Chapter 3 - The Road Into the Mountains
Harriet slept for forty-three minutes.
She knew because she watched the clock.
At two twelve in the morning, she lay staring at the ceiling.
At two fifty-five, she gave up.
By three fifteen she had built the kitchen fire.
By three thirty her hands were buried in dough.
Yeast had never betrayed her.
Flour never smiled at her while hiding a contract.
Salt never decided that someone with more money deserved what belonged to her.
She worked harder than necessary, pressing the dough until her shoulders burned.
Her father's words repeated in her head.
He's coming to take it.
Cyrus Vale.
Harriet had never met him.
She had seen his photograph once in the Denver Chronicle—a silver-haired man in an expensive suit standing beside a new locomotive, smiling as though the entire West had been constructed for his convenience.
He owned coal fields, timber camps, warehouses, and pieces of three railroad companies.
Men like Cyrus Vale did not knock politely.
They arrived with papers.
Harriet punched down the dough.
“Planning on murdering it?”
Harlan's voice came from the kitchen doorway.
Harriet jerked around.
He stood there without his coat, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
“You're still here?”
“Your father asked me to stay.”
“Of course he did.”
Harlan leaned against the doorframe.
“I slept in the tack room.”
“I wasn't asking where.”
“No. But you were thinking it.”
“I was thinking that you and my father appear to have developed a disturbing habit of making decisions around me.”
“Fair.”
Harriet narrowed her eyes.
“You agree too easily.”
“I've found disagreeing with something true wastes time.”
She tried not to appreciate that answer.
Failed.
He approached the worktable.
“What are you making?”
“Bread.”
“At three thirty?”
“I always make bread at three thirty.”
“Even after discovering a railroad baron plans to steal your property?”
“Especially then.”
Harlan nodded as if that made complete sense.
He picked up a sack of flour.
Harriet slapped his hand.
“Don't.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“You've done enough helping without permission.”
The words were harsher than she intended.
His expression closed slightly.
Harriet felt guilty.
She hated feeling guilty while still being angry.
“I need information,” she said.
“I know.”
“Everything.”
“Everything I know?”
“Yes.”
Harlan pulled out a chair.
Harriet continued kneading.
He told her about the survey markers.
Three sets.
One behind the south pasture.
Two along Bell Creek.
One farther north near his timber boundary.
He had removed the first markers.
More appeared.
Then he caught two surveyors working before dawn.
They claimed they were measuring county drainage.
Harlan had not believed them.
He followed their wagon tracks and discovered they connected with a larger survey running toward the northern mountains.
“Silver?” Harriet asked.
“That's the rumor.”
“You believe it?”
“I believe men don't spend that much money measuring snow unless they expect more money beneath it.”
Harriet scraped flour from her fingers.
“Why didn't Papa tell me?”
“Because he thought he could handle Vale.”
“Papa can barely walk downstairs.”
“He wasn't always sick.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No.”
She looked toward the ceiling.
Her father was sleeping directly above them.
Or pretending to.
“When did Vale first offer?”
“Six months ago.”
“How much?”
“Your father wouldn't say.”
“You know.”
Harlan remained silent.
“Harlan.”
“Five thousand.”
Harriet stopped.
Five thousand dollars.
The boarding house earned perhaps nine hundred in a good year before expenses.
Five thousand could have bought them another property somewhere else.
A smaller place.
An easier life.
“Papa refused?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Harlan's expression told her there was more.
“What?” she demanded.
“Your father believes your mother wanted you to keep the land.”
Harriet's breath caught.
Her mother.
Eleanor Bell had inherited the property from her own father, an Irish immigrant who arrived before Bitter Creek had a name.
Harriet remembered her mother sitting beside Bell Creek with her skirts tucked under her, telling twelve-year-old Harriet, Land doesn't care whether you're pretty. Land cares whether you respect it.
At the time Harriet had laughed.
Now the memory hurt.
“Vale raised the offer?” Harriet asked.
“Eight thousand.”
Her eyes widened.
“Then twelve.”
Harriet stared at him.
“Twelve thousand dollars?”
Harlan nodded.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It does if the property is worth more.”
“How much more?”
“Don't know.”
She looked down at the dough.
For the first time, the familiar kitchen felt different.
Not like a burden.
Like something under siege.
At sunrise, Samuel Bell came downstairs.
Harriet was waiting.
He stopped halfway across the kitchen.
“You look like your mother when you're angry.”
“Sit.”
Samuel sat.
Harlan quietly moved toward the door.
“No,” Harriet said. “Stay.”
Both men looked surprised.
“Apparently you're part of this.”
Harlan returned.
Harriet placed three cups of coffee on the table.
Then she sat opposite her father.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Samuel rubbed both hands around the cup.
“Because you've spent eleven years carrying this family.”
“That gives you less reason to lie to me.”
“I wanted to fix one thing before handing it to you.”
“You cannot protect me from something by making me ignorant.”
Samuel closed his eyes.
Harlan looked at the table.
Harriet's voice softened.
“Papa, this house is mine too.”
“I know.”
