Chapter 16
Jonas woke before the inn had fully stirred.
For a few moments, he lay still beneath the blankets, listening to the wind scrape against the side of the building.
His injured leg ached in the cold, a dull pull through his thigh that reminded him not to mistake improvement for healing.
He shifted carefully, then sat up and reached for his clothes.
He had grown used to the sounds of the inn by now. Floorboards creaking under early footsteps. Doors opening and closing. Martha moving through the kitchen before anyone else had finished waking. The faint clatter of dishes from below.
This morning, though, something was different. His window overlooked the stables, and even through the thick panes of glass, he could hear the rise and fall of upset voices coming from it.
Jonas stood up at once, his mind going straight to Silas. He pulled on his boots and made his way outside, taking the stairs slowly. The cold struck through his coat as soon as he stepped into the yard. A thin crust of ice covered the packed ground, and his breath rose white in front of him.
The stable door stood partly open and he could see Martha inside.
She was speaking to a man Jonas recognized after a moment as the butcher, Horace Beckett.
They stood near the stalls, far enough from the open doorway that Jonas could not hear what they were saying.
Martha had one hand wrapped around the opposite wrist, and even from several yards away, Jonas could see the tension in her shoulders.
Beckett said something.
Martha shook her head.
He answered; his expression hardening before he glanced toward the stable door. When he noticed Jonas, his mouth tightened. He said something else to Martha, then stepped past her and walked out into the yard.
Martha watched him go.
Jonas waited until the butcher had disappeared around the corner of the building before approaching.
“Martha?”
She turned quickly. For a heartbeat, she looked almost frightened to see him.
Then he watched as she gathered herself, forcing herself to take a deep breath and ease her shoulders down.
“Good morning.”
There was nothing good about the way she said it.
“What did he want?”
She glanced toward the yard. “I need some air.”
“Martha—”
“I'll be fine.” She pulled her coat tighter around herself. “I only need a little while.”
Before Jonas could ask anything else, she walked away from the stable and toward the road.
He watched her until she disappeared from sight.
A moment later, footsteps sounded behind him.
Silas entered the stable with the easy manner of a man who had not just watched a troubled woman walk away.
“What was that about?” he asked.
Jonas turned.
Silas glanced toward the door. “Martha, I mean.”
“I don't know.”
Silas gave a quiet laugh. It was not a friendly sound. “Don't you?”
Jonas studied him. Silas had a way of smiling without ever seeming pleased. Even now, with morning barely begun, he looked as though he had found something entertaining.
“I said I don't know.”
Silas leaned against the side of a stall and folded his arms. “You spend a lot of time around her.”
“Yes.”
“You think you know her?”
Jonas felt his jaw tighten. “I know enough.”
“Do you?”
The question hung between them.
Silas straightened and stepped closer. “You should ask yourself how much you really know about Martha Bellamy.”
Jonas said nothing.
Silas lowered his voice. “She isn't who you think she is.”
Jonas's injured leg suddenly seemed far less noticeable than the anger rising in his chest.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you ought to be careful.” Silas's smile returned. Then, as quickly as the tension had appeared, he turned away. “I've got work to do.”
Silas crossed the stable and picked up a pitchfork.
Jonas watched him for several seconds. Then he followed, unable to hold himself back. He thought about Martha the night before, horrified at the thought of allowing those women to make idle gossip about them, her cheeks blazing with hot fury in the frigid air.
“You've had your warning,” Jonas said, pointing at Silas. Silas turned slowly and met Jonas’s eye.
Jonas stopped a few feet away. “I'm tired of the way you behave around her.”
Silas's eyebrows lifted. “Are you, now?”
“You know exactly what you're doing.” Jonas kept his voice low, though the anger beneath it was difficult to contain. “Whatever history you have with Martha, you need to smarten up and leave her alone.”
Silas's amusement faded. “You're making threats now?”
“I'm telling you to stop upsetting her.”
“That sounds an awful lot like a threat.”
Jonas took another step forward. “Maybe I mean for you to take it that way.”
Silas looked down at Jonas's injured leg, then back at his face. “You don't know what you're doing.”
Jonas's hands curled at his sides.
Silas moved closer until there was barely any space between them. “Be careful, Numa. It is dangerous to make threats for a woman who’s hiding secrets.”
Jonas reached out and caught the front of Silas's coat before he could think better of it.
Silas's eyes sharpened. “Get your hands off me.”
Jonas held his gaze for another moment, then released him. Silas smoothed the front of his coat and smiled again, but there was no humor in it now.
Jonas wanted to demand answers.
Instead, he stepped back.
Silas picked up his pitchfork and returned to work.
Jonas remained where he was.
He did not know what had passed between Silas and Martha. He did not know what Martha had done to make a man like Silas believe he had some hold over her.
But he was going to find out. And it wasn’t because of Silas’s veiled warnings, either. Martha mattered to him; had come to matter to him very much.
The realization settled heavily in his chest.
He was falling for her.
Jonas turned away before anyone could read the thought on his face. He had his own work to do.
***
By late morning, he could no longer stand being inside.
His leg needed movement. Jonas pulled on his coat and followed the road Martha had taken earlier.
He moved carefully down the packed snow trail, eventually coming to the cemetery that lay beyond the last few buildings in town.
Snow and ice covered most of the graves, leaving only the tops of stones visible above the white drifts, though the ground itself had mostly cleared by this point. The wind moved steadily through the bare trees, carrying the dry rustle of branches.
