Chapter 2 - The Woman Upstairs
Ethan moved before Martha could speak.
He crossed the hallway without making a sound and descended the staircase two steps at a time.
Martha remained beside Ruth.
She heard a door open.
Then Ethan’s voice.
“Stop.”
Silence followed.
Martha looked toward the bedroom entrance.
Ruth’s thin fingers tightened unexpectedly around hers.
“Stay,” Ruth whispered.
“I’m staying.”
“No.” Ruth struggled to focus. “Stay… alive.”
Martha’s pulse quickened.
Before she could ask what Ruth meant, Ethan returned.
His expression was darker than before.
“Nothing.”
“You heard it.”
“I know what I heard.”
“Kitchen?”
He nodded.
“Back door was open.”
“Was it open before?”
“No.”
Ethan walked to the window overlooking the rear yard.
The sun had not yet risen, but snow reflected enough moonlight to make shapes visible.
“There are tracks.”
Martha joined him.
A line of footprints crossed the yard toward the tree line.
Fresh snow was already softening their edges.
“Someone was here,” she said.
“I gathered that.”
“Did they take anything?”
“I didn’t check.”
“Did they leave anything?”
Ethan turned toward her.
That question bothered him.
It bothered Martha too.
Ruth began coughing.
Martha immediately returned to the bedside.
“Water?”
Ruth nodded weakly.
Martha lifted the cup.
She smelled it first.
Ethan noticed.
“You think the water’s poisoned too?”
“I think assuming anything would be foolish.”
He took the cup from her, poured it into the basin, and filled another from a covered pitcher in his room.
Martha gave Ruth only a few small sips.
Then she pulled a chair beside the bed.
Ethan remained standing.
“What happens now?”
“Now I observe her.”
“For how long?”
“Until I understand the pattern.”
“Hours?”
“Possibly days.”
He looked at her mud-stained dress.
“You rode through the mountains alone for days?”
“Mostly by coach. Then wagon. Then one very dishonest mule owner.”
“Where’s the mule?”
“Probably halfway back to Hollister.”
Ethan almost smiled again.
This time Martha noticed.
It made his severe face look unexpectedly younger.
Then his eyes moved back to his mother, and the moment vanished.
Martha opened her journal.
“My father taught me something. When people are sick, everyone watches the illness. He watched the changes.”
“What changes?”
“When they improve. When they worsen. What happened before each change.”
She began writing.
4:42 a.m. Ruth awake. Weak pulse. Dry mouth. Trembling fingers. No food since evening.
“What did she eat yesterday?”
Ethan answered.
“Oatmeal in the morning. Beef broth in the afternoon. Nothing last night.”
“Powder in the oatmeal?”
“Yes.”
“Broth?”
“No.”
“Did she improve before afternoon?”
He thought.
“A little.”
“Then worsen after?”
“By evening.”
“What else happened between?”
“Dr. Voss came.”
Martha’s pencil stopped.
“He treated her?”
“He examined her.”
“Gave her anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“You left the room?”
“For ten minutes.”
Martha wrote the name.
Dr. Lucian Voss.
“He’s been our doctor since my father was alive,” Ethan said.
“That means you trust him.”
“It means I’ve known him twenty-five years.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Ethan’s gaze sharpened.
“Be careful.”
“I am being careful.”
“With accusations.”
“I still haven’t made one.”
“You keep circling his name.”
“Because his name keeps appearing.”
Ruth stirred.
“Lucian…”
Ethan stepped toward the bed.
“Did Dr. Voss give you something yesterday?”
Ruth’s eyes remained closed.
“Bitter.”
Martha glanced at Ethan.
“What was bitter?”
Ruth grimaced faintly.
“Tea.”
“Who gave it to you?”
The old woman’s breathing became shallow.
“Let her rest,” Martha said.
Ethan did not like stopping.
She could see it.
But he obeyed.
They moved into the hallway.
“You said your mother nearly died from something similar,” he said. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
Martha leaned against the wooden railing.
“My mother became tired first. Then nauseated. She stopped eating. The doctor increased her tonic because he assumed she was weakening from lack of nutrition.”
“And it made her worse.”
“Yes.”
“What was in it?”
“A medicinal plant used incorrectly.”
“Was the doctor trying to kill her?”
“No.”
That answer seemed important to Ethan.
“It was incompetence?”
“Partly. And pride. He refused to believe he could be wrong.”
“Is that what you think is happening here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because anyone who tells you they know everything after ten minutes is either a fool or selling something.”
Ethan considered her.
“That doesn’t sound like most healers I’ve met.”
“I’m not most healers.”
