“In the hayloft. Behind a loose plank in the wall.”
Relief softens my shoulders. I brush my thumb across his cheek. “Thank you, Gideon.”
That night, once the guests settle, I slip into the stables by the glow of my oil lamp. The ladder creaks as I climb to the loft. At the wall, I find the loose plank.
Behind it sit two burlap bags.
I pull them out and check the contents: a canteen of water, jerky, biscuits, canned beans, corn, stew, and salmon; a leatherpouch holding twenty dollars in one-dollar bills and a scatter of quarters, dimes, and nickels; one change of clothes; and a pair of sturdy work boots.
My fingers skim each item like a familiar ritual. My escape kit. But even with all this, there’s something missing. Something I’ll need if I’m to make it beyond the roads, the woods, the highwaymen, and the wild animals.
A pistol.
Women vanish on the trail. A gun would offer protection.
I just have to find one without drawing suspicion.
After breakfast service, Fred appears with weekly provisions, the wagon wheels kicking up dirt, horses huffing under the heat. Not a hint of a breeze moves the air. My blouse clings to my back. Fred brings the horses to a halt, hops down, wipes his brow, and stretches. I smile, imagining Gideon copying the same motion, as if his young bones were just as weary as his father’s.
Lucas meets Fred at the wagon, and the two of them start unloading provisions and linens. I watch from the porch as they make several trips.
I lift the top bundle and spot a bolt of cotton duck fabric—stiff, weighty.
Perfect.
I pull it free.
“Miss Alice,” Lucas says, tipping his hat. The sun has browned his arms, the tops tinged pink.
“Lucas,” I answer coolly.
“Mr. Sherman around? Fence by the south pasture’s down. Need his say-so before I fix it.”
“Mr. Sherman and his brother are in the city for the auction. Go ahead and fix it.”
He hesitates. “Reckon I oughta wait for Mr. Sherman’s word.”
My grip tightens on the fabric, but I keep my tone even. “If a horse gets out, you’ll be in more trouble for doing nothing. I trust you know how to fix a fence.”
He draws in a slow breath. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, turning to leave.
I watch him go, biting my tongue. Heaven forbid one of them take an order from a woman. I should’ve let him face Joseph’s wrath, but a bad day for Joseph is always a worse day for me.
Fred approaches again, empty crate in hand. “Got your change, Miss Alice.”
I lower the fabric bolt and wipe my palms before taking the small cloth bag. Inside: two dimes, a quarter, five pennies.
“Actually, Fred, wait here a moment.”
He nods. I head inside the office, unlock the tin change box and retrieve a small bag of nickels, dimes, and quarters. Back on the porch, I hand the bag to him.
“Could you exchange these for bills next time you’re in town? Too much loose change to manage, and the guests would appreciate it too.”
“Sure thing, Miss Alice.” He tucks the pouch away.
Once he’s gone, I log the transaction in the ledger—minus the five cents per dollar that won’t return to the inn. That portion has another home: hidden between beams in the hayloft.
When night falls, I retreat to my sewing room. The Singer gleams beneath the lamp as I unroll the cotton duck.
