Chapter 2 - The Twenty-Dollar Coin
Harriet did not mount the bay mare immediately.
She stood in the snowy street with her coat buttoned crookedly and watched Harlan secure her Dutch oven behind his saddle.
“You knew there was a box social tonight?” she asked.
“Everybody within twenty miles knew.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
He tightened the leather strap.
“No.”
Harriet waited.
Harlan looked over his shoulder.
“You want the long answer or the honest one?”
“I was hoping those would be the same.”
That brought another flicker of amusement to his eyes.
“Your father told me.”
Harriet went still.
“My father?”
“Three days ago.”
“When?”
“At the boarding house.”
“You were there?”
“Back entrance.”
Now she was more confused.
Her father had barely left his bed all week.
“What were you doing at my back entrance?”
“Bringing venison.”
Harriet stared.
There had been twenty pounds of wrapped venison in the pantry yesterday morning. Her father had claimed Henry Cobb brought it in payment for two nights' lodging.
Henry Cobb hated hunting.
Harriet narrowed her eyes.
“My father lied to me.”
“Looks that way.”
“And you helped him.”
Harlan considered.
“Looks that way too.”
She should have been annoyed.
Instead, she felt dangerously close to laughing.
It had been a long time since anything surprised her without hurting.
Harlan untied the bay mare.
“Her name's Molly. She's gentle.”
“I can ride.”
“I figured.”
“Why?”
He looked at her hands.
“Because those aren't the hands of somebody waiting around for someone else to do things.”
Harriet instinctively curled her fingers.
They were rough, red at the knuckles, nails short and flour ground into the skin.
She was accustomed to women hiding work-worn hands inside gloves.
Harlan had noticed hers and sounded almost approving.
She mounted.
They rode north through Bitter Creek while lamplight glowed from store windows and snow whispered beneath the horses' hooves.
Harriet could feel curtains shifting.
By morning the town would have transformed a ten-minute ride into a scandal.
She imagined Pearl telling everyone Harlan had practically carried Harriet away.
Josephine would insist she had always suspected something between them.
There had been nothing between them.
Harriet had spoken to Harlan Jessup perhaps six times in ten years.
He bought coffee.
Sometimes bacon.
Once he had repaired a loose porch railing without being asked after seeing Harriet nearly fall through it.
He had refused payment.
She had found a loaf missing from the kitchen afterward.
At the time she'd assumed her father had eaten it.
Now she wondered.
They passed the final buildings.
Dark country opened before them.
Harriet pulled Molly to a stop.
Harlan rode three paces farther before turning.
“What?”
“Where are we going?”
“My place.”
Her eyebrows rose.
He added immediately, “For supper.”
“That does not improve the sound of what you just said.”
For the first time, he laughed.
Not loudly.
But genuinely.
“There's a table on the porch. Door stays open. We eat. Then I bring you back.”
Harriet studied him.
“You always explain yourself this badly?”
“Mostly.”
“Then I understand why you live alone.”
That laughter came again.
Harriet surprised herself by smiling.
They continued.
The trail climbed gradually through pines.
Moonlight silvered the snow.
At first Harriet expected awkward silence.
Instead Harlan asked about the bread.
Not whether she could make pies.
Not whether she knew embroidery.
Bread.
“How long do you ferment it?”
“Depends on temperature.”
“What flour?”
“Mostly wheat. Some rye when I can get it. Oats on the outside.”
“Molasses?”
“A spoonful.”
“Knew it.”
She looked at him.
“You tasted one spoonful of molasses?”
“I eat a lot of bread.”
“You speak like a man with qualifications.”
“I've suffered enough bad loaves to earn them.”
Harriet laughed before she could stop herself.
The sound startled her.
It had been months since laughter came that easily.
They reached Jessup Ridge forty minutes later.
Harlan's cabin was not what she expected.
She had imagined one room, animal hides, muddy boots, perhaps bones nailed over the door.
Instead she found a large timber house built into the shelter of the ridge, with a stone chimney, covered porch, barn, smokehouse, and neatly stacked firewood.
Warm light shone through the windows.
“You built this?”
“With my brother.”
Harriet noticed the change in his voice.
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
She immediately regretted asking.
“I'm sorry.”
“Seven years.”
He dismounted.
“Still dead.”
The bluntness surprised her until she saw his expression.
Pain did not always announce itself politely.
Harriet understood that.
Her mother had been dead eleven years, yet some mornings Harriet still set out three coffee cups.
Harlan helped her down without holding her longer than necessary.
Inside, the cabin was clean.
Shockingly clean.
A massive stone fireplace dominated the main room. Shelves held tools, books, jars of dried herbs, coffee, flour, salt.
Harriet touched one of the books.
“Dickens?”
“My brother liked him.”
“You read?”
Harlan removed his coat.
“Sometimes.”
“I did not mean that the way it sounded.”
“You did.”
She looked at him.
He was smiling again.
Harriet realized Harlan Jessup might be the first man she had ever met who did not become smaller when teased by a woman.
He sliced her bread.
Then he produced venison stew from a pot hanging near the fireplace.
They ate at the rough kitchen table rather than the porch because the temperature had dropped so sharply Harriet's breath had begun fogging indoors near the door.
For several minutes neither spoke.
Harlan ate two slices of bread.
Then a third.
Harriet finally said, “Twenty dollars was ridiculous.”
