Chapter 27
Martha had used nearly half the chocolate in the kitchen before Eliza finally said something.
The block had been precious enough that Martha usually shaved from it sparingly, stretching it through cakes and puddings whenever she could justify the expense.
This afternoon, dark curls of chocolate covered the scarred cutting board in a small, extravagant heap, and more had already disappeared into the bowl beside her.
The kitchen smelled of cocoa, flour, and the last loaf of bread cooling near the stove, a combination that under any other circumstances might have been comforting. Today, even the familiar warmth of the room could not settle her.
“You only use that much chocolate when you're very, very upset,” Eliza said.
Martha kept the knife angled against the block and shaved off another curl. “I use chocolate all the time.”
“Not like you're trying to rid the inn of it before supper.” Eliza came around the end of the worktable, wiping her hands on her apron as she surveyed the evidence.
Her sleeves were rolled above her wrists, and a loose strand of hair had escaped near her temple sometime during the morning's work.
“At this rate, you'll have every guest awake until midnight.”
The blade slipped against the chocolate. Martha jerked her hand back before it reached her finger, then set the knife down more sharply than she intended. “Maybe they'll complain less if they're too busy eating.”
Eliza's faint smile disappeared.
Martha reached for the wooden spoon instead, though the batter had already been mixed enough.
She dragged the spoon around the heavy earthenware bowl, watching streaks of chocolate disappear into the pale mixture.
There had been no need to bake anything today.
There was bread in the pantry, dried fruit enough for supper, and half a spice cake left from yesterday.
She had started before breakfast anyway and had barely stopped since.
Morning had passed into afternoon beneath a low gray sky, and every hour had made the inn feel more confining.
Boots had crossed the front hall. The bell above the door had sounded half a dozen times.
Horses had approached from the road and moved on again.
Each noise had made Martha's attention snap toward the kitchen doorway before she could stop herself.
None of them had been Jonas.
She knew better than to expect him. He had ridden away yesterday with hurt written into every rigid line of his body, and he had given her no reason to believe he would return.
Still, some foolish part of her had listened all morning for the measured tread of his boots in the corridor. She imagined the front door opening and Jonas standing there with cold reddening his cheeks and a dozen questions he had not been able to ask the night before.
She had answers now. Too late, perhaps, but she had them.
Eliza reached across the table and caught the handle of the bowl. “If you keep stirring that, we'll be able to patch the stable walls with it.”
Martha looked down and realized how tightly she was gripping the spoon. She released it. “That might save us some money.”
“Martha.”
The softness in Eliza's voice was worse than teasing would have been. Martha turned away and reached for a crock on the shelf, though she could not have said what she meant to take from it. She knew every shelf in this kitchen without looking.
She knew which jar held cinnamon, which crock contained salt, which drawer stuck in damp weather and had to be lifted slightly before it would open. Amos had bought the inn, but Martha had made this room hers one ordinary day at a time.
Now even there, surrounded by the life she had built, the past seemed to crowd close enough to touch.
“Did something happen with Jonas?” Eliza asked.
Martha's hand stilled against the shelf.
Behind her came the quiet scrape of the mixing bowl being set aside. Eliza did not repeat the question immediately. She had always been better than most people at waiting Martha out, though until now Martha had usually managed to give her just enough truth to end the waiting.
“He left yesterday,” Martha said at last.
“I saw him ride out.” Eliza paused. “He looked angry.”
“He was.”
When Martha turned, Eliza was watching her closely. Concern replaced the last trace of humor in her expression. “Did you quarrel?”
“Yes, though I don't know if quarrel is the right word for it.” Martha rubbed her palms against her apron, leaving faint smears of flour across the faded fabric. Her hands would not stay still. “I told him the truth.”
Eliza's brows drew together. “About Silas?”
“About everything.”
The change in Eliza was small but immediate. Her shoulders straightened, and the hand resting on the edge of the worktable curled slightly against the wood.
Martha looked toward the window over the washbasin.
Afternoon light showed the imperfections in the old glass, warping the bare branches outside into wavering dark lines.
By evening, she had promised herself, she would be sitting in Sheriff Crane's office.
She had told Silas as much. Once Crane knew, there was no controlling where the truth traveled next.
