For three weeks, Martha lived between terror and hope.
Terror usually won.
Abigail had begun preparing for Martha's departure as though sending her to Grimsby's laundry camp were an ordinary household arrangement.
She folded Martha's dresses.
She removed two blankets from Martha's bed because, as she explained, "You won't need them where you're going. Grimsby provides necessities."
Martha knew that was a lie.
Clementine knew something was happening but seemed more interested in whether she could have Martha's room.
"Mother says I might turn it into a sewing room."
Martha stared at her half-sister.
"A sewing room."
"It has the afternoon light."
"I'm still sleeping there."
Clementine tilted her head.
"Only for a few more days."
That evening, Martha cried into her pillow without making a sound.
No letter came.
One week.
Then two.
By the third, she accepted that C. O'Rourke had thrown her confession into the fire.
Perhaps he had laughed first.
She imagined him reading the sentence.
No one marries a fat girl, sir.
Maybe he had shown it to neighboring miners.
Maybe there had been jokes.
Martha almost wished she had never written.
Hope, she discovered, could hurt more sharply than despair because hope gave disappointment something to kill.
On Tuesday morning, Abigail ordered her to buy lamp oil.
Martha wrapped a faded shawl around her shoulders and walked toward town.
Bitter Creek had turned brittle with cold.
Ice edged the horse troughs.
Smoke hung above rooftops.
The post office stood beside the mercantile.
Martha walked past it.
Then the door opened.
"Martha Higgins!"
She stopped.
Postmaster Llewellyn waved an envelope.
"Got something for you."
Her knees weakened.
"What?"
He laughed.
"A letter. Unless another Martha Higgins lives in town."
She stepped inside.
It was not a letter.
It was a thick envelope.
Heavy paper.
Her name written in large, deliberate handwriting.
MISS MARTHA HIGGINS.
The return address read:
C. O'Rourke.
Silverton Post, Colorado.
Martha stood motionless.
"You planning to open it?" Llewellyn asked.
She clutched the envelope against her chest.
"Not here."
She forgot the lamp oil.
Forgot Abigail.
Forgot everything.
She walked until she reached the abandoned freight shed behind the railway platform.
Her hands trembled so badly she tore the corner incorrectly.
Inside were three items.
A letter.
A train ticket.
And folded bank notes.
Martha gasped.
Twenty dollars.
More money than she had personally possessed in years.
She unfolded the letter.
Miss Higgins,
Your letter reached me yesterday.
I have read it six times.
Martha swallowed.
Then came the five words.
Come to me, Martha Higgins.
She covered her mouth.
Below that, the letter continued.
You said no one marries a fat girl.
I did not advertise for a thin one.
I advertised for a wife who could survive a winter, work beside me, and speak truth.
You did all three before I have even met you.
Martha had to stop reading.
Tears blurred the page.
No man had ever defended her against an insult.
This stranger had defended her against one she had written about herself.
She continued.
I am thirty-six.
My name is Callum O'Rourke.
I live approximately twelve miles outside Silverton in a cabin on land I own.
I trap in winter, guide when weather allows, and trade hides and timber.
I have a scar along the left side of my face from a mining blast six years ago.
It frightens some people.
You should know before coming.
I have no patience for cruelty, drunkenness, or games.
I have also never asked a woman to live here.
If you still wish to come, enclosed is a ticket and twenty dollars for food or lodging along the journey.
You owe me nothing for either.
If you reach Silverton and decide you do not want me, the money is yours, and I will pay for your return ticket anywhere you choose.
Martha read that paragraph twice.
You owe me nothing.
No man had spoken to her in those terms.
No bargain.
No ownership.
No demand.
At the bottom, one final sentence.
I do not care what Bitter Creek thinks you are worth.
Callum O'Rourke.
Martha pressed the letter against her heart.
She laughed.
Then cried.
Then laughed while crying.
A passing rail worker looked at her strangely.
She didn't care.
For the first time since her father's death, somebody had opened a door instead of closing one.
But she still had to get through it.
Martha hid the ticket beneath her bodice.
The cash went inside her boot.
The letter remained against her skin.
She returned to the boarding house with the lamp oil.
Abigail slapped the counter.
"You took forty minutes."
"I'm sorry."
"You always move slowly."
Martha almost smiled.
Not for much longer.
She decided to leave before Abigail discovered the ticket.
The train west departed Thursday at dawn.
Two days.
Martha worked normally.
She prepared roast chicken Wednesday night.
She baked two pies.
She washed linen.
After midnight she gathered her belongings.
Three dresses.
Her father's pocketknife.
Her mother's wooden spoon.
A small photograph of her father taken before the mine accident.
Callum's letter.
That was all.
Before sunrise she lifted her carpet bag and stepped toward the back door.
"Going somewhere?"
Martha froze.
Abigail stood in the hallway.
A lamp burned beside her.
Clementine watched from the stairs.
Martha tightened her grip on the bag.
"I'm leaving."
Abigail laughed.
"No."
"I am."
"You're under my roof."
"Not anymore."
"You belong to this household until Grimsby's account is settled."
Martha's fear returned, but something stronger stood beside it.
"I never borrowed money from Mr. Grimsby."
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
Abigail crossed the room.
"Put that bag down."
Martha did not.
Abigail's eyes narrowed.
"Who's taking you?"
"No one."
"Then where are you going?"
Martha hesitated.
Wrong decision.
Abigail lunged and snatched at Martha's coat.
The train ticket slipped free.
It fluttered to the floor.
Abigail stared.
"Silverton?"
Martha moved for it.
Abigail grabbed first.
"What is this?"
"Give it back."
Abigail read the ticket.
Then understanding spread across her face.
"You answered one of those marriage advertisements."
Clementine gasped.
"Martha!"
