Chester stared at Caleb as though the question offended him.
“It is none of your business.”
Caleb did not move.
The store had emptied for the afternoon. Dust floated through shafts of golden light from the front windows, and somewhere behind the building a loose hinge complained in the wind.
“No,” Caleb agreed. “Probably isn’t.”
Chester closed his ledger harder than necessary.
“Then why ask?”
Caleb considered that.
He had never been a man who enjoyed explaining himself.
Words were tools, as far as he was concerned. Useful when needed. Better kept sharp by not wasting them.
But something about the woman upstairs had bothered him from the moment he first saw her.
Not her figure.
Not her dress.
The way she had folded that apron.
Carefully.
As though refusing to allow humiliation to make her careless.
“She came a long way,” Caleb said.
“I’m aware.”
“Because you asked her to.”
Chester’s jaw tightened.
“I said I’m aware.”
“And now she’s leaving because you looked at her and decided something.”
“You have no idea what I decided.”
Caleb’s gray eyes settled on him.
“I’ve got a fair guess.”
Chester stepped from behind the counter.
“You think this is simple?”
“I generally think simple things are simple.”
“She is not what I expected.”
“That part I understand.”
Chester looked surprised.
Caleb leaned one shoulder against the counter.
“I expected you had more sense.”
For half a second, Chester seemed ready to become angry.
Then he sighed instead.
“You’ve met her once.”
“Twice.”
“That hardly qualifies you to judge me.”
“No.”
Caleb straightened.
“But four days apparently qualified you to judge her.”
He turned and walked out.
The afternoon sun hit his face.
Silver Creek stretched before him beneath a cloudless sky.
The town was growing fast.
Three years earlier, it had been little more than a mining camp.
Now it had a church, schoolhouse, blacksmith, two saloons, a boardinghouse, general store, livery, telegraph office, and enough families that washing hung behind half the buildings on Monday mornings.
Caleb did not live in town.
His cabin and land lay twelve miles north, where pine-covered slopes rose toward the mountains.
People called him a mountain man, though he owned cattle now and trapped only when winter prices made it worthwhile.
He had come west at nineteen.
At thirty-five, he possessed one hundred and sixty acres, a cabin he had built with his own hands, twelve horses, sixty-three cattle, and more solitude than most men could stand.
Usually, Caleb liked solitude.
Lately, it felt different.
He crossed the street toward the livery.
“Stone!”
Caleb stopped.
Martha Jenkins approached carrying an empty basket.
Her eyes narrowed.
“You spoke to Beatrice.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“And what?”
Martha sighed dramatically.
“For a man who can read animal tracks over rock, you’re remarkably slow when it comes to human beings.”
Caleb almost smiled.
“She’s leaving.”
“I know.”
“You planning to stop her?”
That surprised him.
“Why would I?”
Martha stared.
Caleb sighed.
“Martha.”
“You looked at her like a starving man looking at Christmas supper.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You did.”
“I asked whether Halloway treated her right.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s called concern.”
“That’s what men call it before they admit it’s something else.”
Caleb took his horse’s reins from the hitching rail.
Martha continued walking beside him.
“She’s coming to my house tonight.”
“Good.”
“You should come.”
“No.”
“Seven o’clock.”
“I said no.”
Martha smiled.
“See you at seven.”
Caleb watched her leave.
He had known Martha Jenkins for eleven years.
She had buried a husband, two brothers, and one grown son and somehow emerged from grief with enough energy to interfere in every life within fifty miles.
Arguing rarely accomplished anything.
Still, Caleb had no intention of attending.
At six forty-five, he found himself washing at the basin behind his cabin.
He told himself he was going because Martha would otherwise send someone looking for him.
At six fifty, he changed his shirt.
At six fifty-five, he considered shaving.
That annoyed him enough that he did not.
At seven twelve, he knocked on Martha’s door.
She opened it and smiled far too knowingly.
“Late.”
“I can leave.”
“Get inside.”
Martha’s house stood at the edge of Silver Creek, surrounded by a small vegetable garden and cottonwood trees.
