Page 3 of Mail Order Mercy

“I’ll walk you,” Albert said before he could talk himself out of it.

Dorothy looked surprised, but she nodded. “Thank you.”

The air outside had sharpened after sunset. Dorothy carried Grace beneath her shawl and held Tommy’s hand, while Clara walked close enough that she kept stepping on the hem of Dorothy’s skirt. They had not gone far before Tommy began to stumble.

“I can carry him,” Albert said.

“He’s all right.” Dorothy’s answer came too quickly.

Tommy tripped again, and Clara bumped into Dorothy’s side, nearly making her lose her footing. Albert did not ask a second time. He scooped Tommy into one arm and lifted Clara with the other, settling each child against him as if they weighed no more than kindling.

Dorothy opened her mouth, then closed it. Tommy rested his head on Albert’s shoulder at once. Clara watched Albert with wide, serious eyes. “You’re strong,” she said.

Albert swallowed. “Your papa was stronger.”

Clara nodded as if that settled the matter. Dorothy looked away toward the narrow path ahead of them.

The Peabody cabin sat at the edge of town, smaller than Albert remembered. Or maybe he had never looked at it closely enough before. There was almost no smoke rising from the chimney, only a thin gray thread that disappeared into the dark.

Dorothy opened the door and stepped inside quickly, as if ashamed to let him see too much. Albert carried the children to the threshold and set them down. Cold air breathed out of the cabin. It was not much warmer inside than it was outside.

“Thank you for walking us,” Dorothy said. Her voice was polite and tired.

“Dorothy—” Albert began.

She shook her head before he could say whatever poor apology he had found. “Good night, Albert.”

The door closed between them.

Albert stood still in the snow. Through the thin wall, he heard Tommy’s small voice. “Mama, why is our house always cold?”

There was a long pause before Dorothy answered. “Because winter is stubborn, sweetheart. But so are we.”

Albert looked toward the dark chimney, then toward the mill road. Henry was gone. Dorothy was alone. Three children were cold and hungry in the cabin before him.

For the first time in six months, Albert stopped thinking about how much it hurt to remember his friend and started thinking about what Henry would have expected him to do.

Chapter Two

Albert Travis did not sleep that night.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Clara Peabody slipping half a biscuit into her pocket with the carefulness of a child who had already learned to think about tomorrow’s hunger. He saw Tommy stumble in the snow because his little legs were too tired to carry him home. He heard the question through the cabin wall. Why is our house always cold?

Albert turned onto his back and stared into the darkness above his bed. His small cabin was quiet around him except for the occasional settling of the stove. Albert had a roof that did not leak, a blanket thick enough for winter, boots without holes, and three shirts folded at the end of his cot. He had all those things while Henry’s children were learning to save food for morning.

He and Henry had made promises during the months they worked side by side. Not formal ones said with hands raised or papers signed, but the kind men made when they trusted one another with their lives. They had spoken them over coffee gone cold during long shifts, over bruised knuckles and aching backs, over laughter after near accidents that had not yet taught them how quickly a life could end.

“If anything ever happens to me, you’ll look after Dorothy and the children,” Henry had once said, half joking because Grace had not yet been born and Tommy had been barely walking.

Albert had shoved him with one shoulder and said, “Nothing’s going to happen to you, fool. But yes. I would.”

Henry had made the same promise back about any family Albert might have one day. At the time, it had seemed like the sort of thing men said because danger was close and pretending otherwise made them feel braver. Now Henry was in the ground, and Albert had done nothing. Not one single thing that would have honored his friend.

Before the sun was fully up, Albert was dressed and walking toward the mercantile with his coat buttoned tight against the cold. He passed the path that led to the Peabody cabin and made himself keep moving. If he went there first, he would have nothing useful in his hands but shame, and Dorothy had lived with enough useless things.

The storekeeper, Mrs. Johnson, looked up from a crate of lamp chimneys when Albert entered. “Morning, Travis. You’re early.”

“Need supplies,” Albert said. He named them without pausing long enough to lose courage. “Flour. Beans. Cornmeal. Salt. Canned milk. Dried meat. Potatoes if you have some sound ones. Sugar. A little tea. Matches. Soap.”