“You’re not technically any healer.”
“Correct.”
Again, that irritating calm.
Again, Ethan found it difficult to argue with.
Morning gradually reached the mountains.
Blue light turned silver.
Then pale gold.
Martha remained beside Ruth while Ethan checked the kitchen.
An hour later, he returned carrying three objects.
The first was the ceramic powder jar.
The second was a bottle of dark tonic.
The third was an onion.
Martha stared.
“Why the onion?”
“It was on the floor.”
“Truly alarming.”
“There was something beneath it.”
He placed a folded piece of paper on the table.
Martha unfolded it.
A receipt.
Blackridge Mercantile Company.
She read the items.
Flour.
Coffee.
Salt.
Lamp oil.
Medicinal powder.
Her eyes stopped.
“Who buys your supplies?”
“Mrs. Pierce orders household goods. One of the ranch hands collects them.”
“Which ranch hand?”
“Caleb Rusk.”
“Does he have access to the kitchen?”
“Everyone does during the day.”
“Blackridge is how far?”
“Thirty miles.”
“Your normal supplier?”
“No.”
Martha looked up.
“Then why was this order placed there?”
Ethan took the receipt.
“I don’t know.”
At the bottom was a signature.
Not Mrs. Pierce.
Not Caleb.
Not Ethan.
L. Voss.
Martha said nothing.
Ethan’s face hardened.
“You’re enjoying this.”
Her eyes flashed.
“My mother died believing no one listened until it was nearly too late. I am enjoying nothing.”
The words landed harder than she intended.
Ethan looked away.
After a moment, his voice softened.
“Your mother died?”
“Seven years later. Not from the medicine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
It was the closest thing to peace between them yet.
By nine in the morning, Martha prepared Ruth a simple broth herself.
No powder.
No tonic.
Nothing from an open container.
She peeled vegetables from the root cellar.
Washed everything herself.
Used fresh water.
Ethan watched.
“You’re suspicious of my entire kitchen.”
“I’m suspicious of everything Ruth has consumed.”
He leaned against the doorway, still wearing the fur-lined coat over his bare chest because he had apparently forgotten clothing existed once worry took over.
Martha tried not to notice.
She failed.
She focused aggressively on carrots.
Ethan noticed that too.
For the first time that morning, amusement briefly reached his eyes.
Martha pointed the knife at the cutting board.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
He folded his arms.
“Is that another medical skill?”
“Only with irritating men.”
She prepared the broth.
Upstairs, Ruth managed four spoonfuls.
Then six.
She kept them down.
By noon, some color had returned to her cheeks.
Not much.
Enough.
Ethan stood beside the bed, staring.
“She hasn’t eaten that much in two days.”
Martha felt cautious relief.
“One meal proves very little.”
“It proves something.”
“It proves she tolerated broth.”
“That’s more than yesterday.”
He sounded almost hopeful.
Martha hated what she had to say next.
“We need to see what happens when whatever has been hurting her leaves her system.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
Hours later, Ruth slept more peacefully than she had in weeks.
Ethan finally convinced Martha to eat.
She returned downstairs and found bread, cheese, and cold meat waiting.
While she ate, Ethan checked the footprints again.
When he returned, he held something in his palm.
A brass button.
“Found this near the back step.”
Martha examined it.
An eagle stamped across the surface.
“Military?”
“No.”
His expression had turned grim.
“Blackridge Mining Company.”
Martha slowly set it down.
“You have a mine nearby?”
“Not on my property.”
“Do they want one?”
Ethan did not answer immediately.
Then he walked toward the window.
“Blackridge has tried to buy our northern ridge for three years.”
“Why?”
“They claim there’s silver.”
“And your mother?”
“Owns half that land.”
Martha understood.
“If she dies?”
“Her share comes to me.”
“That doesn’t help Blackridge.”
“No.”
Ethan turned.
“But if she becomes legally incapable of managing her affairs, certain papers she signed last year could give someone else temporary authority.”
“Who?”
Ethan’s expression changed.
He had just remembered something he clearly wished he hadn’t.
“My uncle.”
“Your uncle controls the land if Ruth is declared incompetent?”
“Not exactly.”
“How exactly?”
Before Ethan could answer, a horse appeared outside.
A black carriage followed it.
The vehicle stopped in front of the lodge.
A tall man stepped down carrying a medical bag.
Ethan stared through the window.
“Dr. Voss.”
Martha closed her journal.
“Did you send for him?”
“No.”
The doctor looked up at the house.
Then directly toward the upstairs window of Ruth’s bedroom.
Ethan’s voice became very quiet.
May you like
“Apparently someone did.”
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