Chapter 8
By the end of Jonas’s first week at the inn, he knew the sounds of the building almost as well as he knew his own house.
The front bell gave a dull double chime when the door was opened with too much force.
The pipes knocked whenever someone upstairs drew water.
One board outside the dining room complained beneath every boot, and the west corridor had developed a new creak since the collapse, a warning that made Martha stop and listen, brow furrowed in concern, whenever she passed it.
The inn itself seemed busier since the storm.
Travelers had begun moving through Willow Crossing again as the road cleared.
Men came in from the mines with mud frozen to their boots, families stopped between settlements, and two teamsters had taken rooms after a wheel cracked on their freight wagon.
Every chair near the common-room fire seemed to be occupied by noon, and conversations and complaints about the weather filled the space.
Jonas sat near the front windows with his injured leg stretched onto a stool and a book open across his lap. He had read the same paragraph three times, his eyes continually drawn to the perpetually busy Martha.
Across the lobby, she strode quickly between the front desk and dining room with a stack of invoices tucked beneath one arm. Ever since the collapse, he wasn’t sure if he’d seen her smile even once.
Percy came in through the side door carrying an armful of firewood, nearly collided with a guest, corrected course at the last instant, then disappeared toward the kitchen. Eliza crossed behind him with a basket of folded linens.
Everyone in the building had too much to do.
Jonas hated being unable to help.
His wound had improved enough that Dr. Keller allowed him to walk short distances with a stick Percy had found and cut to suit his size, but the doctor had been clear that tearing the stitches would put him back in bed and only make his recovery take longer.
Jonas had no intention of testing how serious the warning was.
He turned another page without reading a single word as the front door opened.
Cold air spilled into the lobby, carrying with it the smell of horse, leather, and woodsmoke. A man stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
Jonas looked up.
The stranger appeared to be in his mid-thirties, perhaps a little older.
Dark hair showed beneath the brim of his hat, and old scars marked both cheeks.
He wore a heavy brown coat and carried a bedroll over one shoulder, though there was little dust or snow to be seen on it for a man who had travelled far.
His eyes moved quickly around the lobby, scanning it all, from the front desk to the stairs, the hallway to the back door, then meeting Jonas’s eyes.
The stranger smiled. “Busy place.”
Jonas closed the book around one finger. “Usually.”
The man walked farther inside, warming one gloved hand near the stove that stood beside the front desk. “I was told the Bellamy Inn was the place to stop.”
Jonas glanced toward down the hall where Martha had disappeared.
“You need a room?”
“I’m looking for work, actually.” The man lowered his bedroll beside the wall and removed his gloves one finger at a time.
Jonas looked toward the stable entrance through the side passage.
Martha had complained that morning about being short-handed there. Percy could manage much of the work, but one boy could not muck stalls, haul feed, tend guests’ horses, carry luggage, and still help with the rest of the inn.
“You know horses?” Jonas asked.
“I know enough not to stand behind one.”
“That puts you ahead of some men.”
The stranger laughed. He had an easy manner, but something about him kept Jonas from relaxing, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.
“How long has the widow owned this place?”
Jonas looked at him.
The man lifted one shoulder. “People talk.”
“They do,” he conceded, but said no more.
“Her husband died?” he prompted.
Jonas nodded slowly. “A year ago, from what I hear.”
“Bad luck.”
Jonas did not answer. The questions seemed strange, too fast and too personal.
The stranger glanced toward the damaged corridor.
Workmen had placed a temporary brace across the opening after the collapse, and heavy canvas blocked the worst of the draft.
The draft was bad enough, but what was worse was that Jonas hadn’t seen any men coming back to start work on fixing any of it.
“That damage from the storm?” he nodded at the canvas, thick eyebrows raising.
“Part of the building collapsed.”
“Looks expensive.”
“It probably is.”
The man’s gaze returned to the front desk. “So she’s running the whole place herself? A woman alone, huh? Tough business.”
Jonas set the book aside and leveled his hardest stare at the man. “What kind of work did you say you were looking for?”
The stranger smiled again, as though acknowledging the change of subject without objecting to it and shrugged easily. “Stable work. Repairs. Whatever pays.”
“There may be something.”
Jonas reached for the walking stick and pushed himself upright. His leg protested when he put weight on it, but the pain remained manageable.
