.”
“I’m asking for enough to serve supper.”
“You’re asking me to increase what you owe.”
“I’m asking you to trust me.”
Horace leaned both hands on the counter.
“I trusted Amos.”
Martha went still.
Horace seemed to regret the words, though he did not take them back.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means he knew when an account had gone too far.”
“He also died before half the bills came due.”
“And I’m sorry for that. I am.”
“But?”
Horace looked toward the front window. A wagon passed, its wheels rattling over frozen ruts.
“But feeling sorry for you doesn’t pay my suppliers.”
Martha knew the argument well. She had made versions of it herself when guests asked to stay another night without payment.
“I can bring you ten dollars by the end of the week,” she said. “More if the stage comes.”
Horace shook his head.
“Not even a smaller order?”
“No.”
“Bones?”
“No.”
“You throw scraps to the dogs.”
“The dogs don’t owe me twenty-one dollars.”
Martha’s face warmed, and for a moment, she was seized by the terrible fear that she might cry.
Horace exhaled and lowered his voice. “Sell the place.”
She stared at him.
“You’re in over your head,” he said, and his voice was gentler now. “Everyone can see it.”
“Everyone seems eager to.”
“You could get a fair price before the building gets worse. Edwin Pike would probably—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
Horace’s jaw tightened.
Martha pulled on her gloves, straightening her shoulders with every ounce of strength and self-respect that she had left.
“I’ll settle the account,” she said shortly. Thank you for nothing, she did not say.
“I hope that you do.”
She turned toward the door.
“Martha.”
Her hand rested on the latch.
“I’m not trying to be cruel.”
“No one ever is.”
The bell struck sharply above her as she left.
More people had appeared on the street. Men stood outside the mercantile with coffee steaming from tin cups. A woman swept snow from the steps of the dressmaker’s shop.
Martha crossed the road without looking at any of them.
Her chest felt tight, but she refused to cry.
Crying would not produce supper, but the fish traps might.
She returned to the inn through the back entrance. Eliza took one look at her face and did not ask.
“No meat?” Percy said.
“Not today.”
“What will we serve?”
“Fish, if the river cooperates.”
Eliza wiped her hands on her apron. “I can go.”
“You have bread rising and guests waking.”
“So do you.”
“I set the traps. I know where they are.”
“You could show me.”
Martha reached for the small wooden sled propped against the pantry wall. “By the time I do, I could be there and back again.”
Eliza frowned. “Take Percy with you.”
“No.”
Percy opened his mouth.
Martha looked sternly at him. “I need you here.”
His disappointment softened at once.
“To help Eliza?” he asked.
“To keep the fires fed and carry luggage. Mr. Dobbins will find a reason to need you.”
“He always does.”
“Exactly.”
Martha took a coil of rope, a basket, and a short-handled axe from beside the door.
Eliza watched her. “You planned for this.”