Eliza deserved to hear it from Martha before that happened.
“I should have told you years ago,” she said.
A wary crease appeared between Eliza's brows. “Told me what?”
Martha had imagined this confession so many times that she ought to have known how to begin. Instead, every carefully rehearsed explanation vanished, leaving only the truth itself.
“I was part of the Voss Gang.”
The stove gave a low metallic pop as one of the logs settled inside it. Somewhere beyond the kitchen, a guest crossed the common room and the floorboards groaned beneath his steps. Ordinary sounds continued around them, absurdly unchanged.
Eliza stared at Martha as though she had spoken in another language.
“What did you say?”
“I was part of the Voss Gang.”
Color drained slowly from Eliza's face. She took a step back until the edge of the table caught against her skirt. “You're serious.”
Martha nodded. “Yes.”
“How?”
The single word held more confusion than accusation, and that nearly undid her.
“Amos.” Martha wrapped her fingers around the back of a chair, needing the solidity of the wood beneath her hand. “He was already involved with them when I met him. I didn't know. I married him without knowing any of it.”
Eliza's gaze flicked toward the doorway as though the name itself had summoned Amos's ghost into the room. She had never known him well. Martha had met Eliza after Amos and she settled in Willow Crossing, and even then Amos had kept mostly to himself.
“When did you find out?” Eliza asked.
“After we were married.”
Eliza searched her face. “And you stayed with him?”
Martha's fingers tightened around the chair. “Yes.”
There it was: the point at which the story could no longer be explained entirely by what Amos had done to her. Martha had been deceived at first. What happened afterward had required choices of her own.
“I stayed,” she repeated, quieter. “And eventually I helped them.”
Eliza's lips parted, but she said nothing.
“I carried messages. I kept watch when they needed it. I listened to plans, and after a while I started helping make them.” Martha's mouth had gone dry. She forced herself not to look away. “Robberies, mostly.”
Eliza drew in a slow breath through her nose. Her eyes moved over Martha's face as if searching for something familiar there. “You robbed people?”
“I helped people who did.”
“Martha.” It came out in a shocked whisper.
“I know how that sounds.”
“It sounds like you're trying to make a distinction.”
The words struck cleanly because they were true. Martha looked down at the flour on her apron. “I spent years making that distinction.”
Eliza remained motionless.
“There was a train robbery,” Martha continued. “Amos was there. Silas was there, and another man named Orson. I helped plan it. When deputies came after us, I was positioned away from the others with a bow. I fired near the deputies to scatter them and give Amos and the others time to get away.”
Eliza's expression tightened. “Did you hit anyone?”
“I don't think so. I wasn't trying to.” Martha heard the old defense emerging and hated how natural it still sounded.
Her grip shifted on the chair back, thumb rubbing against a gouge in the wood.
“But that isn't enough. I know that. I used to tell myself it mattered that I never killed anyone. It did matter, but not in the way I wanted it to. I was still helping men who hurt people. I was still helping them steal.”
Eliza pulled out a chair and sat slowly, her skirt settling around her boots. “What happened after the train?”
“Amos was shot in the leg. Orson was killed. Silas was caught and sent to prison.” Martha finally sat opposite her, though every muscle in her body remained taut. “Amos escaped.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“And the money?”
Martha hesitated only a moment before nodding.
Eliza's eyes moved around the kitchen.
Martha followed her gaze despite herself.
The black iron stove. The shelves Amos had repaired the first winter.
The heavy worktable. The doorway beyond which lay the common room, the guest rooms, the west wing that had partially collapsed, the stable they were now struggling to rebuild.
She had spent years thinking of the inn as proof that she had become someone else.
Now she saw what Eliza saw.
“The inn came afterward,” Martha said.
Eliza lowered her gaze to her hands. For a long moment she rubbed her thumb across one knuckle, the gesture small and distracted. Martha could almost see their friendship rearranging itself behind her eyes.
“Please say something.”
Eliza looked up. “How long have we known each other?”
The question was so far from what Martha expected that she blinked. “Years.”
“How many?”
“I don't know. Several.”
“And you never thought you could tell me?”
Martha's stomach sank. “I wanted to.”
“When?” There was no anger in Eliza's voice yet.