Chapter 4 - The First Morning She Wasn’t Ashamed
“Harlan!”
Josephine reached him without remembering how she crossed the distance.
She sank into the snow beside him.
“Harlan.”
His eyes opened.
“I'm fine.”
“If you say that one more time, I may bury you myself.”
He tried to sit.
Josephine pushed against his chest.
“Don't.”
Harlan grimaced.
“What happened?”
“Somebody opened Solomon's stall.”
“The rider?”
“Saw him too late.”
“Did he attack you?”
“No.”
Harlan pointed toward the roof ladder.
“Slipped.”
Josephine stared.
“You fell off the ladder again?”
“Different ladder.”
“That does not improve matters.”
Despite the situation, his mouth twitched.
Josephine helped him stand.
Solomon and the other horses were still inside.
The stranger had apparently wanted only to release them into the blizzard.
“Vale?” Josephine asked.
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
“To send a message.”
Josephine looked across the endless white landscape.
The thought of men climbing a mountain merely to frighten her made anger rise beneath her fear.
“Then we'll send one back.”
Harlan glanced at her.
“What message?”
“We don't scare easily.”
He smiled faintly.
“Yesterday you jumped when a tree hit the roof.”
“I said easily, not never.”
Back inside, Josephine made coffee while Harlan inspected the bruises along his ribs.
Nothing seemed broken.
She insisted he rest.
He objected.
She ignored him.
“Do all wives become dictators this quickly?”
“Do all husbands complain this much?”
“I wouldn't know.”
That silenced both of them.
Wife.
Husband.
The words still felt borrowed.
After breakfast Josephine opened her trunk.
Near the bottom lay a small sewing case.
Her mother's.
The only possession Agnes had not thrown away.
Josephine touched the faded roses embroidered across its lid.
Harlan noticed.
“Pretty.”
“My mother made it.”
“She sew?”
“Everything.”
Josephine smiled sadly.
“She used to make dresses for women in St. Louis.”
“Good ones?”
“The best.”
“What happened?”
“She died when I was fourteen.”
Harlan's expression softened.
“I'm sorry.”
Josephine shrugged automatically.
She had learned to make grief look small.
Harlan did not allow the gesture to fool him.
“What was her name?”
“Eleanor.”
“Tell me about her.”
Josephine looked up.
No one had asked that in years.
Not how she died.
Not whether she was sick.
Tell me about her.
So Josephine did.
Eleanor Bell loved yellow roses.
She sang badly.
She hid peppermint drops in the sewing room.
She believed dresses should fit women rather than women fitting dresses.
“She hated corsets,” Josephine said.
Harlan looked toward the stove.
“Smart woman.”
Josephine laughed.
“She would have liked what you did to mine.”
“I'm beginning to like her.”
“She would have terrified you.”
“Also beginning to like her.”
Something warm moved through Josephine.
She opened the sewing box.
Beneath spools of thread lay a false wooden panel.
Josephine frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She pressed it.
The panel lifted.
Inside was a tiny brass key.
Josephine stared.
“I've never seen this.”
Harlan came closer but did not touch it.
“What does it open?”
“I don't know.”
There was also a scrap of paper.
Four words.
Black Pine. Whitcomb. Flour tin.
Josephine's heart began racing.
“Harlan?”
“Yes?”
“Who is Whitcomb?”
He went still.
“What?”
“Whitcomb.”
The change in his face frightened her.
“You know that name.”
Harlan walked to the window.
“There's a woman in Black Pine.”
“What woman?”
“Nora Whitcomb.”
Josephine waited.
“She owns the boarding house.”
“Why would my mother know her?”
“I don't know.”
But Harlan sounded like he might.
“Harlan.”
He turned.
“I've never met your mother.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“No.”
“Then what aren't you telling me?”
He rubbed his beard.
“Three months ago, before I answered Gideon's advertisement, I stopped at Nora's place.”
Josephine's pulse quickened.
“She asked where I was headed. I told her St. Louis.”
“And?”
“She gave me a letter.”
Josephine stood.
“For whom?”
“You.”
The room went completely silent.
“What?”
“She said if I found Eleanor Bell's daughter, I should give it to her.”
Josephine stared at him in disbelief.
“Where is it?”
“I never delivered it.”
“Why?”
Harlan's expression filled with regret.
“Because your father searched my things before you left.”
Josephine felt sick.
“He found it?”
“No.”
“Then where is it?”
Harlan crossed to a cabinet.
He removed a tin box.
Inside lay a sealed envelope.
Josephine's name appeared on the front.
Not in Nora's handwriting.
Josephine knew that handwriting.
She had seen it on birthday cards as a child.
Her knees weakened.
“That is my mother's writing.”
Harlan stared.
Josephine's fingers shook as she took the envelope.
“But my mother died fourteen years ago.”
The seal remained intact.
Harlan said nothing.
Josephine broke it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
My dearest Jo,
If you are reading this, then someone finally kept the promise I was too frightened to make while I lived.
Your father has lied to you about what belongs to you.
Go to Nora Whitcomb in Black Pine.
Bring the brass key.
Trust no paper Gideon gives you.
And whatever they have taught you to believe about yourself—
you were never the burden.
You were the inheritance.
Love always,
Mama
Josephine read it twice.
Then a third time.
Harlan stood absolutely still.
“What does that mean?” he finally asked.
Josephine looked at the brass key.
“I don't know.”
But she suddenly remembered something.
When she was ten years old, her mother's family had visited from Colorado.
Her grandfather had owned land.
A lot of land.
After Eleanor's death, Gideon claimed everything had been sold to pay medical debts.
Josephine's hand closed around the key.
“Harlan.”
“Yes?”
“I need to get to Black Pine.”
He looked toward the storm.
“The pass may open in three days.”
“Then in three days we go.”
Harlan nodded.
But neither of them knew that Silas Vale had already reached Black Pine.
May you like
And before Josephine could discover what her mother had hidden there, Vale intended to find it first.
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