“No. You know legally. I'm asking whether you understand it.”
Samuel met her eyes.
She continued.
“I buried Mama from this house. I nursed you in this house. I have scrubbed every floorboard, repaired every curtain, cooked every meal, collected every late payment, chased raccoons from the pantry, and carried coal upstairs when men twice my size claimed their backs hurt.”
Harlan's mouth twitched.
Harriet ignored him.
“You don't get to decide I am strong enough for all of that but too weak for the truth.”
Samuel's eyes filled.
She wished they hadn't.
Anger was easier when the person you loved did not look old.
“You're right,” he said.
Two words.
Harriet's throat tightened.
Samuel reached into his vest.
“This came yesterday.”
He handed her an envelope.
The paper was expensive.
Harriet opened it.
Cyrus Vale's name appeared at the bottom.
The language was polite.
The meaning was not.
Vale offered fifteen thousand dollars.
Acceptance required within ten days.
Otherwise his attorneys would begin proceedings regarding “transportation easement rights deemed essential to regional economic development.”
Harriet read it twice.
“What does that mean?”
Harlan answered.
“He'll try to get the county to condemn part of the land.”
“Can he?”
Samuel said, “With the right judge.”
Harriet folded the letter.
“Then we need the right lawyer.”
“Lawyers cost money,” Samuel said.
“We have money.”
“No, we have bills.”
“I'll make more.”
Her father gave her a tired smile.
“With bread?”
“Yes.”
Harlan looked at her.
She realized how absurd it sounded.
Then Harlan said, “Could.”
Samuel blinked.
Harriet turned.
“What?”
“You could make money with bread.”
“I run a boarding house.”
“You run a boarding house that loses money every winter.”
Samuel coughed to hide a laugh.
Harriet glared at both men.
Harlan continued.
“Mining camps north of the ridge pay fifteen cents a loaf for something men can actually eat. Twenty if you deliver.”
“And how exactly do I deliver bread through snow?”
“My wagon.”
“Eight miles into the mountains?”
“Twelve to the camps.”
“Every day?”
“Three times a week.”
Harriet crossed her arms.
“And what do you get?”
“Bread.”
“No.”
“Coffee?”
“Harlan.”
His humor disappeared.
“I get someone else with a reason to stop Vale.”
She studied him.
“Because the line crosses your property.”
“Yes.”
“So this isn't charity.”
“No.”
“Good.”
Samuel looked between them.
“That might be the most romantic negotiation I've ever witnessed.”
“Papa.”
He smiled.
Then began coughing.
This time it did not stop.
Harriet rushed around the table.
Harlan caught Samuel before he fell.
The handkerchief pressed to Samuel's mouth came away spotted dark red.
Harriet's world narrowed.
“Papa?”
Samuel tried to wave her off.
Harlan's face had gone grim.
“We need Doc Evans.”
“He's in Helena,” Harriet whispered. “Until Tuesday.”
Samuel struggled for breath.
Harriet knelt beside him.
All her strength, all her stubbornness, all the muscles Pearl had mocked the night before meant nothing as her father's chest rattled.
Samuel grabbed her wrist.
“Don't sell.”
“Don't talk.”
“Harriet.”
“Papa—”
“Promise.”
His fingers tightened.
“Don't sell because you're afraid.”
Harriet's eyes burned.
“I promise.”
Harlan lifted Samuel as though he weighed nothing.
“Bed.”
They carried him upstairs.
By noon, Samuel was sleeping.
By evening, Harriet had made her decision.
She found Harlan repairing a wagon wheel behind the boarding house.
“I'll do it.”
He looked up.
“Bread deliveries?”
“Three times a week.”
“Starting?”
“Tomorrow.”
He nodded.
Then Harriet added, “And I'm going with you to the mining camps.”
Harlan straightened.
“No.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“No?”
“Road's bad.”
“So?”
“Men up there are rough.”
“So?”
“Snow's coming.”
“So?”
His jaw worked.
Harriet stepped closer.
“You wanted a partner in stopping Vale.”
“I wanted—”
He stopped.
“What?”
Harlan looked as though he had nearly said something dangerous.
Instead he wiped his hands on a rag.
“I wanted somebody who wouldn't quit.”
“Then you chose correctly.”
For a long second they simply looked at one another.
Finally Harlan nodded.
“Four tomorrow morning.”
“I'll be ready.”
He turned to leave.
“Harlan.”
He glanced back.
“Why did you really bring the second horse last night?”
His face became unreadable.
“Already told you.”
“No. You told me you wanted supper.”
“I did.”
“You could have eaten supper at the town hall.”
“Didn't want to.”
“With anyone?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Harriet felt heat rise into her face.
Harlan noticed.
Fortunately, he was gentleman enough not to smile.
Unfortunately, his eyes did.
The next morning, before dawn, Harriet loaded thirty loaves into Harlan's wagon.
May you like
She had no idea that before the week was over, the bread Pearl Hollister had called a brick would become the only thing standing between Harriet Bell and financial ruin.
And she had no idea that one of the men waiting for her at the first mining camp carried a message directly from Cyrus Vale.
