Page 18 of On a Midnight Clear

Thank the Lord the stagecoach had arrived unscathed by the blustery storm raging beyond these walls.

Hope stirred the bubbling stew , scraping the bottom of the pot to make sure the potatoes and carrots didn’t stick.

The venison she’d been cooking for dinner wasn’t ready yet , so she’d added the leftover stew from their noon meal so their new guests could eat something warm right away.

She glanced up at Miss Whitmore, who’d perched on the edge of a ladder-back chair close to the fire.

The young woman was a beauty, no doubt about it.

Judging by the elegant fur-lined coat she’d finally unbuttoned, she was clearly accustomed to far more amenities than could be found on this wilderness plain.

Her husband must not have much experience with the harsh winters in the west to allow her to travel during these months.

But ... Her mind snagged on an important detail she’d forgotten in the hurry to make the woman comfortable and then ready enough food for the five of them.

Mr. Bentwood had called her Miss Whitmore— Miss , not Missus.

They couldn’t be husband and wife. Not with different surnames too. Nor brother and sister.

Perhaps they weren’t traveling together.

The door opened and the wind howled, tossing in a flurry of snowflakes and three weary men. Martin entered first, shifting over to the rag rug to stomp his boots. Behind him, Mr. Bentwood and the stage driver, Sam Thompson, straggled in, both men hunching their shoulders against the chill.

“It’s even worse out there than before.” Martin shook the snow from his arms, then removed his gloves and worked loose the buttons on his coat. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t get snowed in for a week.”

Mr. Bentwood’s head jerked up at the comment. “A week? Do you think so?”

Martin shrugged. “This weather has a mind of its own, but I’m sure it’ll still be snowing by morning. That storm looks locked in.”

Hope motioned to the blaze in the hearth, as she had before. “The fire’s warm, the stew’s almost ready, and there’s hot tea on the table.”

Within minutes, the men and Miss Whitmore settled around the table, each nursing a cup of steaming tea. Hope stayed by the cookstove, stirring the stew so it didn’t scald.

Mr. Bentwood turned to her brother. “Mr. Palmer, by chance do you have any medical training? Sam here suffered a gash on his arm, and we’ve not had it properly tended.”

Before Martin could answer, Mr. Thompson waved off his concern. “It’s just a scratch. Nothing to worry about.”

Martin frowned. “I’m not good with that sort of thing, but my sister is.” He glanced her way. “Hope, would you mind?”

She sent the driver a smile to put him at ease.

“Of course.” The man had always been kind.

He came through here with stages often enough that she considered him a friend.

He took proper care of his horses, too, and treated his passengers with respect.

That pairing was harder to find than one might think.

Mr. Thompson looked ready to object again, so she added, “Maybe after you eat and thaw all the way through.”

His gaze dropped to the table. “I reckon.” He was still shivering, so it might be a while before he recovered from all those hours in the storm. Yet ... was that sweat on his forehead? She’d assumed the red splotches on his cheeks were from the weather, but they could be from fever instead.

She scooped out stew into the bowls for them all, careful to make sure none of the servings included potatoes not yet softened. Once their guests were eating, she settled onto the bench beside her brother. This might be a good time to discuss sleeping arrangements for the night.

She glanced at Miss Whitmore, who had remained quiet since their initial introductions.

She ate hungrily, though not without the poise that was surely ingrained as deeply as the need to be hospitable had been embedded in Hope.

Her parents had built this stage stop before she was born, though it served as a trading post and refuge for travelers back then.

Growing up here had always been exciting—meeting new people nearly every day, learning where they came from and hearing stories from their lives.

This was the perfect life for her, no matter how challenging the winters were or how hard it might be to say farewell to new friends when they boarded the stage and disappeared forever.

She’d learned to guard her heart, though. She’d always become too attached to the guests they had, too devastated when they would leave. Though many promised to write, few ever had.

Miss Whitmore glanced up at Hope, as though she felt her gaze. The woman smiled, but her delicate features were drawn with fatigue. She had to be younger than Hope, judging by her smooth skin. Younger than Martin, too, who was three years Hope’s junior. Maybe twenty? Or perhaps a little less.

