Page 30 of Mail Order Mercy

Dorothy hid her smile in Grace’s hair.

The cabin changed with the warmer weather. Albert built a cradle that fit beside the bed and moved Grace from the basket she had nearly outgrown. He repaired the roof after the boards dried and added a narrow lean-to along the back wall for wood and tools. It was not another room, but moving supplies outside created enough space inside for Clara and Tommy to have separate small pallets.

“We are practically wealthy in floor,” Dorothy said.

Albert measured the cleared boards with mock seriousness. “Another three feet and we may host a dance.”

“You are still limping.”

“Then it will be a dignified dance.”

Their first disagreement after reconciling came over Dorothy’s work at the mill. Albert did not object to the ledger. He objected to her walking home alone when spring rain turned the road to mud.

“I crossed that road before I married you,” she said.

“You did many difficult things before you married me. The purpose of having me is that you need not do all of them now.”

“The purpose of having you is not to gain another person who decides what I may do.”

Albert stopped. That truth landed where she intended it.

“No,” he said. “It is not.”

They stood beside the stove while supper cooled and the children watched with great interest.

“I worry,” he said at last. “I have not learned how to do it quietly.”

“I have spent months doing everything alone. I have not learned how to hear worry without mistaking it for control.”

“Then I will ask. May I walk you home when the road is bad?”

Dorothy considered him. “Yes. And if you are working, I may walk with Belle or Ella.”

“Agreed.”

Tommy raised his hand. “Are you done arguing?”

“We were discussing,” Dorothy said.

“It sounded like arguing with good manners,” Clara observed.

Albert nodded. “That is marriage, according to Everett.”

The children accepted this explanation and returned to their potatoes.

In early summer, a letter arrived from Dorothy’s mother. Dorothy had written to her soon after marrying Albert, sending the news on the first uncertain mail route of the thaw. Her mother’s reply came faster than expected, carried on the first reliable river traffic. Dorothy read it at the table while Albert repaired a harness strap.

Her mother had learned of Henry’s death from Dorothy’s delayed letter. She wrote of grief, worry, and helpless miles. Then she wrote that Dorothy’s father wanted her and the children to return.

Albert’s hands stilled.

Dorothy continued reading. There was money enclosed for passage as far as it would carry them. Her mother promised a crowded room, familiar faces, and help with the children. The words offered everything Dorothy had begged the darkness for six months earlier.

“You could go,” Albert said.

She looked at him. “Could I?”

“I would not keep you here if you wanted your family.”