The Mountain Man Turned Away Every Pretty Widow— He Chose the Girl Who Quietly Mended His Torn Boots

Chapter 9

We went to see my mother the next day.

Elijah had arranged for a doctor from Denver — a real doctor, with real medicine. He had paid for a month’s treatment in advance. He had also paid for a new room at the boarding house, warm and clean, with a window that faced the sun.

My mother was sitting up when we walked in.

I stopped in the doorway. I couldn’t speak.

“Martha.” Her voice was weak, but it was there. She was there. “Come here, child.”

I crossed the room in three strides and fell to my knees beside her bed. She was thin — thinner than I had ever seen her — but her eyes were clear. Alert. Alive.

“The doctor came,” she said. “He gave me medicine. Real medicine. And he said I might have a year. Maybe more.”

I started to cry. The tears came in a flood, years of fear and grief and hopelessness pouring out of me.

“Don’t cry, child. You’ve done enough crying for a lifetime.”

She looked past me to where Elijah was standing in the doorway, his hat in his hands.

“So. You’re the man who married my daughter.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

My mother studied him. For a long, uncomfortable moment, she just looked at him.

Then she nodded.

“You’ve got good hands. I can always tell. A man with good hands is a man who can be trusted.”

Elijah’s throat moved. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t decided if I like you.”

“Martha doesn’t like me much either. She’s still making up her mind.”

My mother laughed. It turned into a cough, but it was a real laugh. “I think I like you.”

She reached out and took my hand. “Your father is gone.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Left last night. Took the money and caught the stage to Helena. Said he was going to California.”

I didn’t know what to feel. Relief? Anger? Grief for a relationship that had never existed?

“Good,” I said.

My mother squeezed my hand. “You’re free, Martha. Really free. For the first time in your life.”

I looked at Elijah. He was still standing in the doorway, watching me with those storm-gray eyes.

“Not entirely free,” I said. “I’m married now.”

“To a man with good hands.” My mother smiled. “That’s a kind of freedom too.”