Chapter 3 #2
“I planned for the traps to catch fish.”
“You set them because you thought Horace might refuse the delivery.”
Martha did not answer.
Preparation was an old habit.
Her father had not possessed it.
When Martha was six, her family had left Philadelphia with three trunks of clothing, a silver tea service, and no understanding of what winter required. Her father had been a bookkeeper. Her mother had known how to sew fine hems and host dinners.
Neither had known how to preserve meat.
By the first deep snow, flour had run low. Her father’s hands had blistered beneath an axe. Her mother had boiled leather scraps to soften them and pretended the smell did not make her sick.
A neighboring family had taught them to set snares and smoke venison. They survived that winter.
They did not survive the next three years.
By nine, Martha had been taken to an orphanage with one dress and her mother’s sketchbook.
She had learned other lessons there.
Never assume food will remain in the pantry.
Never rely on promises made by comfortable people.
Always prepare for the worst outcome before it arrives.
“I’ll be back before noon,” she said.
Eliza tied a scarf around Martha’s neck herself. “That’s what people say before doing something foolish.”
“I’m collecting fish.”
“In winter.”
“Fish remain alive in winter.”
“So do bears.”
“Most are sleeping.”
“That’s comforting.”
Martha opened the door. “Lock this behind me.”
The river lay west of town, beyond the cemetery and a line of bare cottonwoods. Martha followed the packed road until the last buildings fell behind her, then pulled the sled down a narrow trail toward the bank.
The snow had stopped.
Cold settled over the land with no wind to move it. Her breath clouded in front of her. The sled runners hissed over the crust.
She passed Amos’s grave without looking toward it.
Not today. There had been enough pain in the day already.
The trail dipped through the trees. Below, the river moved beneath shelves of ice. Open water showed near the bend where the current ran faster.
Martha had set three woven traps in the shallows, each tied to a tree root with rope. She had learned the method from an older boy at the orphanage who claimed he once lived beside Lake Erie. He had lied about most things, but not that.
The first trap held nothing.
The second had one small trout.
Martha placed it in the basket and reset the opening.
“One fish,” she muttered. “Fourteen guests.”
The third trap lay farther downstream where the bank narrowed.
She dragged the sled behind her, testing each step before shifting her weight. The snow near the water hid slick stones.
A dark shape appeared between two trees.
Martha stopped.
At first, she thought it was a fallen branch covered in cloth.
Then she saw a boot.
She left the sled and moved closer.
A man lay on his side near the riverbank. Snow had gathered along his back and shoulders. His arm stretched toward the water, his bare fingers half buried in the snow.
Martha dropped beside him.
“Sir?”
He did not move.
She brushed the snow from his face. His skin was cold, his lips nearly colorless. Dark hair had come loose from a long braid, frozen strands clinging to his cheek.
Martha pressed two fingers to his neck.
A pulse answered, faint and slow.
“Thank God.”
His coat was soaked from the waist down. One side of his trousers had torn open along the thigh. Blood darkened the fabric beneath.
Martha pulled off one glove and touched his cheek.
Cold.
Too cold.
She had seen men die of exposure before. They grew quiet first. Confused. Some believed they were warm shortly before the end.
This man was already unconscious.
Martha reached for the knife at her belt and cut through the torn trouser leg. The wound beneath was deep, a long gash along the outer thigh. Blood still seeped from it, though less than it should have.
She unwound the scarf from her neck and folded it against the cut, then tied it in place with a strip torn from her petticoat.
The man did not stir.
Martha looked uphill, desperately thinking.
The town was at least half a mile away. The trail was passable, but the incline would be difficult with his weight.
“Of course,” she said. “Why would anything be simple?”
She brought the sled closer and removed the basket and axe. The trout could wait.
The man was taller than Amos had been and heavier through the shoulders. Martha rolled him onto his back, then worked the sled beside him.
“Forgive me,” she said.
She slid the rope beneath his arms and pulled.
He shifted several inches.
Martha braced both boots and pulled again. Her shoulders burned. The sled moved, then tipped sideways.
She lowered him before his head struck the ground.
“This would be easier if you helped.”
The man remained unconscious.
Martha tried from the other side, using the slope to roll him onto the sled rather than lift him. His arm fell across her shoulders. For one moment, his face pressed close to hers.
A scar traced the line of his jaw, and another disappeared beneath his collar.
Martha noticed because she noticed faces. Angles. Shadows. The details most people overlooked.
She had once drawn Amos while he slept, before… everything. He had laughed when he found the sketch and told her she had made him look too serious.
She had not drawn a person since his death.
The thought came at the wrong time.
Martha shoved the man the final distance onto the sled and tied the rope around his chest and legs to keep him from sliding off.
She kept his injured leg as straight as possible.
“Stay alive,” she told him sternly.
She took the pull rope in both hands.
The first stretch was flat. The sled glided behind her with little resistance.
Then the trail climbed.
Martha leaned forward, boots slipping. The rope cut into her gloves. Every few yards she stopped to check the man’s breathing.
It remained shallow.
At the steepest part, the sled caught on a buried root. Martha pulled harder.
Nothing.
She dug snow away with her hands, found the runner wedged against the wood, and used the axe handle to pry it free.
The sled lurched forward, and Martha fell to her knees as it went ahead of her, pulling her as it went.
Pain shot through her leg. She rose before it could settle and began moving once more.
By the time the cemetery appeared through the trees, sweat had dampened the back of her dress despite the cold.
The man’s lips had taken on a bluish cast.
“Not much farther.”
She did not know whether she was speaking to him or herself.
A wagon came along the road ahead.
Martha stepped into the center and raised one arm.