For the first time, she did not look like part of the station.
She looked young.
Human.
Lonely.
Eli knocked softly against the frame.
Ada spun around.
She nearly dropped the bowl.
“It’s just me.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I came for water.”
She pointed toward a pitcher.
He poured himself a cup.
Then his eyes settled on the dough.
“You put pepper in them.”
Ada went still.
Eli set the cup down.
“The biscuits.”
No answer.
“My mother used black pepper.”
Ada’s face lost its color.
That reaction told Eli more than any answer could have.
He stepped closer.
“Where did you learn that recipe?”
“I should finish these.”
“Who taught you?”
“Mr.
Marsh—”
“My mother’s name was Ruth.”
The bowl slipped from Ada’s hands.
It struck the table.
Flour spilled across the boards.
Neither of them moved.
Eli felt his heartbeat change.
“Ada.”
She looked toward the kitchen door.
Then the windows.
Then back at him.
“How old were you when she died?”
The question hit him like a fist.
“Nineteen.”
Ada swallowed.
“How were you told?”
He stared.
“What does that matter?”
“How?”
“A telegram.”
“Did you see her body?”
Every muscle in Eli’s body tightened.
“No.”
“Did anyone you trusted?”
“I came back three months later.”
“And?”
“There was a grave.”
Ada closed her eyes.
Eli grabbed the edge of the table.
“What are you saying?”
She whispered the words.
“Ruth Marsh came through Crestfall thirteen years ago.”
The room tilted.
“No.”
“I met her.”
“No.”
“I was fourteen.”
Eli stared at her.
“My mother died in Nebraska.”
“She was supposed to.”
“What does that mean?”
Ada’s eyes filled.
“She was supposed to die there so nobody would keep looking for her.”
Eli crossed the distance between them.
He stopped before touching her.
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Tell me.”
“Silas will hear.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
Ada looked toward the floor.
Then she said the sentence that changed everything.
“Because the last person who asked questions about Ruth Marsh was my father.”
Eli’s breathing stopped.
“And Silas buried him behind the stable.”
Ada led Eli through the pantry.
Behind stacked sacks of flour was a narrow door.
Beyond it lay a storage room smelling of onions, old wood, and damp earth.
She closed the door behind them.
For a while neither spoke.
Then Ada began.
Thirteen years earlier, Crestfall had belonged to her father, Nathaniel Bell.
He had built the main station with his own hands after Ada’s mother died.
Nathaniel was not wealthy, but the road was busy and business was good.
Silas Crowe had been his partner.
“Father handled travelers,” Ada whispered.
“Silas handled accounts.”
Eli leaned against the wall.
“And my mother?”
“She arrived during a snowstorm.”
Ruth had been traveling west alone.
Sick.
Frightened.
Carrying letters, money, and documents she refused to explain.
Nathaniel gave her a room.
Ada brought her broth.
For almost two weeks, Ruth stayed at Crestfall while fever weakened her.
During those days, she spent hours in the kitchen with young Ada.
“She taught me those biscuits,” Ada said.
“I ruined the first six batches.”
A ghost of a smile touched her face.
“She said you used to steal them before supper.”
Eli looked away.
His eyes burned.
“She talked about me?”
