Chapter 7
Martha stood beneath the trees with an arrow drawn to her cheek.
Smoke drifted across the railway cut, stinging her eyes and blurring the men gathered near the train. Deputies shouted from behind the baggage car. Horses screamed somewhere beyond them. A gunshot cracked through the air, followed by another.
She kept the bow steady.
The plan had been simple when Silas explained it. Stop the train. Take the gold. Leave before the law arrived.
No one was supposed to die.
Martha aimed at the ground near the closest deputy and released.
The arrow struck the dirt beside his boot. He stumbled back, shouting to the men behind him as Martha reached for another shaft.
She was far enough away that they had not found her position. Pine branches concealed her from the track, and the smoke rising from the locomotive carried between them in uneven sheets. From there, she could open a path toward the horses without putting an arrow through anyone.
That was what she told herself.
She drew again and sent the next arrow into the wooden side of the baggage car. It landed inches from a deputy’s shoulder. The man ducked and fired blindly toward the trees.
The bullet struck a trunk to Martha’s right.
Bark broke against her face.
She dropped behind a fallen log and covered her head while shots tore through the branches above her. Men shouted near the train. Someone cried out in pain.
Martha looked down the slope.
Amos appeared between the cars with a canvas sack over one shoulder. He ran unevenly, struggling beneath its weight as he crossed the tracks.
“Amos!”
He could not hear her over the gunfire.
Martha rose and fired again.
One deputy moved behind the engine. Another took cover near the rear wheels. She placed arrows close enough to force them back while Amos reached the open ground beyond the tracks.
He dropped the sack beside a waiting horse and grabbed the saddle horn.
A rifle fired.
Amos jerked.
For one suspended moment, he remained upright. Then his injured leg folded beneath him, and he struck the ground beside the horse.
Martha’s bow slipped in her hand.
“Amos!”
He dragged himself upright using the stirrup leather. Blood spread across his trousers from a wound high in his calf. The horse danced away from the noise, but Amos caught the reins and pulled himself into the saddle.
Martha left the cover of the trees.
Another bullet struck the ground near her boots.
She stopped long enough to fire toward the deputies, no longer choosing her aim as carefully. One arrow buried itself in the wooden frame of the locomotive. Another disappeared into the smoke.
Amos turned the horse toward her.
His face had gone pale. Blood ran along the animal’s side and dripped from his boot.
Martha moved down the slope, reaching for him.
A final shot rang out.
Amos’s body snapped backward.
He fell from the saddle before she could reach him.
Martha screamed his name.
He struck the ground and did not move.
The forest disappeared.
And Martha woke screaming.
She sat upright in bed, one hand pressed against her throat. Darkness filled the room except for the faint gray light at the window. Her blankets had twisted around her legs, and the front of her nightdress clung damply to her skin.
For several seconds, she remained trapped between the dream and the room.
Martha forced air into her lungs.
The robbery had happened nearly two years ago. Amos had not died beside the train. The bullet had torn through his leg, and he had managed to stay on the horse long enough for them to escape. He had survived the journey to Willow Crossing and lived for months afterward.
It was the infection, actually, that had killed him.
Not the second bullet.
There had been no second bullet.
Martha repeated the truth until the bedroom returned around her. The cedar chest stood beneath the window. Her dress hung from the wardrobe door. Amos’s old key remained on the bedside table where she had placed it the previous night.
She raised both hands to her face.
The dream had changed over time.
In the earliest versions, the deputies caught them before they reached the horses. Sometimes Martha saw Silas dragged from the train. Sometimes Amos left without her. During the months after his death, the dream began killing him at the tracks.
Her mind had taken two memories and joined them.
Martha lowered her hands.
A faint sound came from below. A door opening, perhaps, or someone moving through the kitchen before dawn. The inn was never completely silent. Wood settled in the walls. Pipes knocked. Guests walked the halls at hours when decent people should have been asleep.
She pulled the blankets aside.
The floor was cold beneath her feet. Martha reached for the robe hanging near the bed, then stopped when the building gave a low groan.
It came from the western side of the inn.
She held still.
