The stranger studied her for a moment. Not her dress. Not her body, her. You weren't afraid of me, he said. Rebecca raised an eyebrow.
Was I supposed to be? When I came through that door, everybody stepped back. You were carrying a bleeding man. Most folks noticed the first part before the second. Rebecca glanced toward the other travelers sleeping in chairs and against walls, then back at him.
I noticed both. He held her gaze. That seemed to leave him with nothing to say. Outside, somewhere beyond the rain dark hills, a horse winnied. Morning was coming.
Soon the road would open. The doctor would arrive. Rebecca would continue toward Copper Ridge. And this strange night at Miller's Crossing would become one more story travelers told when storms kept them indoors. At least that was what she believed.
The giant cowboy reached for the cold bowl of stew still sitting beside him. He looked down at it, then at Rebecca, and before taking another bite, he asked her name. Rebecca Foster. He repeated it once quietly, as though putting it somewhere he intended to remember. Everett Hail.
By sunrise, that was nearly all they had time to say. The doctor reached Miller's crossing shortly after 7, riding a mud spattered bay with his black bag strapped behind the saddle. Thomas Reed was examined beside the stove while Amos cleared everyone back. The doctor said Thomas needed rest and a wagon not another mile on horseback. Everett arranged both.
Rebecca watched from the doorway while he spoke with Amos, counted coins into the station keeper's palm, then added another coin when Amos protested it was too much.” You'll need feed for the horses, “Everett said. That ended the argument. By 8, Rebecca's stage was ready. The storm had washed the country clean. Water shone in the wagon ruts and clouds still clung to the shoulders of the Wind River Mountains.
The morning smelled of wet sage and horse leather. Rebecca tied her traveling case behind the stage. When she turned, Everett stood a few feet away. He had changed into a dry shirt borrowed from Amos. It was too small across the shoulders.
How's Mr. Reed? Doctor says he'll mend. I'm glad. Everett nodded.
There was a pause neither seemed willing to fill badly. Finally, he said,” Copper Ridge? That's where I'm headed for family? Work? “He waited, but Rebecca offered nothing more.
Everett seemed to understand that questions could become trespassing if a person kept asking them. Road should be better after the South Fork, he said. Still rough near Cottonwood Bend. I'll hold on. That almost brought the smile again.
The driver called her aboard. Rebecca climbed into the stage and settled beside an older woman carrying a hatbox on her knees. When she looked through the open window, Everett was still standing there. He lifted his hat. Rebecca nodded once, then the horses pulled forward.
Miller's crossing disappeared behind a bend in the road. By noon, Rebecca told herself the night had been nothing more than what it was. A storm, a wounded cowboy, a hungry stranger, a bowl of stew made from leftovers. She repeated that thought whenever she remembered the way Everett Hail had said her name. Copper Ridge appeared late that afternoon.
The town sat in a broad valley beneath pine dark slopes, built around one crooked main street that had been churned to mud by the storm. There was a livery stable, two saloons, a general store, a blacksmith shop, a church with unfinished siding, and a boarding house with a painted blue door. Rebecca stepped down from the stage with stiff knees.” This is you, “the driver said.” It is. “He handed down her case. She straightened her skirt, checked the folded employment letter inside her handbag, and crossed the street.
The boarding house door was locked. Rebecca knocked. Nothing. She knocked again. A man sweeping broken glass from the neighboring storefront looked over.