Chapter 2 - The Woman No One Saw
Ethan reached the stairs three steps at a time.
Martha followed despite the ache in her legs from hours in the saddle.
The Callaway house was larger than she had expected but plainly built, every beam darkened by years of smoke and winter.
A lantern burned low in the hallway.
The sound had come from above.
“Ma?”
Ethan’s voice changed when he called for his mother.
The hard rancher Martha had met on the porch disappeared.
What remained was a frightened son.
They found Ruth half out of bed, one arm reaching toward the floor.
A ceramic water cup lay shattered beside her.
Ethan crossed the room.
“Don’t move.”
“I’m all right,” Ruth whispered.
“You’re on the floor.”
“I noticed.”
Even sick, the older woman carried a dry humor that made Martha like her immediately.
Ethan lifted Ruth back against her pillows.
Ruth Callaway had once been a strong woman.
Martha could see that in the bones of her face.
But illness had thinned her terribly.
Her silver hair lay loose around her shoulders.
Dark shadows rested beneath her eyes.
She blinked repeatedly when she turned toward Martha.
“Who’s there?”
“Martha Boone.”
“Boone?”
Martha stepped closer.
“Naomi Boone was my mother.”
Ruth’s expression changed.
“You’re Naomi’s girl?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I remember your mother.”
Ethan looked between them.
“You knew her?”
“Everybody worth knowing knew Naomi Boone.”
Martha nearly smiled.
Then Ruth pressed her fingers to her forehead.
The smile vanished.
“Head again?”
Ethan asked.
Ruth nodded.
“Worse.”
Martha moved toward the bedside table.
There were three bottles, a teacup, and a small packet of white powder.
She did not touch any of them.
“What did she take tonight?”
Ethan answered.
“Price’s tonic.”
“When?”
“Before bed.”
“How much?”
“A spoon.”
Martha looked at Ruth.
“Did the pain worsen afterward?”
Ruth frowned.
“Maybe.”
“Has that happened before?”
“I don’t know.”
Ethan crossed his arms.
“Where are you going with this?”
Martha opened the journal.
“I need you to tell me everything she eats and drinks.”
Ethan’s expression hardened again.
“You said poison.”
“I said someone may be making her sick.”
“Same difference.”
“No. It isn’t.”
He stared at her.
Martha continued.
“If I call it poison before I know, you’ll go looking for somebody to blame. That could make whoever is responsible run.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed.
“You think I’m stupid?”
“No.”
“Reckless?”
“Yes.”
Ruth laughed softly.
It became a cough.
Ethan gave his mother a betrayed look.
“You like her already.”
“I like anyone who tells you what you need hearing.”
Martha pulled the wooden chair closer.
“Mrs. Callaway, I’m going to ask questions.”
“Ruth.”
“All right. Ruth.”
For nearly an hour, Martha asked about everything.
When the headaches began.
What Ruth had been eating.
Who prepared her meals.
Which medicines she took.
Whether her symptoms were worse after certain foods.
Whether they improved when she skipped something.
The answers created a disturbing pattern.
Ruth had become ill shortly after Dr. Price prescribed a daily tonic for what he called exhaustion.
When Ethan once forgot to collect a refill and Ruth went four days without it, she had felt slightly stronger.
When the new bottle arrived, she worsened again.
Martha did not speak until she had written the dates.
Ethan noticed.
“You found something.”
“I found a reason to stop the tonic.”
He immediately picked up the bottle.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I mean I’m not going to pretend certainty to make you comfortable.”
He looked frustrated.
Martha understood.
Fear preferred fast answers.
Truth rarely provided them.
She took a clean cup.
“Does the house have boiled water?”
“Yes.”
“Bring some.”
Ethan did.
Martha prepared a mild tea using dried mint and a small amount of willow bark from her bag.
It would not cure Ruth.
But it could help ease the pain without whatever Price had supplied.
Ethan watched every movement.
“You expect me to let a stranger give my mother something after telling me somebody’s poisoning her?”
“That would be sensible.”
His eyebrows rose.
“So tell me exactly what this is.”
Martha did.
Every ingredient.
Every reason.
Every risk.
When she finished, Ethan looked toward his mother.
Ruth held out her hand.
“Give me the cup.”
Ethan sighed.
“Ma.”
“If she wanted me dead, she rode an awful long way for the privilege.”
Martha helped Ruth drink.
An hour later, Ruth slept.
The sun began climbing behind the mountains.