The groan deepened into the sound of wood splitting.
Then came the crash.
The floor lurched beneath her.
Glass shattered somewhere below. A heavy impact shook the room hard enough to knock Amos’s key from the bedside table. It struck the floor and disappeared beneath the bed.
Screams rose from the hallway.
Martha ran.
She reached the door without tying her robe and pulled it open. Guests poured from their rooms in nightclothes, carrying lamps and blankets. One man stood in the center of the corridor shouting that the roof had fallen.
“Stay here,” Martha ordered.
No one listened.
She pushed through them and ran toward the western staircase. Dust clouded the passage ahead, turning the lamplight gray. Another section of timber cracked behind the closed doors leading to the unused wing.
Martha stopped at the rope she had tied across the corridor weeks before.
Beyond it, part of the ceiling had collapsed.
A support beam lay across the passage. Plaster, boards, and broken shingles covered the floor. Cold morning air rushed through an opening where the exterior wall had given way.
The west wing was gone.
Not the entire section, but enough.
The roof had folded inward over the back rooms. One wall leaned toward the yard at an angle that made it impossible to save. Snow blew through the exposed rafters and settled across the ruined floor.
Martha stared at it.
She had known the wing was unsafe. She had closed the rooms as soon as the carpenter warned her about the foundation and had refused every request to reopen them, even when the inn filled.
No one had been sleeping there.
The thought should have brought relief.
Instead, Martha remembered the estimate waiting in her office.
Three hundred and eighteen dollars had been beyond her reach.
The cost of rebuilding what now lay in pieces would be far, far worse.
“Martha.”
Eliza’s voice came from behind her.
Martha turned. Eliza stood barefoot in the passage, a shawl wrapped over her nightdress. Dust clung to her dark hair.
“Is anyone inside?” Eliza asked.
“No. The rooms were empty.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Martha had checked the locked doors herself two nights earlier. The keys remained on the ring at her waist downstairs. No guest could have entered without breaking the rope or taking a key from the front desk.
A woman began sobbing near the stairs.
Eliza looked past Martha at the wreckage. “We need to get everyone downstairs before another part falls.”
Martha forced herself to move.
She turned toward the guests gathered in the hall. “Take only what you need for the next hour. Use the eastern staircase and wait in the common room. Do not return until I tell you it’s safe.”
Mr. Dobbins appeared at the front of the crowd with his robe pulled tight across his stomach.
“Our room is on this floor.”
“It’s in the east wing.”
“That building just shook beneath us.”
“I know.”
“My wife will not remain in a room that may collapse.”
“Then take her downstairs.”
He opened his mouth to argue.
Martha stepped closer. “Now, Mr. Dobbins.”
Something in her expression stopped him.
He turned and began directing his family toward the other staircase as though the decision had been his.
Eliza moved among the remaining guests, repeating Martha’s instructions and guiding them away from the damaged corridor.
Martha stayed near the rope until the hall cleared.
The ruined wing creaked in the wind.
She should send for the carpenter. She should find men to brace the remaining wall and clear the fallen boards before the weight pulled down another section. She should calculate how many rooms were still usable and how much income she would lose.
Instead, she thought of Percy.
He had been sleeping in the attic room above the stables.
Unless he had wandered inside.
He had a habit of leaving his room before sunrise when he could not sleep. Sometimes Martha found him in the kitchen waiting for the ovens to warm. Other times he climbed into the unused rooms to look through trunks that guests had abandoned.
“Percy?”
Her voice broke.
Martha ran toward the eastern staircase.
“Percy!”
She reached the lower floor as guests crowded into the common room. Lamps had been lit along the walls. Someone had added logs to the fire, and smoke from the hearth mingled with dust drifting through the lobby.
Percy was not among them.
Martha crossed the room, searching every face.
“Has anyone seen Percy?”
The guests looked at one another.
Eliza came down the stairs behind her. “He wasn’t upstairs.”
Martha’s heart struck hard against her ribs.
She turned toward the back passage.
The kitchen door opened before she reached it.
