Ashford had enough sense not to ask more.
They ate at a table beside the stove while the storm thickened outside.
Afterward Iris noticed the ledgers again.
She tried not to.
Numbers had followed her through marriage.
Edmund often brought bank papers home and spread them across the dining table after supper.
He assumed Iris understood none of it.
At first she hadn’t.
Then boredom became curiosity.
Curiosity became knowledge.
By the third year of their marriage she could often spot an addition error before Edmund did.
Once, when she pointed out a duplicated entry that would have cost a client nearly seventy dollars, Edmund had stared at her as if a chair had spoken.
After that, he stopped leaving important papers where she could see them.
Now Ashford’s books sat three feet away.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
Ashford followed her gaze.
“Bad enough.”
“That is not a number.”
“You ask direct questions.”
“I’ve been criticized for it.”
He rubbed one hand across his face.
“I owe suppliers in town.
Two lenders farther east.
The season ended early, three large parties canceled, and the first heavy snow trapped enough equipment up here that I couldn’t sell it before the notes came due.”
“And California?”
“A story.
I rode south for negotiations, came back by another route, and stayed here while I tried to decide what could still be saved.”
“Can anything?”
“Probably not.”
Iris looked again at the lodge.
The building was solid.
The chimney drew cleanly once heated.
The kitchen worked.
Beds remained upstairs.
The road was difficult but passable because she had just passed it herself wearing absurd boots and carrying flour.
“Why is the station only for hunters?”
Ashford frowned.
“Because that is what it was built for.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He leaned back.
“What are you asking?”
“Does anyone travel that road in winter?”
“Freight men occasionally.
Timber crews when weather allows.
Trappers.
A few fools.”
“People like me.”
“I was trying to be polite.”
“Don’t.”
She pulled the nearest ledger toward her.
Ashford’s hand landed on it.
“Mrs.
Calloway.”
Iris met his eyes.
“Do you want to lose the station privately, or would you like another pair of eyes on the figures?”
For several seconds, only the stove spoke.
