But there was goodness, too.
Mrs.
Dalton at the general store occasionally slipped an extra potato into a poor family’s sack.
The schoolteacher gave lessons without charge to children whose parents could not pay.
And on the coldest nights, someone always made sure the church stove remained warm for anyone who needed shelter.
Emily had grown up believing that people survived the frontier by helping one another.
Her father had believed it.
Her mother still believed it.
“Out here,” Daniel Bennett used to say, “a person can have a full barn and still be poor if he has no kindness left in him.”
Emily carried those words with her.
She did not yet know how much they would cost her.
By the time she reached the edge of town, the first drops of rain were tapping against her father’s cloak.
A team of horses pulled a wagon through the muddy street.
Two cowboys rode past, their collars turned against the wind.
The smell of damp earth mixed with smoke from kitchen chimneys.
Emily hurried along the raised wooden boardwalk and stopped before the Willow Creek Café.
The building was one of the largest on Main Street.
Its front windows were wide and clean, with lace curtains that had yellowed slightly from years of coal smoke.
A painted sign hung above the entrance.
Inside, a long counter stretched along one wall, while square wooden tables filled the room.
A large iron stove stood near the back, and a narrow doorway led to the kitchen.
The café served railroad workers, ranch owners, traveling salesmen, farmers, and townspeople who wanted a warm meal.
On busy days, more than two dozen customers crowded inside at once.
Emily loved certain things about the place.
She loved the smell of fresh bread.
She loved the sound of spoons striking coffee cups and the friendly arguments between old ranch hands.
She loved watching exhausted travelers relax when a hot meal was set before them.
But she did not love working for Mrs.
Clara Whitcomb.
Clara was forty-two, tall and straight-backed, with dark hair pinned tightly beneath a small black hat.
Her face was narrow, her eyes sharp, and her manner so precise that even a crooked napkin seemed to offend her.
She had managed the café for six years.
She expected obedience, speed, and spotless tables.
Mistakes were not forgiven easily.
Kindness, in her opinion, was acceptable only when it did not interfere with business.
When Emily entered through the rear door, Clara was already inspecting the dining room.
“You’re nearly late,” she said.
Emily glanced at the clock.
It was ten minutes before opening.
“Good morning, Mrs.
Whitcomb.”
“Don’t waste time on greetings.
The floor needs sweeping, the cups aren’t arranged properly, and the kitchen boy hasn’t brought in enough firewood.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And that cloak is dripping on my clean floor.”
Emily removed it quickly.
“I’ll hang it outside.”
“You should have done that before coming in.”
Emily lowered her eyes.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
Clara turned away.
Emily stood still for a second, holding the wet cloak.
Then she went to work.
For the next hour, she swept the floor, carried wood, polished cups, filled water pitchers, and laid fresh cloths over the tables.
The kitchen cook, Mr.
Wallace, was a broad man with gray whiskers and hands that always smelled of bread dough.
He watched Emily struggling to carry a heavy crate of potatoes.
“Here, girl.
Give me that.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Of course you have.
But that doesn’t mean you ought to break your back proving it.”
He lifted the crate from her arms.
Emily smiled.
“Thank you.”
He set it down beside the stove.
“Your mother doing better?”
“Some days.”
“Tell her my wife has more willow-bark tea if she needs it.”
“I will.”
Mr.
Wallace studied her for a moment.
“You’re looking thin.”
Emily laughed softly.
“You sound like Mama.”
“Then your mama and I are both sensible.”
He reached toward the tray of fresh biscuits.
“Take one.”
Emily shook her head.
“Mrs.
Whitcomb counts them.”
“I baked them.”
“She counts them anyway.”
He sighed.
“That woman would count raindrops if she thought someone owed her money.”
Emily almost laughed aloud.
Then she heard Clara’s footsteps.
She quickly returned to work.
By eight o’clock, the café was full.
Rain tapped steadily against the windows while customers crowded near the stove.
A ranch hand named Joe Mercer ordered bacon and eggs.
Two railroad workers wanted hot coffee and biscuits.
A farmer came in carrying the smell of wet wool and asked whether the cook had any stew left from the previous evening.
Emily moved between the tables with a practiced smile.
“More coffee, Mr.
Mercer?”
“Please, Miss Emily.”
“How’s the new calf?”
“Mean as a hornet.”
“Then she must take after you.”