Caleb expected a crowd.
There were only five people.
Martha.
Her widowed sister Ellen.
The schoolteacher, Mr. Finch.
Beatrice.
And him.
Beatrice stood beside the table wearing a dark blue dress he had not seen before.
Her hair was pinned loosely, with a few curls escaping around her temples.
Her eyes were still slightly swollen from crying.
Caleb felt an unexpected anger toward Chester.
Not violent anger.
Just a powerful conviction that the man was an idiot.
Beatrice looked surprised.
“Mr. Stone.”
“Miss Sullivan.”
Martha made an irritated sound.
“If you two intend to behave like strangers at a funeral all evening, I’m putting both of you outside.”
Beatrice laughed.
It changed her entire face.
Caleb forgot what he intended to say.
Martha noticed.
Of course she did.
“Supper,” she announced.
They ate roast chicken, potatoes, fresh beans, biscuits, and preserved peaches.
For the first twenty minutes, conversation stayed harmless.
Weather.
A broken bridge south of town.
The school roof needing repairs.
A bear seen near Peterson Creek.
Then Mr. Finch asked Beatrice about Boston.
She spoke carefully at first.
Then more freely.
She described crowded streets, harbor fog, markets, church bells, the smell of rain against brick.
Caleb listened.
“You miss it?” he asked.
Beatrice considered.
“I miss parts of it.”
“Which parts?”
“My father.”
Caleb’s expression changed.
“He’s still there?”
“No. He died three years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Her fingers traced the rim of her cup.
“After he died, Boston felt less like home.”
“What about your mother?”
“She died when I was twenty.”
Caleb nodded.
He understood that.
His parents had died before he came west.
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Then why go back?”
The question slipped out.
Everyone at the table became quiet.
Beatrice looked at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
Caleb set down his fork.
“You said Boston doesn’t feel much like home. So why go back?”
A flash of embarrassment crossed her face.
“Because I came here to marry Mr. Halloway.”
“And now you’re not.”
“Apparently not.”
“That explains why you might leave Chester’s store. Doesn’t explain why you have to leave Montana.”
Martha suddenly became fascinated by her potatoes.
Beatrice looked at Caleb for several seconds.
“What exactly are you suggesting, Mr. Stone?”
“Caleb.”
She waited.
He cleared his throat.
“I’m suggesting one man changing his mind doesn’t mean the whole territory has rejected you.”
Her face became guarded.
“This town knows why the wedding is not happening.”
“So?”
“So I have no desire to become Silver Creek’s object of pity.”
“You aren’t.”
“I assure you I am.”
“People talk about everything. Last winter they talked for a month because Henry Cooper bought the wrong breed of rooster.”
Mr. Finch laughed into his napkin.
Beatrice tried not to smile.
Caleb continued.
“You stay six weeks, someone else will do something foolish, and they’ll forget you.”
Martha nodded solemnly.
“Caleb once fell through the church roof.”
Caleb stared at her.
“That has nothing to do with this.”
Beatrice’s mouth twitched.
“You fell through a church roof?”
“Repairing it.”
“During Sunday service,” Martha added.
“It was a Wednesday.”
“Prayer meeting.”
Beatrice laughed again.
Caleb accepted the humiliation because hearing her laugh seemed worth it.
After supper, Mr. Finch and Ellen left.
Martha deliberately announced she needed help washing dishes, then somehow found a reason for Caleb and Beatrice to sit on the porch alone.
The sun had set.
Purple evening settled across the mountains.
Crickets sounded from the grass.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Beatrice said, “Why do you care whether I leave?”
Caleb looked out at the road.
“I’m trying to determine that myself.”
She turned toward him.
The honesty seemed to surprise her.
Caleb rubbed one thumb along his palm.
“I’m not good at this.”
“At what?”
“Whatever this conversation is.”
That made her smile.
He looked at her then.
“You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“When I saw you in Halloway’s store, I thought you were beautiful.”
Beatrice stopped breathing.
Caleb continued before courage abandoned him.