The stranger watched, frowning. “Looks like you found the wrong side of something sharp.”
“Rock.”
“Rock win?”
“For now.” Jonas started toward the dining room.
The stranger collected his bedroll and followed.
“You work here?”
“No.”
“Then you’re a guest?”
“For the moment.”
“That widow take care of all her guests this well?”
Jonas stopped. The question had been delivered with a grin.
Jonas did not return it. “If you want work, Martha Bellamy is the person you need to speak with.” He left it at that, not trusting himself to say more.
Again, there was the sense that something was not right with this man.
However, it wasn’t his place to turn anyone away, and as far as he could tell, Martha did need the help.
And besides, she had made it clear she was a woman who could take care of herself.
The stranger’s smile thinned. “Fair enough.”
They found Martha near the back of the dining room, counting plates beside a long serving table. Several guests had already taken seats for the midday meal. Steam rose from bowls of stew, and the room smelled of onions, pepper, bread, and damp wool drying near the stove.
Martha had tucked a pencil behind one ear. A ledger rested open beside her, its pages filled with small figures in her handwriting.
She looked up when Jonas approached, and her expression changed the moment she saw the man behind him.
Not much, just a pause, as if she had frozen, and a slight stiffening through her shoulders.
The pencil slipped from behind her ear and struck the table; Martha caught it before it rolled to the floor.
Jonas noticed this because Martha rarely fumbled anything; she was about the surest-footed woman he’d ever seen. “This man is looking for work,” he said cautiously. “I told him you might need help in the stable, but of course, I wouldn’t know for sure.”
The stranger stepped around Jonas.
“Silas Mercer.” He removed his hat.
Martha stared at him and Jonas watched the color leave her face.
It happened slowly enough that no one else in the dining room seemed to notice. First her lips lost color. Then the flush from the kitchen heat faded from her cheeks.
She placed the pencil slowly on the ledger.
“Mr. Mercer,” she said, her voice absolutely without inflection, flat as a board.
Silas’s smile broadened. “Mrs. Bellamy.”
The familiarity in his tone made Jonas look from one to the other.
Martha recovered quickly. “You’re here looking for employment?”
“I am.” Silas glanced around the room. “Looks like you could use another pair of hands.”
Martha closed the ledger. “Where did you work before?”
“Here and there.” A strange grin was stretching across the man’s face, as if he found this whole situation highly amusing.
“Any of these ‘here and theres’ got a name?”
“Mining camps mostly. Freight work. Stable work when I could get it.”
Martha’s fingers tightened against the ledger’s cover.
Jonas had seen fear on her face before.
When he had come to, when she thought he was dying.
After the west wing collapsed, when she could not find Percy.
This was different.
Those moments had sent her into motion.
Now she seemed to be doing everything she could to hold herself very still.
Silas looked toward the doorway leading to the lobby and shrugged again, clicking his tongue.
“If you’ve got no work, I understand. I’m sure there’s work to be had in a town like this.
” He tapped a finger to his cheek, then smiled, stretching the long thin scar down his jaw.
“I might ask Sheriff Crane whether he needs any sort of help. Hell, maybe I could be a deputy!” he laughed, but his eyes were hard as he stared her down.
Martha’s face went white as the snow outside. Jonas did not know what was between these two, but he could hear the threat in those words as clearly as a bell struck.
Martha’s eyes fixed on Silas. “No,” she said, her voice raw, her words too quick.
Silas raised his eyebrows.
Martha cleared her throat quickly, glancing at Jonas and then continued, her voice more even now, “I mean, there’s no need. We could use the help. Of course.”
Jonas felt something tighten in his chest.
Silas set his hat on the table. “That so? You sure? I’d hate to put myself somewhere I wasn’t wanted.”
“Percy has too much stable work for one person. You can start there.”
“What does it pay?”
Martha named a modest weekly wage and included meals, and Silas did not bargain.
That seemed strange too.
A man who claimed to have been moving from job to job usually cared about wages.
Instead, he extended his hand.
Martha looked at it.
For the briefest moment, Jonas thought she might refuse.
Then she placed her hand in Silas’s, and his fingers closed around hers.
Martha withdrew quickly. “You can use the room above the stable while you’re working here,” she said. “Percy will show you where everything is.”