“Mrs. Sherman,” the man says warmly. Up close, he’s nothing like my Kodiak—his face drawn tight at the center, every feature crowding the next, as though afraid of being left out.
“Name’s Mr. Collier. New owner of the Collier Inn.” His voice is deep and rough.
Virgil clasps Collier’s hand firmly. “Ah, Mr. Collier. We have documents to settle. Please wait until the ink dries and the funds clear before removing our family name from the sign, will you?” He says it half serious, half in jest.
“You’ve sold the inn?” I ask.
Virgil turns to me. “Under my leadership, the Sherman portfolio has shifted focus to luxury hotels in major cities. Now that Joseph’s gone, we’ve no use for a country inn. But Mr. Collier’s been of great help. He’s kept the house and the accounts in order while this messy business with the outlaw gets settled.I’ll be returning to Cincinnati tomorrow—too much work to attend there to linger here. Collier will see you’re settled.”
Virgil turns back to him, offering another handshake. “Mr. Collier, thank you for your assistance and charity. Mrs. Sherman may no longer be a member of my family, but she is a loyal employee. I’ll return in a month’s time to settle things.”
He says it like a kindness. Like he’s done me a favor. He doesn’t meet my eye again. He leaves, his carriage rattling back down the road.
Collier scans the yard, then turns to me. “Mrs. Sherman, you’re even lovelier than Virgil promised,” he says.
My few belongings rest in a valise at my feet, and my insides draw tight—a slow, spiraling knot. I lower my gaze to my shoes, willing myself not to flinch.
“Virgil tells me you were once married to his brother, lived in the main house. I should warn you that you’ll find things different.”
“How different?” I ask, my voice small.
He gestures toward the rear of the property, where the narrow servants’ wing juts off the main house. “You’ll be housed there. Modest but sufficient. The housekeeper’s quarters are already occupied.”
I blink. “The servants’ wing?”
“There’s no need for you to rattle around the master’s rooms anymore. I’ve taken that as my residence. The staff can use the help—cooking, cleaning, mending, laundry. You’ll earn a modest wage for women’s work. Better than charity, I’d say.”
He says “women’s work” like it’s a silly thing.
I stand while he gives instructions to a maid about supper, my hand on the porch rail, my hip tender where the bullet found me. The place I once walked through as mistress now belongs to a man who buys and sells homes like ledger entries.
I find my bedroom in the servants’ wing, apart from the main hall down a long corridor. There the walls are plain plaster, stained with years of touch. A row of small windows are set high, meant to let in air but not a view.
The bedroom itself is no bigger than a pantry. Just enough room for a narrow iron bed, a chipped washbasin, and an old dresser that tilts from the loss of a leg. The walls are close, made closer by the sloped ceiling that angles low on one side.
There’s no lock on the door, just a hook latch from the inside. Still, it is quiet.
That night, when the lamps burn low, I sleep—peaceful enough, knowing somewhere out there my Kodiak is alive.
Morning comes, gray and cold. The air smells of coal and soap—lemon now, not rosemary. I move slow, careful not to wake the ache beneath my ribs or the deeper pain along my hip. Every motion reminds me of what Virgil’s temper can do.
The servants’ bell clangs from the kitchen below. I’ve rung that bell a thousand times in another life. Now it calls me. I pull my shawl tighter and make my way down the back stairs, one hand on the rail. The house hums—clatter of dishes, whisper of women’s voices, creak of busy footsteps. They’re all here: Mrs. Baxter at the stove, Mira sorting linens, Fred beside the pantry, chatting before taking inventory. They look up when I enter.
For a heartbeat, no one moves. It’s only been a few months since I’ve seen them, and yet everything feels so different.
Mrs. Baxter sets her ladle down. “Miss Alice,” she says softly, unsure if she may still call me that. Her eyes glisten as she wipes her hands on her apron.
“Mrs. Baxter,” I manage. The name falters in my throat like cracked glass.
She embraces me and my arms wrap around her. Behind her, Mira ducks her head to hide a smile. Then footsteps.
Mr. Collier appears in the doorway, ledger under his arm, expression unfeeling. “Mrs. Sherman,” he says, the title a mockery now. “The breakfast service is delayed. Kindly make yourself useful with the washing until the others finish. We’ll discuss your duties afterward.”
I bow my head. “Yes, sir.”
The others go still again. Mrs. Baxter whispers, “Don’t mind him. He’s a brute and we all know it.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I’m only grateful to see you all again.”
