Devon Monk - Dead Iron

She wasn’t even sure if she had eaten this morning.

“No blankets today.”

“Lace, then? Mrs. Haverty was discussing her daughter’s wedding dress and hoping we’d have a lace collar on hand. The shipments from back East didn’t make it this far out. I reckon someone in Carson City must have a hankering for fine lace.”

“No, no lace.” Mae stopped at the counter where the coffee grinder sat next to candy in glass jars. She tugged off her leather gloves, one finger at a time. “I’ve come to withdraw from my safetydeposit box. I don’t suppose your father is in?”

“He’s gone to meet with some of the out-of-towners who came in early today. Investors and businessmen looking to set up business now that the rail’s going to tie us to the oceans on both sides. We’ll have all the news from the world at our fingertips and plenty of new people passing through. Might even get a telegraph office. Looks like Hallelujah’s going to put itself on the map.”

“Looks like it is,” Mae said. “But about your folks. Is your mother round?”

“She’s just down the road a ways. At church seeing about the wedding. These things take time and plenty of effort from all the able women.” Rose looked down at the counter, and pulled a cloth from her pocket to rub at the wood. “Seeing as how it’s the banker’s daughter and the timberman’s son, it will be a wedding of some importance.”

“All weddings are important,” Mae said. “Even for the most humble groom and bride.”

“I reckon that’s true.”

Rose went back to wiping down the counter, though Mae thought there wasn’t a spot of dirt left to rub. The thimble she wore on the top of her ring finger winked nickel gray in the wan light coming in from the shop’s two windows.

Mae took a moment to really look at Rose. She was no longer the young girl she’d found running a kite in her fields back when she and Jeb had built their home seven years ago. Rose must be eighteen or so by now. And unmarried.

No wonder she wasn’t lending a hand at the wedding preparations. The womenfolk had probably deemed her unfit for such things.

“You’ll be a wife someday,” Mae said gently. “There’s still plenty of time for that.”

Rose looked back up at Mae, and for a flash, there was hope in her eyes. Then she set her mouth and all Mae could see in her expression was clear resolve. “You’re more than kind to say so.” She put the cloth back in her pocket, ending the conversation.

“Now, about your business today,” she said, digging up one of her sunlight smiles. “Can I help you in any way? Maybe go fetch my mother or father for you?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. If you have the keys to the safe boxes, we won’t need to trouble your parents.”

“I know just where they’re kept.” Rose opened a drawer behind her and pulled out a set of master keys. She turned a glance over her shoulder. “I haven’t seen Mr. Lindson in a long while. He working the rail?”

“No. He’s dead.”

Rose stopped, still as a deer under the eyes of a wolf. And the sorrow that crossed her face was heart-deep, bringing tears at the bottoms of her eyes. “I am so sorry,” she whispered. She didn’t say any more, didn’t ask how he’d died, didn’t ask if she was planning a burial, a funeral, a service with black lace.

Mae nodded, and Rose got herself busy with the locked drawer that held the keys to the safety boxes.

“Did you hear the Gregors’ boy, little Elbert, has gone missing?” Rose asked softly, as if there was more than rumor resting on her words.

“I hadn’t heard.” Mae tried to remember how old the Gregors’ boy was now. Maybe three? Four? She was glad for something different to think upon, even if it was bad news. “Did he wander off?”

Rose walked out from behind the counter, things in her apron pockets clacking quietly. “No one knows. He disappeared in the night. Right through the closed window and the locked door.” She paused between one step and the next. “Is that something you’d have a way of knowing about?”

Mae looked down at her shoes. She’d never told Rose she was a witch, but Rose had a way of knowing about people almost like she could hear the truth of them without them even speaking. It hadn’t been said, but Rose knew Mae was conversant with herb and magic. And unlike any of the other folk in town, who were suspicious of her, Rose had been her first and her only friend in Hallelujah.

“I don’t know that I can be of help,” Mae said. “Even if there were something I could do, there isn’t much in me but grief.” She paused, then added, “And that . . . clouds things. I don’t suppose that will change for a long while.”

Rose’s hand gently cupped Mae’s shoulder and Mae realized Rose was an inch or so taller than her. Her hand was warm and strong. Her fingers squeezed just a little. “There isn’t anything more natural you should be doing but grieving, Mrs. Lindson. It takes a heart long days to heal.”

Mae looked into her eyes. Rose had seen pain in her life, but Mae knew she’d never lost everything in the world worth breathing for. “The pain of loving someone never heals.”

Rose pulled her hand away, flinching like she expected a switch to her back. Mrs. Small had obviously never learned to curb her temper before using the switch.

“I don’t mean to overstep—,” Rose said.

“And you haven’t.” Mae forced a smile. “I do appreciate your concern.”

Rose nodded, and started off toward the back of the room. “If you’d wait out here, Mrs. Lindson,” she began.

“Mae,” she said. “I’d think by now you’d be calling me by my given name. As a good friend ought.”

Rose tossed a smile over her shoulder and Mae marveled at the joy in it. There was something alive and glowing to her. She was the kind of woman folk should be drawn to, men should be drawn to. A strong charisma. But she’d learned to hide that light under a bushel. Mae figured she rarely showed anyone her true self. No wonder she wasn’t married.

“If you’d wait a tick . . . Mae,” she said, “I’ll bring out your box.”

Rose slipped through the doors at the corner of the shop. The mercantile wasn’t a bank, but they had safe vaults made of cast iron. So heavy, it was said, each plate had needed a barge of its own and a full team of oxen to drag it to town. The Smalls had hired up the blacksmith to weld together the plates and set clever locks, so that anything within that vault needed a combination of keys to retrieve.

Fireproof, bulletproof, and heavy enough it was thief proof. People of town deposited money at Haverty’s bank, but other valuables, jewels, rings, notes of property, and such, were often as not given to the Smalls for safekeeping.

Mr. Haverty wouldn’t deposit money from a black man, but Jeb had done the odd job for Rose’s father, Mr. Small. In return, Mr. Small tolerated keeping their money, so long as Mae gave them a blanket or length of lacework every season in payment for the safe box.

Rose once told Mae that Mrs. Small sent the blankets and lace down to her sister in Sacramento, where they fetched a high price from city folk.

Mae walked through the store, not much seeing the items for sale. Outside, the noise was starting to pick up as the men who worked LeFel’s rail came into town for a midday meal, drink, or gamble.

“I think I have it all here.” Rose pushed open the door, the box propped under her arm and hard against her hip. “One box?”

“That’s right.”

Rose carried the box to the countertop and set it down. “I forgot to ask if you have the key. My father keeps the box keys in another location I’m not privy to.”

Mae withdrew the key from her pocket. “I have it here.” She walked over to the counter, then set the key in the lock and gave it a turn. The internal gears snicked, and the lock sprang open.