Percy stepped through carrying one boot in each hand. He had dressed in trousers and a shirt but had not bothered with stockings. His hair stood up on one side.
“What happened?” he asked.
Martha reached him in three strides.
She dropped to her knees and pulled him against her.
One of the boots fell from his hand.
“Martha?”
She held him tighter.
He smelled of hay, sleep, and woodsmoke. He was warm. Uninjured.
“I was in the stable,” he said against her shoulder. “The horses started making noise.”
“You should have come inside.”
“I did.”
“You should have come sooner.”
“I couldn’t find my boots.”
Martha laughed once, though it came out too close to a sob.
Percy shifted enough to look at her. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Is Eliza alright?”
“She’s fine.”
He glanced toward the lobby. “What fell?”
“The west wing.”
His eyes widened. “All of it?”
“Enough.”
Martha rose but kept one hand on his shoulder.
Percy looked toward the corridor leading to the damaged section. “Can I see?”
“No.”
“I could help.”
“You can help by putting on your boots and staying in the common room.”
His disappointment was immediate, but Martha did not soften.
“Promise me.”
Percy studied her face, then nodded. “I promise.”
Eliza appeared and guided him toward the fire.
Martha followed them into the lobby.
The front doors had opened. Cold air swept through the room as people from town began arriving, drawn by the crash. Some came carrying coats over their nightclothes. Others brought tools, lanterns, and questions.
The blacksmith entered first with two of his workers. Behind them came Horace Beckett, Edwin Pike, and several men Martha recognized from the mercantile and livery.
For one foolish moment, she thought they had come to help.
Then the whispers began.
They moved beneath the louder voices, quiet enough to be denied and clear enough to reach her.
“Should have been repaired months ago.”
“She can’t keep up with a place this size.”
“Amos never would have let it get that bad.”
Martha stood near the front desk as Edwin approached. His hair was uncombed beneath his hat, and his coat had been buttoned unevenly.
“Are you injured?” he asked.
“No.”
“Any guests?”
“The west wing was empty.”
He looked relieved. Then his gaze moved toward the dust settling in the passage. “You were fortunate.”
Martha knew what he meant.
She was fortunate no one had died.
She was fortunate the rest of the inn still stood.
She was fortunate her failures had not yet become graves.
Behind him, two women spoke near the door.
“This is what comes from keeping to herself.”
“She never asks anyone until it’s too late.”
“If she had accepted Edwin’s proposal, he would have seen to the repairs.”
“A woman cannot run a place like this alone.”
Martha looked toward Edwin.
He had heard them. The color rising along his neck made that clear.
He said nothing.
The blacksmith asked where he could inspect the remaining supports. Martha gave him the keys and warned him not to enter the collapsed rooms without a rope around his waist.
Men moved toward the corridor.
Others remained in the lobby, staring at the damage as though the inn had become a public spectacle.
Martha heard her name spoken beside Amos’s. She heard widow, husband, and too stubborn. Someone suggested the building had begun failing because she spent too little time at church and too much time attempting work that belonged to men.
No one asked whether she could afford the repairs.
No one offered money.
They would carry boards, perhaps. They might brace a wall or pull broken timber from the snow. Then they would go home and tell their families how Martha Bellamy had nearly brought the inn down around her guests.
She looked across the common room.
Percy sat near the hearth pulling on his boots. Eliza stood behind him with one hand resting on his shoulder. Guests clustered around the fire, shaken but alive.
Martha had kept them safe because she had closed the west wing before anyone else believed the danger was real.
That would not become part of the story.
People preferred the version in which she had failed.
They did not know the rest of it.
They did not know the name she had once used or the men she had ridden beside. They did not know that Amos had bought the inn with stolen gold or that Martha had stood in the trees and fired arrows at deputies so the Voss Gang could escape.
They judged her for refusing a husband.
For missing payments.
For allowing wood and stone to rot faster than she could repair them.
If they knew who she truly was, none of them would have crossed the street.
Not Edwin.
Not Horace.
Not even the men now carrying tools toward the west wing.
Martha looked at the dust coating the floorboards.
She could not afford their help.
If the truth came out, they would not offer it anyway.