“What did you know about her?”
“More than I should have kept from you.”
“What does that mean?”
He looked toward the dark window.
Then back.
“She was with me the night your father died.”
The woman stopped breathing.
Six weeks earlier, she had arrived in Black Pine with fourteen dollars, a single trunk, and one letter offering employment that apparently no longer existed.
The stagecoach deposited her beside the general store just before noon.
Snow had begun falling in thin white sheets.
She stood on the boardwalk while the driver lowered her trunk.
“That all?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the trunk.
Then at her.
“Someone meeting you?”
She glanced down the street.
“No.”
The driver clearly wanted to ask another question.
Instead he tipped his hat.
“Good luck.”
The stagecoach disappeared.
The woman remained.
Black Pine was smaller than she expected.
One hotel.
Two saloons.
General store.
Blacksmith.
Church.
A dozen businesses clustered along one muddy street with scattered houses behind them.
Mountains rose beyond everything.
She had crossed three states because of a letter from a widow who needed a cook and companion through winter.
The widow had promised a room.
Meals.
Twenty dollars each month.
Enough to begin again.
Unfortunately, the widow had died nine days before the stagecoach arrived.
The general-store owner explained this while weighing coffee.
“Pneumonia.”
The woman stared.
“No one wrote me.”
“Probably nobody knew you were coming.”
She took the letter from her coat.
The store owner read it.
“That's her hand.”
“So what happens now?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“Hotel maybe.”
“For how long?”
“Depends how much money you have.”
Not long.
The woman already knew that.
A group of men stood near the stove.
She felt their eyes.
One whispered something.
Another laughed.
She did not hear the exact words.
She did not need to.
She knew the rhythm.
It followed large women everywhere.
She pulled her coat more tightly around herself.
The store owner noticed.
“You cook?”
“Yes.”
“Clean?”
“Yes.”
“Keep accounts?”
“Better than most men.”
That earned the first genuine smile.
“Good answer.”
He scratched his beard.
“Might be somebody.”
The door opened.
Cold wind entered first.
Then the mountain cowboy.
Conversation changed immediately.
Not stopped exactly.
Lowered.
He was taller than any man in the store.
Broad shoulders filled a dark fur-lined coat.
His black hair was damp with snow.
His beard made his already severe face more intimidating.
A faded scar ran from his temple toward one ear.
Two men moved away from the counter without being asked.
The woman watched.
This, apparently, was someone.
He placed a list on the counter.
“Coffee.”
The store owner nodded.
“Salt?”
“Yes.”
“Flour?”
“Hundred pounds.”
“Expecting company?”
“No.”
The store owner glanced toward the woman.
Interesting.
Then he looked back at the cowboy.
“You still looking for somebody to help at the ranch?”
The mountain cowboy’s eyes narrowed.
“I was.”
“Well.”
The store owner pointed.
The woman immediately disliked being pointed at.
“She cooks.”
“I’m standing here,” she said.
The store owner cleared his throat.
“She also talks.”
The mountain cowboy looked at her.
The woman expected the usual progression.
Face.