Abigail began laughing.
"Oh, this is perfect."
Martha's face burned.
"You wrote some desperate fool?"
"Give me the ticket."
"You think a man is going to marry you?"
Abigail raised the paper.
"You?"
Martha stepped forward.
"Give it back."
Abigail moved toward the stove.
Martha saw her intention.
"No!"
She caught Abigail's wrist just before the ticket reached the flame.
For years, Martha had forgotten how strong she was.
Abigail remembered in that instant.
"Let go of me."
"Give me my ticket."
"You ungrateful—"
"My ticket."
Something in Martha's voice changed the room.
Clementine stopped breathing.
Abigail released the paper.
Martha took it.
Abigail rubbed her wrist.
"You'll come crawling back."
Martha folded the ticket.
"Maybe."
"He'll see you and put you on the next train."
"Maybe."
"No man wants a woman like you."
That sentence once could have broken her.
This time Martha reached inside her coat and touched Callum's letter.
"I found one willing to let me find out."
Abigail's face twisted.
"You owe me."
Martha looked around the boarding house.
At the floors she had scrubbed.
The stove she had fed.
The tables she had filled.
The business she had helped keep alive without wages.
"No," Martha said quietly. "You owe me."
Then she walked out.
At the station, the sky had begun turning gray.
Martha climbed onto the train alone.
As Bitter Creek disappeared behind smoke and distance, she expected to feel grief.
Instead, she felt air enter her lungs differently.
She was terrified.
But she was moving.
Colorado took two days.
The landscape grew rougher.
Flat country became foothills.
Foothills became mountains.
By the time Martha reached Silverton, snow covered the ground.
She stepped from the train wearing every layer she owned.
Men unloaded crates.
Horses stamped steam into the cold.
She looked around.
Nobody held a sign.
Nobody called her name.
Her hope began slipping.
Then she saw him.
He stood beside a black horse near the end of the platform.
Tall.
Broad.
A heavy dark coat covered his shoulders.
Long brown-black hair touched his collar.
A beard shadowed a strong jaw.
And along the left side of his face ran a pale scar from temple to cheek.
He looked exactly like a man people might fear in a mountain storm.
He stared at Martha.
She stared back.
Neither moved.
This was the moment she had dreaded.
He had imagined someone else.
Surely.
Martha lowered her eyes.
"I understand."
Callum's brow tightened.
"Understand what?"
She forced herself to look at him.
"If you've changed your mind."
"Why would I?"
She gave a helpless little gesture toward herself.
His expression hardened—not with disgust, but confusion.
"Martha Higgins?"
"Yes."
"I knew who I was coming to meet."
She swallowed.
"You aren't disappointed?"
Callum took two steps toward her.
His presence was enormous.
So was his silence.
Finally, he said, "Are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Disappointed."
Martha looked at the scar.
Then his eyes.
"No."
One corner of his mouth shifted.
Barely.
"Good."
He reached for her carpet bag.
Martha instinctively pulled it back.
"I can carry it."
"I know."
Those two words stopped her.
Callum held out his hand.
"I wasn't offering because I think you can't."
Martha slowly gave him the bag.
He placed it in the wagon.
"You hungry?"
She had eaten little all day.
"A little."
Callum looked directly at her.
Martha realized he knew she was lying.
He said only, "There's stew at the cabin."
"You cook?"
"Badly."
That nearly made her laugh.
They rode into the mountains.
The road narrowed.
Pines crowded the slopes.
Snow thickened.
Callum did not talk much.
But unlike silence in Bitter Creek, his silence did not seem designed to punish her.
After an hour, Martha asked, "Why did you answer?"
Callum kept his eyes on the road.
"Because your letter was honest."
"That was enough?"
"No."
She waited.
He glanced at her.
"You said you could make a feast from a barren pantry."
Martha smiled uncertainly.
"So you married me in your mind for stew?"
"We aren't married yet."
Her smile vanished.
Callum continued calmly.
"You haven't seen the cabin."
Martha stared at him.
"You mean I still get to decide?"
His brow furrowed again.
"Of course you do."
The simplicity of his answer nearly undid her.
Two hours later, the cabin appeared among the trees.
Large.
Rough.
Smoke curling from its chimney.
Callum stopped the wagon.
Martha climbed down.
Her boots sank into snow.
He carried her bag to the door, then stopped.
"Martha."
She looked at him.
"If you step inside, that doesn't mean you've agreed to anything."
Her throat tightened.
"You can stay tonight. A week. A month if needed."
"And if I decide no?"
"I take you back to Silverton."
"What about the ticket money?"
"Yours."
"And the twenty dollars?"
"Yours."
"Why?"
Callum looked genuinely puzzled.
"Because it was given to you."
Nobody had ever given Martha anything without attaching a debt.
She entered the cabin.
Warmth surrounded her.
A fire burned.
A heavy table stood near the center.
Bundles of dried herbs hung badly from the rafters.
A pot bubbled over the hearth.
Martha smelled it.
Then looked at Callum.
"You weren't joking."
"About what?"
"Your cooking."
He sighed.
"That bad?"
She walked to the pot.
Inside floated pieces of venison, onion, and something that might once have been a carrot.
"You boiled it to death."
"It deserved it."
Martha laughed.
The sound startled them both.
Callum stared.
Martha covered her mouth.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
He took off his coat.
"Been a long time since someone laughed in this house."
That night, Martha repaired the stew.
She added herbs, flour, salt, and dried mushrooms.
Callum ate three bowls.
He said nothing until the last spoonful.
Then he leaned back.
"I'd marry you for this."
Martha froze.
Callum did too.
Slowly, an embarrassed red reached the unscarred side of his face.
"I meant—"
Martha began laughing again.
And this time, Callum O'Rourke laughed with her.