The driver stared at her.
“Good Lord.
You made it.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Relieved, ma’am.
Very relieved.”
The storekeeper looked from Iris to Ashford.
Then his jaw tightened.
“So California was a lie.”
Ashford shut the door.
“A useful one.”
“Not useful enough.
Two men came asking about you yesterday.”
Ashford’s face hardened.
“Creditors?”
“Didn’t introduce themselves.”
The storekeeper’s attention shifted to the steaming pot near the stove.
“That coffee?”
Iris looked at Ashford.
Then she looked at the ledger.
“It can be.”
She held out her hand to the storekeeper.
“Ten cents.”
He blinked.
“For coffee?”
“Hot coffee.
In a storm.
Four miles from town.”
The driver started laughing.
The storekeeper gave Iris a long stare, then pulled a coin from his pocket and placed it in her palm.
The driver bought one too.
Ashford watched both coins land on the table.
Iris said nothing.
She didn’t need to.
The next morning the storm had not cleared enough for anyone to descend safely.
That meant breakfast.
Breakfast meant another payment.
Iris made biscuits with the flour she had carried up the mountain, fried salt pork, and stretched the potatoes with onions.
By the time the driver finally left, he had paid for a bed, two meals, and enough coffee to complain loudly about the price while drinking every cup.
Before going, he told Iris, “Freight boys ought to know somebody’s keeping a stove lit up here.”
“Tell them.”
Ashford waited until the door closed.
“You gave him my address like you own the place.”
“Do you want customers or not?”
He looked at the coins on the table.
“Apparently I do.”
Iris folded her arms.
“Then we discuss my position.”
Ashford looked almost amused.
“Your position?”
“You hired me for a job that disappeared.
I arrived anyway.
If I stay, I will not be an unpaid guest hoping for your charity.”
“I can’t promise the wages in my original letter.”
“Then don’t.”
She pulled a blank sheet of paper from beside the ledger.