She shifted her focus to Mr. Bentwood. He and Miss Whitmore barely spoke to each other, but it didn’t appear to be tense silence. More ... indifference. He seemed to respect her, yet there was no sign of special regard or tenderness between them.

Well, whatever her situation, this young lady was clearly far from home and in need of rest.

Hope infused welcome into her voice. “Miss Whitmore, we have a spare room you’re welcome to use. It’s a bit crowded with supplies, but there’s a comfortable bed.”

The woman’s expression brightened. “Thank you. That sounds wonderful.”

She might change her tune when she saw the tiny chamber and cot. Probably like sleeping in the barn compared to the home she came from. But it was the best they could manage.

Martin piped up. “Sorry to say our bunkhouse burned a couple weeks ago. We have a few mattress ticks laid out in the barn and a little heating stove. It’ll have its work cut out for it during this storm, but we’ll send extra blankets out there. I think it won’t be so bad.”

Hope fought a wince at her brother’s description of the only other lodging they could provide. The barn had worked fine for the other drivers and passengers who’d used it these last weeks, but this storm would test the abilities of that little heater. At least they’d stay dry.

Yet she hated the thought of giving unsuitable accommodations to anyone who had come to take shelter at their inn.

She leaned around her brother to see Mr. Thompson and Mr. Bentwood at the same time.

“If either of you is uncomfortable at all, please come in, and we’ll do our best to remedy the problem.

No matter how late. I’ll leave a pot of water on the stove so you can have something warm to drink if you need it. ”

Mr. Thompson nodded his thanks, but the movement seemed to pain him. He shifted his injured arm, his good hand moving up to cup the elbow. The sooner she could examine the wound, the better.

After the meal, she quickly showed Miss Whitmore her room while Martin and Mr. Bentwood went out to unload the passengers’ belongings from the coach. Then she retrieved her box of medical supplies from the shelf and placed it on the table next to Mr. Thompson. “Let’s have a look at that arm now.”

The man hesitated but then worked the arm out of his coat with effort, revealing a bloodstained shirtsleeve.

She rolled it up, and her stomach clenched at the sight of the angry red flesh surrounding the jagged gash.

Yellow pus oozed from the wound, and heat radiated from his skin even before she touched him.

“Oh, Sam, this is bad.” She kept her voice low. “Why didn’t you have it seen to earlier?”

He grunted. “Didn’t have time. Had to keep the stage moving.”

She shook her head, but there was no use scolding him now. The man was as stubborn as the mule Martin had raised when he was a boy.

She cleaned the wound as quickly and gently as she could, spreading a salve on the festering gash before wrapping it with a cloth bandage.

That would help pull out the pus. Then she retrieved one of Martin’s clean shirts to replace Mr. Thompson’s soiled one.

She would have her work cut out for her in washing the stench of infection out of that sleeve.

After Mr. Thompson had changed, he resumed his seat at the table, his eyes unfocused and shoulders slumped. He looked like he might fall asleep right there. If she tried to move him to a more comfortable chair by the fire, he might attempt to go out and help the other men.

She stood and moved to the cabinet where she kept her dried herbals.

She pulled out a jar of garlic cloves and dropped several into the kettle of tea, then added a spoonful of willow bark powder.

The liquid would need to simmer a few minutes, so this would be a good chance to check on Miss Whitmore.

She strode past Mr. Thompson to the door of the little storage room and tapped a light knock. “Just checking to see if there’s anything you need.”

A pleasant voice sounded from within, though she couldn’t make out the words. Then came a rustle, and the door opened. Miss Whitmore offered a tired smile. “Thank you so much for your kindness, Miss Palmer. I have everything I need for the night.”

Hope returned the expression. “Please, call me Hope. And don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything at all I can do to make you more comfortable. Travel can be exhausting, even in the best of circumstances. I imagine coming west by stage in the dead of winter is especially taxing.”

The young woman’s expression turned wry. “Indeed. My father wanted me to wait until spring, but now that my classes are finished, I only want to go home.”

Curiosity flickered in her chest. “Classes? You were attending school in the east?”

Miss Whitmore nodded. “Yes, but my home is Sacramento. That’s where I was born, and I only left because Father was so set on a Boston finishing school.” Her eyes brightened. “I can’t wait to get home. I’m grateful Mr. Bentwood also needed to return to Sacramento and was willing to escort me.”