Neither discussed the change.
No discussion was necessary.
For the first time in years, Norah woke beside another person and did not immediately feel trapped.
Tobias slept on his side facing her.
One hand rested loosely on the mattress between them.
Not holding.
Not claiming.
Simply there.
Norah stared at the hand.
Then she placed hers over it.
Tobias opened one eye.
“You watching me sleep?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Go back to sleep.”
He closed his eye.
“Bossy woman.”
Norah squeezed his fingers.
“Still breathing because of me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Their life settled into rhythm.
Tobias repaired the stable roof.
Norah taught him to chop onions correctly.
He was terrible at it.
“You're murdering them.”
“They're onions.”
“They deserve dignity.”
“You shot a rabbit yesterday.”
“That was clean.”
“These are vegetables.”
“And you're butchering them.”
Tobias put down the knife.
“I have faced armed men with less fear.”
“Good. Respect the onion.”
Travelers began returning specifically because of Norah’s food.
A freight driver told another.
A ranch owner told three more.
Soon men timed their crossings to stop for supper.
Norah raised prices by five cents.
Tobias approved.
“You could charge more.”
“I could also hit you with a ladle.”
“That's not an argument.”
“It is if you're standing close enough.”
But increased attention brought something Norah had not considered.
Word traveled.
Slowly.
Imperfectly.
But it traveled.
One evening in May, a well-dressed railroad surveyor named Arthur Bellamy ate Norah's venison with juniper.
He stopped after the first bite.
Tobias noticed.
Norah noticed Tobias noticing.
Bellamy looked toward the kitchen.
“Mrs. Vale?”
“Miss.”
“My apologies.”
He took another bite.
“Have you ever cooked in St. Louis?”
Norah froze.
Tobias's chair shifted slightly.
Norah answered carefully.
“A long time ago.”
Bellamy smiled.
“I knew it.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Knew what?”
“This tastes like the old Rourke dining rooms.”
The plate in Norah's hand became very heavy.
Bellamy continued without noticing.
“Best restaurant in St. Louis for a few years. Venison just like this. Biscuits too. Owner claimed he'd learned in New Orleans.”
Tobias looked at Norah.
She looked at the floor.
Bellamy ate another bite.
“Place went downhill eventually. Closed one location. Last I heard Rourke was trying Denver.”
Norah returned to the kitchen.
Her hands were cold.
That night Tobias waited until the guests slept.
Norah stood by the sink.
He approached.
“I won't ask.”
She closed her eyes.
Tobias stopped behind her.
“I mean it.”
Norah nodded.
“He was the one.”
Tobias did not speak.
She turned.
“The man who taught me.”
His jaw tightened.
Norah almost laughed.
“Taught is the wrong word.”
“What word is right?”
She stared at him.
“Later.”
Tobias nodded.
No pressure.
No demand.
Later was enough.
Three weeks passed.
Then the past arrived.
It came in a black carriage.
Norah heard the wheels just after noon.
The road was dry.
The sky clear.
No reason for travelers to arrive in a closed carriage unless they had money.
Tobias was splitting wood behind the station.
Norah was inside rolling biscuit dough.
The carriage stopped.
A man stepped down.
Tall.
Thin.
Gray at the temples.
Black frock coat despite the dust.
Silver-headed cane.
Norah saw him through the window.
The rolling pin fell from her hands.
It struck the floor.
Silas Rourke looked older.
That was the first thing she thought.
Not weaker.
Not kinder.
Simply older.
He turned toward the station.
Norah could not move.
Twenty years old.
Windowless kitchen.
Leather strap.
Do it again.
You stupid fat cow.
Good for nothing else.
The door opened.
Rourke entered.
His eyes found her immediately.
His face changed.
Satisfaction.
Not surprise.
“I knew it.”
Norah's hands curled against the table.
Rourke removed his gloves.
“Norah Bell.”
“No one calls me that.”
“Apparently not.”
He looked around.
His gaze touched the stove.
The shelves.
The flour.
The hanging herbs.
Then returned to her.
“You've done well.”
Norah's mouth went dry.
“What do you want?”
Rourke smiled.
There was the face she remembered.
Polished.
Civilized.
Cruel only when nobody useful was watching.
“I came for what belongs to me.”
Tobias entered through the back door.
He saw Norah.
Then Rourke.
Then Norah again.
Tobias put down the wood.
Rourke looked at him.
“And you are?”
“Tobias Kane.”
“Employee?”
“No.”
Rourke's eyes narrowed slightly.
Norah spoke.
“Say what you came to say.”
Rourke reached inside his coat.
Tobias shifted.
Norah saw it.
“Don't.”
Tobias stopped.
Rourke removed folded papers.
He placed them on the table.
“A contract.”
Norah did not touch it.
“You never had a contract.”
“I have one now.”
The words were so casual that Tobias looked at him sharply.
Rourke smiled.
“A figure of speech.”
Norah stared.
He opened the document.
It stated that Norah Bell had entered employment under Silas Rourke in St. Louis in 1878.
It claimed recipes created in his kitchens belonged exclusively to Rourke Dining Company.
It claimed she had removed proprietary notebooks and ingredients when she left.
It claimed damages.
Three thousand dollars.
Norah laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the number was absurd.
“You think I have three thousand dollars?”
“No.”
Rourke folded his gloves neatly.
“I think you have the recipes.”
Norah stared.
“There were never your recipes.”
“They were developed in my kitchen.”
“By me.”
“Using my ingredients.”
“While you withheld my wages.”
Rourke's expression remained calm.
Tobias looked between them.
Rourke said, “Your memory has become sentimental.”
Norah felt her heart pounding.
“No.”
“I gave you employment when nobody else would.”
There it was.
The old knife.
Norah looked at him.
Rourke continued.
“A woman of your... limitations.”
Tobias took one step forward.
Norah raised a hand.
He stopped.
Rourke saw the movement.
He smiled.
“You trained him well.”
Tobias's voice became very quiet.
“You should leave.”
Rourke looked amused.
“I didn't come to speak with you.”
“No,” Norah said.
Both men looked at her.
Norah placed both palms on the table.
“You came to speak with me.”