Ethan stood at the bedroom window.
Martha was exhausted enough to sleep standing.
She packed her journal.
“I should go.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
Ethan turned.
“That sounded like an order.”
“It was.”
“I don’t work for you.”
“Then consider it a request badly delivered.”
Martha waited.
Ethan rubbed his face.
“Stay until she wakes.”
Martha looked at Ruth.
“All right.”
“Thank you.”
The words seemed difficult for him.
Martha sat beside the stove downstairs while Ethan made coffee.
Morning transformed the house.
Golden light entered through the windows, revealing shelves of preserved fruit, iron pans, a long pine table, and old photographs.
One showed Ruth much younger beside a small dark-haired boy.
Ethan followed Martha’s gaze.
“My father died before that picture.”
“How?”
“Horse accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was thirty years ago.”
Pain did not obey calendars, Martha thought.
She did not say it.
Ethan placed coffee in front of her.
“You really work at Jensen’s Laundry?”
“Usually.”
“And the medicine?”
“My mother taught me.”
“She was a doctor?”
“Not according to anybody who mattered in town.”
Something in her tone made him look closer.
Martha drank.
Ethan leaned against the table.
“Why help us?”
She considered lying.
Instead she told him.
“I heard Price.”
“That’s all?”
“No.”
“What else?”
“My mother used to say that when you know enough to help somebody and choose not to, you’ve made a decision too.”
Ethan studied her.
“You always talk like that?”
“Only before breakfast.”
The corner of his mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then hoofbeats sounded outside.
Ethan’s expression changed.
He went to the window.
A rider approached.
Martha recognized the gray horse before the man dismounted.
Dr. Harlan Price.
Ethan looked at her.
“You tell him you’re here?”
“No.”
Price entered without knocking.
“Callaway?”
Then he saw Martha.
For one second—only one—his polished expression broke.
Surprise.
Then anger.
Then fear.
Martha saw all three.
Price recovered quickly.
“Miss Boone.”
“Doctor.”
“What are you doing here?”
Ethan stepped between them.
“I asked her.”
That was a lie.
Martha appreciated it.
Price removed his gloves.
“I came to check Ruth.”
“She’s sleeping.”
“Then wake her.”
“No.”
Price stared at Ethan.
“I’m her physician.”
“Not this morning.”
The room became quiet.
Price’s eyes moved toward Martha’s bag.
The journal was visible.
He recognized it.
Martha knew immediately.
His face paled.
“Where did you get that?”
She touched the cover.
“My mother.”
“I know whose it was.”
Ethan looked sharply at Price.
“You knew Naomi Boone?”
Price answered too quickly.
“Everyone did.”
Martha leaned forward.
“Did you know her well?”
Price’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
That was another lie.
Martha could feel it.
Price put his gloves back on.
“Callaway, I would strongly advise against allowing untrained people to interfere with medical treatment.”
“What treatment?”
“The tonic.”
“She’s not taking it anymore.”
Price froze.
“Why?”
Ethan’s voice went cold.
“Because she gets worse every time she drinks it.”
Price smiled.
But his hands were trembling.
“That is absurd.”
Martha noticed.
So did Ethan.
Price moved toward the door.
“I’ll return this afternoon.”
“No need.”
“You’re making a dangerous mistake.”
Ethan stepped closer.
“Then explain why.”
Price hesitated.
For a moment, Martha thought he might.
Instead he opened the door.
“I hope you don’t regret listening to gossip.”
He left.
Ethan watched through the window until the horse disappeared down the trail.
Then he turned.
“You were right.”
“About what?”
“He’s afraid of that journal.”
Martha looked down at the old leather cover.
A memory surfaced.
Her mother late at night.
Closing this same book when someone knocked.
Telling Martha never to show certain pages to strangers.
At the time, she had assumed Naomi was merely protective of her knowledge.
Now Martha wondered if there had been another reason.
She opened the journal.
Near the back, several pages had been removed.
Not torn recently.
Cut carefully years earlier.
Ethan leaned over her shoulder.
“What was there?”
“I don’t know.”
But beneath the final missing page, written faintly in pencil, were two words Martha had never noticed.
Harlan Price.
And below them:
If anything happens to me, find Ruth Callaway.
Martha stared at the sentence until the letters blurred.
Her mother had been dead for seven years.
May you like
And somehow, all those years ago, Naomi Boone had known Ruth Callaway might one day be in danger.
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