“Then you spoke, and I thought you were sad.”
Her smile vanished.
“I don’t need rescuing.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He leaned forward, forearms on his knees.
“That’s why I didn’t follow you upstairs. Figured if you wanted to leave, that’s your choice.”
“Then why are you asking me to stay?”
“Because leaving should also be your choice.”
Beatrice looked down.
Caleb’s voice softened.
“Not something Chester chooses for you.”
The words hit somewhere deeper than she expected.
For four days, she had told herself that returning to Boston was dignity.
Perhaps some of it was.
But perhaps part of it was still allowing Chester’s judgment to determine where she belonged.
“What would I do here?”
Caleb shrugged.
“What do you do?”
She almost laughed.
“That’s a very broad question.”
“Good.”
“I keep accounts. Sew. Cook. I taught children reading for a year. I helped my father with correspondence for his business. I’ve cared for sick people. I can preserve food, mend almost anything made of cloth, and bake bread.”
Caleb looked impressed.
“You’d be more useful than half the men in Silver Creek.”
“That is not much of a compliment.”
“You haven’t met half the men.”
She laughed softly.
The porch went quiet again.
Then Caleb said, “Martha mentioned the school needs help.”
Beatrice looked at him sharply.
“Martha mentions everything.”
“That’s true.”
“Are you offering me employment now?”
“No.”
“What are you offering?”
He met her eyes.
“A reason not to decide tonight.”
Something shifted inside her.
It was such a small thing.
Not a proposal.
Not romance.
Not a promise.
Only permission to stop running.
The following morning, Beatrice went to the stage office.
She did not buy a ticket.
Instead, she asked how long her fare credit would remain valid.
“Week or two,” the clerk said.
She thanked him.
Then she visited the schoolhouse.
Mr. Finch nearly knocked over a chair when she offered assistance.
By noon, she had agreed to help three days a week through the summer.
Martha rented her a room for almost nothing.
Chester tried to object when Beatrice moved her trunk out of the general store.
“You don’t have to leave this way.”
Beatrice folded the last dress.
“How should I leave?”
“I feel responsible for you.”
She looked at him.
“You were responsible for being honest.”
His face tightened.
“I never intended to humiliate you.”
“I believe you.”
That surprised him.
Beatrice closed her trunk.
“But intentions do not erase consequences.”
He watched her lift one end.
“Let me carry that.”
“No.”
“Beatrice.”
She sighed.
“The trunk is heavy. You may carry it because it is heavy, not because you feel guilty.”
Chester almost smiled.
“Agreed.”
They carried it downstairs together.
Outside, Caleb happened to be leaning against a wagon.
Beatrice narrowed her eyes.
“You happen to be here?”
“No.”
“At least you’re honest.”
He took the trunk from Chester.
Chester stiffened.
Beatrice saw the tension between them.
She stepped closer.
“I am not luggage, gentlemen.”
Caleb immediately released one handle.
Chester did too.
The trunk nearly hit the ground.
Beatrice burst out laughing.
Even Chester smiled.
For one strange second, the humiliation between them loosened.
Then Beatrice took one handle.
“Martha’s house.”
Caleb took the other.
“Yes, ma’am.”
They walked.
People watched.
Beatrice knew they watched.
For once, she decided not to care.
At Martha’s porch, Caleb set down the trunk.
Beatrice thanked him.
He adjusted his hat.
“I’ll see you.”
“When?”
His eyes met hers.
“Suppose that depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you decide Silver Creek deserves another day.”
Beatrice smiled.
“One more.”
Caleb nodded.
“One’s enough to start.”
He walked away.
Beatrice stood beside her trunk watching him until Martha opened the door behind her.
“You like him.”
Beatrice nearly jumped.
“I hardly know him.”
“That wasn’t what I said.”
Beatrice turned.
Martha grinned.
For the first time since coming west, Beatrice felt something she had not expected.
Not certainty.
Not love.
Not even hope.
Curiosity.
And after four days of humiliation, curiosity felt dangerously close to life.