A greenish tint to the west meant hail that could strip a garden bare in 5 minutes. The land was still vast, still terrifying in its indifference. When she stood on the porch at night, the silence was so profound it felt like a weight pressing against her eardrums, but she was beginning to understand the language of this place. She was no longer deaf to it. The town of Bitter Creek, however, was harder to read than the sky.
They went in on the first Saturday of the month for supplies. Maggie sat straight on the wagon seat wearing a dress she had turned and mended until it looked respectable. Her hair pulled back in a severe neat bun. As they walked the boardwalk, she felt the shift in the air. It was subtle.
Mister Henderson at the mercantile nodded to her with a genuine smile this time. He had heard from Gus that the new Mrs. Mercer was a worker that she had patched the canvas covering on the chuck wagon better than a sailmaker in this country. Competence bought a measure of forgiveness. Morning, Mrs.
Mercer, Henderson said, weighing out their coffee. Heard you managed to save the early beans from the frost. That is good work. I used burlap sacks and straw. Mr.
Henderson, Maggie replied, her voice steady. It seemed a waste to let the cold take them. A woman standing nearby, the wife of sodbuster from the North Valley gave Maggie a shy, tentative nod. She looked tired, her hands as rough as Maggie's, and in her eyes, Maggie saw a flicker of solidarity. They were both women trying to coax life out of hostile soil, but the kindness was not universal.
As they exited the store, a group of men were gathered near the saloon. They were playing cards on a barrel, laughing loudly. When Maggie passed, the laughter cut off abruptly, replaced by a low murmuring. That is the one. A voice drifted over the dusty street.
Fancy piece from the city. But with her money, another voice snickered. Heard she used to work the high streets. You can tell by the walk. Maggie stiffened.
Her hand tightened on Eli's arm. She felt his bicep turn to stone under his coat. He stopped, beginning to turn toward the men, his face darkening with a rage that terrified her. "Eli, no," she whispered urgently, pulling on his sleeve. "Please do not.
It is not worth it," he looked down at her, his jaw working. "They have no right. They have tongues," she said, forcing herself to keep walking. "Let them wag. If we stop, we give them power. " Eli hesitated, glaring at the men until they looked away, shuffling their cards with sudden interest.
Then he allowed her to lead him back to the wagon. But the poison was there. It was in the way the pastor's wife crossed the street to avoid them. It was in the way the bank teller looked at her dress as if searching for a stain that would prove the rumors true. The whispers had a source, and that source arrived at the Mercer ranch 2 weeks later in a shiny black buggy with red wheels.
Silas Crane was a man who looked too clean for Wyoming. His suit was a dark, expensive broadcloth that seemed to repel dust. His boots were polished to a mirror shine. He was a handsome man in a sharp, predatory way with silvering hair and a smile that showed too many teeth. He did not come to the house.