Give the enormous widow the paralyzed mountain man.
Two people the town considered physically ridiculous.
A grotesque pairing for everyone to laugh about over whiskey and cards.
Martha stepped backward.
“No.”
Amos’s grin vanished.
“No?”
“I said no.”
His voice hardened.
“Well, then I suppose I leave him beside the road.”
Martha stared.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Poorhouse won’t take him.”
“Take him to the doctor.”
“Doctor already looked.”
“Then take him back to town.”
“And feed him myself?”
Amos laughed.
“No.”
Martha looked at the stranger.
He had not pleaded.
That made it worse.
Amos climbed onto the wagon bed.
“What are you doing?”
“Unloading.”
“Amos.”
He grabbed the man beneath the arms.
The stranger cursed and tried bracing himself against the boards.
His upper body was powerful.
His lower body did nothing.
“Stop,” Martha snapped.
Amos dragged him backward.
The man’s splinted legs scraped across the wagon floor.
Martha moved toward them.
“Amos, I said stop.”
“Too late.”
He pulled again.
The stranger slid over the rear edge.
Then Amos released him.
The man hit the dirt hard enough that Martha heard the breath leave his lungs.
His legs twisted uselessly behind him.
Amos jumped down.
“Enjoy the company.”
Martha’s face went cold.
“You son of a—”
“You want him moved?”
Amos climbed back toward the wagon seat.
“Move him yourself.”
The stranger pressed both palms into the dirt.
His arms shook as he attempted to lift himself.
For a moment he managed several inches.
Then his torso collapsed.
Dust rose around his face.
Amos laughed.
“Half a man for twice the woman. Seems fair.”
Martha walked toward the wagon.
Amos saw her expression and climbed up faster.
“You come back here.”
“Got business.”
“You dump a wounded man in my yard and call it business?”
He grabbed the reins.
“Maybe he’ll help with chores.”
Martha looked at the stranger’s motionless legs.
Amos laughed again.
The sound disappeared down the road with the wagon.
For several seconds, Martha stood in the dust.
Then she looked down.
The stranger’s hands were clenched against the ground.
Blood showed through the cracks in one palm.
He pushed again.
Failed again.
Martha folded her arms.
“You’re tearing your hands apart.”
He looked up.
“Didn’t ask for commentary.”
His voice was rough.
Martha almost walked away.
She had spent two years caring for a dying husband.
Months washing his fevered body.
Months lifting him when weakness took his legs.
Months listening to townspeople praise her strength while none volunteered to sit beside Elias long enough for her to sleep an uninterrupted night.
She had loved her husband.
But she had also learned what endless care could cost.
And now another broken man lay in her yard because everyone assumed Martha’s body meant she was built for carrying other people.
The stranger pushed himself upward again.
His elbows buckled.
He fell.
Martha swore.
Then walked over.
“I ain’t dragging you.”
He spat dust.
“Didn’t ask you to.”
“Well, you ain’t dying in front of my porch either.”
She stepped behind him.