Jonas nearly passed her, so intent on seeing her somewhere up ahead.
Then he saw the dark shape of her coat beside a grave.
Martha sat in front of a headstone, her shoulders drawn inward. Her head was bowed, and from where Jonas stood, he could see one hand pressed against her mouth.
He stopped, and then moved forward, more hesitantly now, as he got closer he could read it: Amos Bellamy. His heart squeezed in empathy for her.
The ground was uneven beneath the snow, and his leg protested with every step. When he reached her, Martha looked up.
Her cheeks were wet with tears. “Jonas.”
He stopped a few feet away. “Can I sit with you?”
She wiped quickly at her face. “You didn't have to come all the way out here.”
“I know.”
“In this cold, too, it’s terrible out today.”
“I know that too.”
She tried to smile, but it disappeared almost immediately. “You should be resting your leg.”
Jonas lowered himself carefully beside her. The cold seeped through his coat almost at once. “You're right,” he said. “But I'm already here.”
Martha looked toward the grave. “I'll be fine.”
Jonas watched her for a moment.
He knew what she was doing. She had done it before. Whenever something came too close to the things she did not want to discuss, she shut the door.
He wasn't going to force it open.
But he wasn't going to let her close it on him, either.
“You can tell me what happened.”
Her shoulders tightened. “Nothing happened.”
“Martha.”
She shook her head. “I don't want to talk about it.”
“That's fine.”
She looked at him, surprised.
Jonas gave her a small smile. “I didn't say you had to.”
The wind moved across the cemetery, lifting loose snow from the ground.
“But I'm here,” he continued. “So you might as well tell me what's wrong.”
A faint, broken laugh escaped her. “That doesn't sound like much of a choice.”
“It isn't.” She looked down.
For several moments, neither of them spoke.
Then Martha's breathing changed, becoming shallow and uneven.
Jonas turned toward her. “Martha?”
She pressed a hand against her chest.
“I can't—” She drew in another breath, but it caught before it reached her lungs.
Jonas held out his hand.
“Take mine.”
Her eyes lifted to his. “Jonas—”
“Just take it.”
She hesitated, then placed her hand in his.
He closed his fingers around hers. “Don't worry about talking yet.”
Her grip tightened.
“As hard as you need,” he told her. “Squeeze my hand until you feel like you can breathe again.”
She did.
Her fingers dug into his palm.
Jonas barely noticed the pain.
All he could feel was the frantic beat of his own heart beneath his ribs.
Martha took another breath.
Then another.
Gradually, her shoulders loosened.
“The man this morning,” she whispered. “It was Horace.”
“The butcher?”
She nodded.
“What did he want?”
“He said he's going to sue me.”
Jonas stared at her. “For what?”
“The money I owe him.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
“He's been patient. More patient than he needed to be. But he says he can't keep carrying my account.”
Jonas glanced toward Amos's grave.
“How much?”
“Too much.”
“Martha.”
She looked at him.
“I don't have enough,” she admitted. “The inn isn't doing well. We had all those guests during the storm, but of course I couldn’t charge them, not in that sort of situation.
So we used food and materials and labor but had nothing to pay it back.
It feels as though everything breaks the moment I manage to repair something else.
The west wing is still damaged, the laundry equipment needs work, and I've been buying supplies on credit because I thought things would improve.”
She swallowed.
“They haven't.”
Jonas understood then why she had looked so frightened in the stable.
He thought of the inn's cracked boards, the sagging roof, the way Martha worked from before sunrise until long after the guests had gone upstairs.
“You should have told me.”
She gave him a tired look. “Why?”
“So I could help.”
“You already have.”
“Help more, then.”
Martha looked away.
Jonas rested his hands on his knees.
“I have money.”
Her head turned sharply. “What?”
“I have enough to settle the butcher's bill.”
She immediately shook her head. “No.”
“Martha—”
“No.”
“I earn good money when I can work.” He paused, knowing how strange that might sound after weeks of watching him limp around the inn.
“Helping settlers find their land has paid well,” he explained. “I've also taught people how to track and hunt. There have been times when I earned more than I needed, and I’ve always been good about setting some aside.”
“But you aren't working now.”
“I will again.”
“Eventually.”
Jonas nodded. “Eventually, once spring comes. For now, there’s not much guiding work to be had. I always take time in the dead of winter to focus on other things. More important things than work.”
He squeezed her hand gently.
“So let me help you now.”
She pulled her hand away.
The loss of her warmth was immediate.
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“No.” She stood, brushing her skirt straight. “I can't take your money.”
Jonas rose more slowly. “Martha, it isn't charity.”
“It doesn't matter what you call it.”
She turned toward him.
“This is mine. My inn. My debt. My responsibility.”
“You don't have to carry everything alone.”
“Yes, I do.” The words came out so quickly that Jonas knew she had not meant to say them. Martha's expression changed as she looked toward Amos's grave. “I've learned that I'm the only person I can rely on.”
Jonas felt something tighten inside him. “You have people now. Other people who care about you and want to help. Percy, Eliza, they count on you, yes, but they also care about you so deeply.”
She looked back at him. He wanted to tell her that she had him.
He wanted to say much more than that.
Instead, he simply said, “You don't have to be alone anymore.”
Martha's eyes filled again, but she shook her head. “I do.”
He opened his mouth, trying to think of how to say it, of what to say, but she turned away from him, leaving Jonas standing beside the frozen graveyard with the words he could not yet say lodged in his throat.