He is. The way station opened in September, 6 months after Mara had first described it to Gideon at his kitchen table in the winter dark. The building was not large, but it was solid, built to last. Built with the specific thought that nothing about it should be able to be taken away, legally, structurally, or practically. It sat on the east parcel 20 yards from the main road, visible from a/4 mile in either direction.
There was a sign above the door that Gideon had made, the lettering clean and practical. Vance station, open to all who need shelter, not her married name. She'd thought about that carefully, and she decided that the station should carry the name of the deed of Thomas's careful filing, and her four months of carrying it, because the station existed because of what that name had meant. Gideon had agreed without needing it explained. The first family arrived 3 weeks after opening.
A woman named Francis with two daughters coming from the northern settlements after a fire had taken their home. They stayed 11 days. Mara helped Francis draft a letter to the territorial assistance office. She connected her to a family in Ironwood Crossing who had space and work available. She didn't give advice Francis hadn't asked for, and she didn't treat her like a project or a case.
She treated her like a person who had a problem and needed help solving it, which was what she was. Francis left on a Tuesday morning. Before she went, she stood in the doorway of the station and looked at Art Mara with the expression of someone who wants to say something adequate to what they feel and knows they don't have the words for it. Mara said,"Come back if you need to, or send someone who does."Francis nodded. She took her daughters and went.
Mara stood in the doorway after they left. The September air was cold in the early mornings again, just beginning, and the cottonwoods along the east fence had started their turning. Not the bare winter gray she'd first seen them in, but the amber and ochre of fall, which was its own kind of beautiful in a way that required some experience with their winter version to fully appreciate. Orson appeared from the direction of the ranch, walking his horse along the fence line. He did this most mornings now.
A circuit that took him past the station as a matter of course, which he had understood from the beginning was not a coincidence. He had officially moved into the small room they'd built off the back of the main cabin in July, citing the impracticality of maintaining his own property 30 miles north. And she'd accepted this without comment, because the comment that needed making was only that she was glad. He stopped at the station fence. Looked at the sign.
Looked at her. Empty. He said Francis left this morning. Anyone else coming? Whitlock's office sent a letter.
Family from the south settlement coming through next week. Two adults, three children. Orson chewed this over. Going to need another stove in the main room before hard winter. I know.