“No.”
“It was bread.”
“It was good bread.”
“Flour costs six cents a pound.”
“Didn't buy the flour.”
Her fork stopped.
“What did you buy?”
Harlan leaned back.
“Supper.”
“With me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
There it was.
The question Harriet had been trying not to ask.
He studied her.
“You want me to flatter you?”
“No.”
“Good. I'm bad at it.”
“I noticed.”
His mouth twitched.
Then his face grew serious.
“I've watched you for years.”
Harriet's heart gave a heavy beat.
“You have?”
“You work before sunrise. Feed men who complain about food they couldn't cook themselves. Keep that boarding house standing while your father is sick. Take food to Widow Ames when she can't pay. Leave bread outside the Macready place without putting your name on it.”
Harriet stared.
“How do you know that?”
“I'm awake early.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No.”
She put down her spoon.
“You've been watching my boarding house?”
“When I'm in town.”
“Why?”
Harlan looked toward the fire.
“Because your father asked me to.”
That answer chilled her more effectively than the November air.
“My father asked you to watch me?”
“Not exactly.”
“What exactly?”
Harlan was silent too long.
Harriet pushed back her chair.
“Take me home.”
His eyes returned to her.
“Harriet—”
“Now.”
He rose immediately.
No argument.
That unsettled her more.
They rode back beneath a sky thickening with clouds.
Harriet did not speak.
Neither did Harlan.
When they reached the boarding house, the downstairs windows were dark except for the kitchen.
Her father was awake.
She could tell.
A lamp burned beside his room upstairs.
Harlan returned the Dutch oven.
Harriet took it.
“What did my father ask you to do?”
Harlan's jaw tightened.
“Ask him.”
“I am asking you.”
“It should come from him.”
“That's convenient.”
“No. It's respectful.”
“To whom?”
“Your father.”
Harriet's anger sharpened.
“And what about respecting me?”
That landed.
Harlan looked away.
After a moment, he said, “You're right.”
Harriet waited.
He took a slow breath.
“Six months ago your father came to my place. He said someone had been trying to buy the boarding house.”
Harriet froze.
“What?”
“He said you didn't know.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn't tell me.”
“Harlan.”
“He made me promise.”
“My property is being threatened and you're protecting a promise?”
“Wasn't threatened then.”
“Then?”
Harriet caught the word.
Harlan did too.
Their eyes met.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Two weeks ago I found survey stakes behind your south field.”
Harriet's anger vanished.
The boarding house sat on four acres inherited from her mother's family.
Nobody had permission to survey it.
“Railroad?”
“Maybe.”
“Why would the railroad care about four acres beside a creek?”
Harlan looked toward the dark shape of the house.
“That's what your father was afraid you'd ask.”
Harriet suddenly felt the entire evening rearranging itself in her mind.
Her father's insistence that she attend the social.
The venison.
Harlan bringing an extra horse.
The strange secrecy.
This had never been about bread.
Or perhaps it had been about bread, but not only bread.
Harriet gripped the Dutch oven tighter.
“My father sent you tonight.”
“No.”
She searched his face.
“Then why did you come?”
Harlan stepped closer, though he kept enough distance that she did not feel cornered.
“Your father told me about the social.”
“Yes.”
“He said you'd probably bring bread.”
“Yes.”
“He said nobody in town would have enough sense to bid on it.”
Despite herself, Harriet almost smiled.
“That sounds like him.”
“I came because I wanted to.”
“For bread?”
Harlan's gaze held hers.
“For supper with you.”
The cold suddenly felt less cold.
Then something moved behind the upstairs curtain.
Her father's silhouette.
Watching.
Harriet's brief softness disappeared.
She marched inside.
Her father was sitting upright when she entered his room.
“Twenty dollars?” Samuel Bell asked.
Harriet stared at him.
He smiled weakly.
“Harlan always did overpay.”
“You lied about Henry Cobb.”
His smile vanished.
“So you've spoken.”
“You told Harlan someone was trying to buy our property.”
Samuel looked toward the door.
“Close it.”
Harriet did.
Her father coughed into a handkerchief.
When he lowered it, his face seemed older.
“Who is trying to buy this place?” Harriet asked.
Samuel remained silent.
“Papa.”
“A man named Cyrus Vale.”
She knew the name.
Everyone west of Denver knew the name.
Railroads.
Mines.
Timber.
Land.
Men said Cyrus Vale could buy a county before breakfast and evict it before supper.
Harriet sank into the chair beside the bed.
“Why does Cyrus Vale want this boarding house?”
Samuel reached beneath his pillow.
He pulled out a folded map.
His hand trembled as he gave it to her.
Harriet unfolded it.
Her property was marked in red.
So was Harlan's ridge.
A thick black line ran directly through both.
“What is this?”
“The planned spur line.”
Harriet frowned.
“That railroad was supposed to run south of town.”
“It was.”
“What changed?”
Samuel looked at her.
“They found silver north of Jessup Ridge.”
Harriet's blood turned cold.
“And the cheapest route to it,” her father said, “runs straight through our land.”
Outside, a horse shifted near the porch.
Harlan had not ridden away.
Then Samuel said the words that would change everything.
“Vale isn't trying to buy the boarding house anymore, Harriet.”
May you like
She slowly raised her eyes.
“He's coming to take it.”
