Colum looked at the water.
Shame burned through him hotter than anger.
He had once carried elk quarters down mountainsides.
Once broken horses other men would not approach.
Once hauled two injured miners from a collapsed tunnel.
Now he could not reach a cup.
He waited for Martha to sigh.
Or curse.
Or remind him how much extra work he caused.
Instead she stood.
Fetched a rag.
Kneeled.
And wiped up the water.
“I tried reaching it.”
“I know.”
“You could put the table closer.”
“I could.”
“You didn’t.”
“I forgot.”
Colum stared.
Martha wrung out the rag.
“Turns out I make mistakes.”
“Thought you were perfect.”
“That must be the fever talking.”
She refilled the cup.
Then handed it to him.
Their fingers brushed.
Colum looked at her hand.
Large.
Calloused.
Steady.
Martha looked at him.
“You spill that one, you’re licking it off the floor.”
His mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
“Fair.”
Outside, thunder shook the windows.
Inside, something shifted.
Not love.
Not yet.
Respect.
Which, for both of them, was more dangerous.
Over the next two weeks, Martha stopped treating Colum like a temporary disaster.
Colum stopped behaving as though every offered kindness were an insult.
He began helping from the chair.
At first, Martha laughed.
“What exactly are you planning to do with that?”
“Your accounts.”
“My what?”
“Books.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You think I can’t count?”
“I think your feed merchant is robbing you.”
That silenced her.
Colum pointed toward a stack of invoices.
“Your cornmeal price changed three times in six months.”
“So?”
“Market price didn’t.”
Martha looked at the paper.
“How do you know?”
“I traded fur for twelve years.”
He pulled another receipt closer.
“And whoever wrote this charged you for seventy pounds of salt when the delivery note says fifty.”
Martha’s expression changed.
“Amos handles the account.”
Colum went still.
“What?”
“Amos buys supplies for three farms together. Says bulk ordering saves money.”
Colum looked at her.
“Does he show you the combined invoices?”
“No.”
“Then he’s stealing.”
Martha stared at the receipts.
Anger rose slowly.
Elias had trusted Amos.
Martha had continued the arrangement after Elias died because changing everything at once had felt impossible.
“How much?”
Colum spent the afternoon calculating.
By supper, he had an answer.
“About one hundred eighty dollars over eighteen months.”
Martha sat very still.
That was more than she had earned selling eggs, butter, and wool in an entire season.
Colum watched her.
“You all right?”
“No.”
“Want me to stop?”
“No.”
She lifted another stack of paper.
“Find everything.”
He did.
By midnight, the amount exceeded three hundred dollars.
The next morning Amos arrived.
Martha was waiting on the porch.
Colum sat just inside the open doorway.