These actually fit.”
She opened the crate.
Inside was a pair of sturdy women’s winter boots.
“How much?”
“Already paid.”
Her expression sharpened.
“By whom?”
The storekeeper nodded toward Ashford, who was chopping wood outside.
Iris closed the box.
“Put them on his account.”
“He said you’d say that.”
“Then he should have listened to himself.”
The storekeeper grinned.
“He also said they’re part of your wages.
Equipment necessary for the manager.”
Iris looked again at the boots.
That argument was annoyingly sound.
She kept them.
By March, Ashford had paid enough toward his winter obligations that the men who wanted quick liquidation had less reason to force it.
The lodge was not free of debt, but it was no longer dying.
More importantly, neither was Iris.
The change was not dramatic enough for a novel.
There was no morning when she woke fearless.
No speech in which every humiliation Edmund had given her vanished.
Some nights she still heard his voice when she made a mistake.
Careless.
Difficult.
Ungrateful.
Sometimes she would stand at the kitchen table with both hands braced against the wood until the old shame passed.
Then she would return to work.
Spring came late to Bearclaw Ridge.
When the first dark earth appeared beneath the retreating snow, Ashford brought the account books to Iris.
“We’re through the worst of it.”
She checked his figures.
“Almost.”
He sighed.
“You could occasionally accept good news before correcting it.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
He put another sheet of paper beside the ledger.
Iris looked at it.
It was a new agreement.
The winter arrangement had been temporary.
This one named her permanent manager of the lodge, with regular wages and a share of annual profits once debts were paid.
She read it twice.
“Why?”
Ashford blinked.
“I thought the numbers made that obvious.”
“They make it obvious that the lodge improved.”
“The lodge improved because you walked four miles through a snowstorm after any sensible person would have turned around.”
Iris almost smiled.
“The storekeeper said something similar.
He meant it as criticism.”
“I mean it as a contract.”
She looked down at the signature line.
For years Edmund had treated every dollar as proof that he had authority over her.
The house was his.
