Page 1 of Mail Order Mercy

Chapter One

Dorothy Peabody opened her eyes in the dark because Grace was crying.

It wasn’t a loud cry. Grace was only eight months old, and she had learned, far too young, not to make too much noise in the cold cabin. It was a small whimper at first, the kind that pulled Dorothy from sleep faster than any shout could have done. Dorothy reached for the baby before she was fully awake, drawing her close beneath the quilt and praying the warmth of her own body would be enough until morning.

The fire had nearly gone out. A faint red glow showed beneath the ash in the stove, but it gave little heat. Dorothy could feel the cold in the tip of her nose and in her fingers as she loosened the front of her worn nightdress and settled Grace to nurse.

Across the room, Clara and Tommy slept together on a pallet close to the stove. Clara’s dark hair had come loose from its braid and lay in a tangle around her thin face. Tommy had one small fist tucked beneath his cheek and the other clutching the corner of Clara’s blanket. Dorothy had put them there because it was the warmest place in the cabin, though there was precious little warmth to be had.

She looked toward the wood box. Three pieces. Only three. If she used one now, there would be two left for the day. If she waited, the children would wake cold. If she fed the fire, there would be nothing left by nightfall unless she could find a way to gather more.

Dorothy closed her eyes and counted what remained in her stores, though the list had long since become familiar: a heel of bread wrapped in cloth, a small handful of beans, flour enough to dust her fingers but not enough for biscuits, a bit of tea, no bacon, no milk except what Grace took from her. Some days Dorothy wondered how there was any milk left in her at all.

Two days, she told herself. If she was careful, she could make it last two days.

She had been careful for six months.

Henry had been gone six months, killed in an accident at Everett Thompson’s lumber mill. Six months was long enough for some people to stop lowering their voices when they spoke to her. It was long enough for others to assume she had found a way to manage. It was not long enough for Dorothy to stop reaching across the bed in the night, expecting to find her husband there.

By the time dawn colored the small window gray, Dorothy had put one piece of wood into the stove and stirred the beans into a pot with more water than they deserved. Clara woke first, as she always did, blinking at Dorothy with solemn eyes that seemed too old for four years.

“Is there breakfast, Mama?” Clara asked.

Dorothy smiled because Clara needed a smile more than she needed the truth. “There will be in a little while.”

A knock sounded at the door before Dorothy could decide how much water she could add without making the beans taste like nothing at all.

Ella Sanders stepped inside with a basket over one arm and a covered pail in her other hand, bringing a gust of cold air and the smell of fresh bread with her. “I made too much again,” Ella said, as if it were a failing she could not overcome. “David says if I don’t stop cooking for a houseful, we’ll both be round as barrels by spring.”

Dorothy looked at the basket. Bread. Potatoes. A small packet of dried meat and what looked like a paper-wrapped chub of meat. A jar of goat’s milk. Apples wrinkled from storage but still sweet enough to make Tommy clap his hands when he saw them. There were other things tucked beneath a cloth, things Ella would pretend not to notice Dorothy counting.

“Ella, you can’t keep doing this.” Dorothy’s voice came out softer than she intended. “You and David have your own home to see to. You can’t feed four extra people every week.”

Ella set the basket on the table and unwound her scarf. “Friends don’t keep accounts.”

“Maybe they should.” Dorothy shifted Grace higher on her hip. “I thought about taking in washing. I did. But where would I put the tubs? Where would I hang anything to dry? I can barely keep enough wood for the stove, and Grace still nurses so often I can hardly set her down.”

Ella took Grace from Dorothy’s arms without asking, the way only a friend could do. “Then you don’t take in washing today. Today you let me bring too much bread, and tonight you come to supper.”

Dorothy shook her head at once. “No. I can’t.”

“You can,” Ella said. “You will. It’s only a small supper. David and I. Belle and Everett, if Everett can get away from the mill. Maybe Albert Travis.”

Dorothy looked down at her dress. It had been mended in three places and needed mending in two more. Clara’s sleeves were too short. Tommy’s trousers showed his ankles. Grace had outgrown nearly everything except the shawl Dorothy wrapped around her. “I have nothing to bring, Ella. Not even a pie. And the children—”

“The children are welcome exactly as they are.” Ella’s voice softened. “And your friendship is all I need you to bring.”

Dorothy wanted to refuse again. Pride rose up in her, sharp and useless. Then Tommy bit into one of the apples Ella had brought and smiled as if it were Christmas morning. Dorothy swallowed her pride because pride did not fill little stomachs. “All right,” she said. “We’ll come for a little while.”

*****

AT EVERETT THOMPSON’S lumber mill, Albert Travis worked as if the logs had personally offended him.

He had always been a dependable worker, but since Henry Peabody’s accident, he had become something more than dependable. He was the first man to arrive and often the last to leave. He took extra shifts without complaint. He lifted what should have taken two men, sawed until his shoulders burned, and stacked boards until his hands were raw beneath his gloves.

That last morning had run through Albert’s mind too often since: his own hand on a splintered handle, Henry’s easy laugh when Albert asked him to trade places for an hour, the ordinary favor that had become anything but ordinary once the support failed.

Work was easier than remembering.