She thought the cruelest part was hearing her own words out loud until a boot shifted in the dust behind her. No man wants a plus-sized woman like me. Hannah's voice trembled beside the church kitchen as fiddle music leaked through the wall. Then she turned. Grant Dalton stood there with his two children.
Molly gripping her blue ribbon and the giant cowboy lowered his head to say something she never expected. What did he mean by it? By 4:30 in the morning, Hannah Pierce already had flour on both sleeves. The boarding house kitchen was still dark except for the yellow circle cast by the lamp over the worktable. Outside, Elk Crossing slept beneath a thin August haze.
The boardwalks empty, hitching posts gray with dust, and the bitterroot foothills standing dark against the paling sky. Hannah pressed biscuit dough beneath the heel of her hand, folded it once, then again. Her aunt Edith came in wearing a wool wrapper over her night dress and carrying the blue enamel coffee pot. "You're ahead of me again," Edith said. "You say that every morning, because every morning you are." Hannah cut the dough with an old tin cup whose rim had been sharpened smooth by years of use.
12 biscuits, then 12 more. By 6, the dining room would fill with freight drivers, drummers, miners coming down from the small claims north of town, and whichever cowboys had stayed the night instead of sleeping in the livery loft. At least that was how it had been. Lately, there were more empty chairs. Hannah had noticed before Edith said anything, she noticed everything that had to do with the house.
Fewer muddy boots by the back door. Less bacon ordered from the butcher. Coffee lasting four days instead of three. Two bedrooms empty all week. The silver workings above Pine Gulch had slowed after a wet spring ruined part of the access road.
Men had started drifting south toward Helena and But following rumors the way men always followed rumors when the money stopped. Hannah slid the biscuit pans into the oven and wiped her hands on her apron. The front bell rang. Too early for breakfast. Edith frowned.
Who in the Lord's name? A man's voice came from the entryway. Morning, Mrs. Pierce. Mail pouch.
Hannah glanced at her aunt. Edith sighed. That'll be Asa. He thinks sunrise is noon. Hannah carried the coffee pot into the dining room just as the messenger stamped dust from his boots.
Asa Green was 17, red-haired, narrow as a fence rail, and permanently windburned from carrying letters between Elk Crossing, outlying ranches, and the stage stop near Darby Road. He tipped his hat. Miss Hannah, morning, Asa. He handed Edith three envelopes and one folded notice tied with string. The envelopes were bills.
Hannah knew that before Edith opened them. She also knew Edith would pretend otherwise until breakfast was finished. By 7, six men sat at the long pine table. 3 months earlier there would have been 14. Hannah moved between them with a coffee pot in one hand and a basket of biscuits in the other.
Ma'am, said a cattle buyer from Idaho. If I could get biscuits like these at home, I might stay married longer next time. The table laughed. Hannah smiled politely. You'd still have to learn not to leave muddy boots in the parlor.
That earned another round of laughter. She was used to men praising her food. Food was safe. They could admire what came from her hands without having to look too carefully at the rest of her. She turned toward the sideboard and heard two women speaking near the front window.
Mrs. Witkum and Lena Avery had stopped in for coffee before opening the dress shop. They were not whispering as quietly as they believed. Hannah's a capable woman, Mrs. Witkim murmured.
Oh, certainly. Shame, though. A pause. You know, Hannah kept pouring coffee. Lena lowered her voice.
She's gotten bigger again, hasn't she? The spoon in Hannah's hand struck the rim of the sugar bowl with a small, bright click. Nobody at the table seemed to notice. She set the spoon down. Outside, a wagon rolled past, iron tires grinding against packed dirt.