The road into town was a long rehearsal of inventory, the kind of counting you do when you’re trying to keep panic from rising like bile.
One goodwill coat. Two dresses, one too thin for snow. A tinder tin. A small knife. A length of rope that had once been a clothesline. The pouch of money.
And the deed.
The deed felt worst, because it pretended to be hope.
By the time she reached Silver Creek, her shoulders were stiff and her thoughts had worn grooves into her skull. The little town sat tucked between foothills and stubborn rock, the sort of place where gossip traveled faster than the river and lasted longer.
She pushed open the door of Gable Mercantile, the bell overhead chiming bright and cheerful, a sound that didn’t match the way her stomach clenched.
The store smelled like flour dust and cured meat and coffee beans. Warmth held the room in a sleepy grip, and for a second Lena felt like a stray dog that had wandered into a church.
Behind the counter, Mr. Harold Gable peered over his spectacles. He was built like a barrel and looked like he’d been born already tired.
“Afternoon,” he said. Then his eyes flicked down and sharpened. “Lena Hart. You look like you’ve walked the whole county.”
“Just the long part,” she replied.
