Chapter 7 - Fifty Miles of WinterThey left before dawn.
The ranch disappeared behind them under a dark winter sky.
Caleb drove.
Mave sat beside him wrapped in a wool blanket, though she refused to sleep.
The wagon carried everything they could risk taking.
Decorative hinges.
Hooks.
Door hardware.
Tools.
Small household pieces.
The hardened plow blade Mave had made as a demonstration.
Every item represented hours she could never recover.
The road to Red Bluff ran through frozen open country where wind moved without obstruction.
For the first ten miles, neither spoke.
The horses settled into a steady rhythm.
Wooden wheels creaked.
Leather harnesses pulled.
Caleb kept thinking about the ranch behind them.
If something happened on the road, the bank would not care.
If a wheel broke, the bank would not care.
If customers ignored them, the bank would not care.
The deadline would simply arrive.
“Stop counting.”
Mave’s voice came from beneath the blanket.
Caleb looked at her.
“I’m not counting.”
“You move your lips when you calculate.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
He stared forward.
“How much do you think we need to make?”
“I know how much.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Caleb sighed.
“All of it.”
Mave looked toward the horizon.
“Useful answer.”
He smiled despite himself.
After another mile, she said, “Why didn’t you sell to Pike earlier?”
Caleb’s hands tightened around the reins.
“My father hated him.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“No.”
He thought.
“Pike came after my father died. Said I was trying to maintain more land than one man could manage. He wasn’t wrong.”
“So?”
“He offered less than half what the ranch was worth before the drought.”
Mave nodded.
“Pride.”
“Partly.”
“What else?”
Caleb looked across the frozen plains.
“My father built that house.”
He nodded behind them though the ranch had long disappeared.
“My mother planted cottonwoods near the creek. My father and I dug the first extension to the cattle pond when I was fourteen.”
He paused.
“I know land doesn’t remember people.”
“You’re sure?”
He glanced at her.
Mave was serious.
Caleb considered the idea.
“Maybe I’m not.”
Near noon, they stopped beside a windbreak to rest the horses.
Mave unwrapped bread and dried meat.
Caleb ate standing beside the wagon.
She sat on a wheel hub.
“Tell me about your father,” he said.
She looked at him cautiously.
“What about him?”
“What was he like?”
Mave tore bread in half.
“Stubborn.”
“That seems familiar.”
“He believed iron had moods.”
Caleb laughed.
“He did?”
“He said some metal wanted persuasion and some needed correction.”
“What kind are you?”
She looked at him.
“Careful.”
He raised both hands.
Mave continued.
“He never treated me like I was strange for wanting the forge. Other people did. He didn’t.”
Her expression softened.
“When customers complained that a girl was handling their horse, he told them they were free to shoe it themselves.”
Caleb smiled.
“I think I would have liked him.”
“He would have thought you were an idiot.”
“That sounds fair.”
“For the advertisement.”
“Also fair.”
They resumed traveling.
By late afternoon the road climbed toward Red Bluff.
The town appeared below them, larger than Caleb remembered.
Smoke rose from dozens of chimneys.
Wagons crowded the main road.
Lanterns hung across storefronts.
Even from the ridge they could hear distant music.
Mave sat straighter.
Caleb looked at her.
“Nervous?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Partnership doesn’t give you permission to become irritating.”
“Thought we weren’t calling it partnership yet.”
“We aren’t.”
Red Bluff was packed.
Caleb paid the stall fee.
It hurt physically to hand over the money.
They were assigned a space near the center of the market.
Not the best location.
Not the worst.
Caleb built a rough display using lumber from the wagon.
Mave unwrapped the ironwork.
When arranged together, the pieces looked better than Caleb had realized.
Strong.
Useful.
Beautiful without being delicate.
The cottonwood hinge sat near the center.
A family walked past.
The father glanced.
Kept walking.
Another man slowed.
Then moved on.
A woman looked at one latch.
Did not stop.
Mave stood behind the table.
Caleb watched the crowd.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
No sale.
By the second hour, Caleb could feel panic building behind his ribs.
People bought pies.
Blankets.
Leather goods.
Toys.
Knives.
Candles.
A vendor across the street sold nearly every carved wooden horse on his table.
Mave’s iron remained untouched.
“We should lower prices,” Caleb whispered.
“No.”
“Mave.”
“No.”
“Something is better than nothing.”
“Cheap work looks cheap.”
“Empty shelves don’t matter if the bank owns them tomorrow.”
Her jaw tightened.
But she did not change the prices.
Another half hour passed.
Caleb looked at the sky.
The sun was moving.
Time was moving.
Their final gamble was failing.
Then an older rancher stopped in front of the table.
He reached down.
Picked up the cottonwood hinge.
Turned it in both hands.
Tested the weight.
Examined the joint.
Caleb stopped breathing.
The man looked at Mave.
“Who made this?”
She swallowed.
“I did.”
The rancher looked from her soot-darkened hands to the hinge.
Then back.
“How much?”
Mave named the price.
Caleb waited for argument.
Instead the rancher reached into his coat.
“I’ll take three.”
Mave stared at him.
“Three?”
“If you’ve got them.”
Her surprise lasted only a second.
Then discipline returned.
“I have two finished. I can make the third to order.”
The rancher placed money on the table.
“Then I’ll pay for all three now.”
Caleb looked at the coins.
May you like
Then at Mave.
For the first time that day, hope stopped feeling like a mistake.
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