Page 25 of Mail Order Mercy

Clara did not smile. “But you come home late now.”

Albert looked toward the curtain, where Dorothy had gone quiet. “The mill needs extra hands during thaw. That is all.”

But spring runoff gave little mercy to careful explanations. The river rose a little more each day, brown and restless beneath broken sheets of ice. Water gnawed at the banks near Everett Thompson’s lumber mill and pushed loose branches, chunks of ice, and whole logs against every crossing men had trusted all winter.

Everett kept the men working long after the usual quitting hour, securing equipment, shifting stacked lumber farther from the water, and bracing the road where the mud had begun to slump toward the swollen creek that cut between the mill and Yeti.

“Move those boards higher,” Everett called over the rush of water. “If the bank gives, I do not want half my lumber floating downriver.”

Albert bent his shoulder to the work and tried not to think about supper cooling in Dorothy’s cabin. Staying late had been easier when he could tell himself he was only avoiding another polite evening with a curtain between them. Now, with the water rising and the sky graying toward dusk, he wished with a sharpness that surprised him that he had gone home when he first thought of it.

“Travis!” one of the men shouted. “The lower crossing is taking water!”

Albert and three others ran toward the crossing. The road there dipped low, and the runoff had found it, cutting a hungry channel through the mud. A stack of loose logs, shifted from the upper bank, had jammed against the makeshift brace and strained with each surge of water.

“If that brace goes, the road is gone with it,” Everett said, arriving behind them. “We need those logs freed before they tear everything loose.”

Albert took the rope Everett thrust into his hands. The water was not deep enough to drown a standing man, but it was fast, icy, and full of things that could break bones before anyone had time to pray. He thought of Henry then, not as a warning exactly, but as a presence at his shoulder. Ordinary work could turn deadly in the space between one breath and the next.

“Tie off there,” Everett said. “And no heroics. I have had my fill of burying good men.”

Albert gave him a grim look. “Then let us keep this one from getting foolish.”

The men worked from the edge, hooking and pulling at the logs while water slapped against their boots. Mud sucked at Albert’s feet. Twice the rope jerked hard enough to burn through his gloves before a freed log swung toward the bank and two men dragged it clear.

Then the jam shifted.

A heavy log rolled free from beneath the others. Albert saw it too late. It struck his thigh and hip, knocking his legs from under him, and the cold water swallowed him before he could find breath enough to shout.

For one stunned instant, there was only ice, mud, and the roar of water in his ears. He fought for footing and found none. The rope snapped tight across his chest, dragging against his shoulder as men shouted above him.

“Albert!” Everett’s voice cut through the rush.

Albert tried to answer, but icy water filled his mouth. He struck one hand against a submerged stone, pain flashing up his arm, and then two men hauled on the rope while Everett splashed knee-deep into the crossing to seize the back of Albert’s coat.

They dragged him onto the muddy bank, coughing and shaking so hard his teeth clicked together. His face was gray beneath the river water streaming from his hair, and one side of his body curled inward as if the log had driven all strength from it.

“Get him inside,” Everett ordered. “And someone run to Dorothy. Tell her he is alive before she hears anything else.”

Albert’s eyes opened at Dorothy’s name. He tried to sit up, failed, and caught Everett’s sleeve with trembling fingers. “Do not scare her.”

Everett pulled Albert’s hand from his sleeve and pressed it back against Albert’s chest. “Then lie still and give me no reason to frighten her worse.”

They carried Albert into the mill office and stripped away his wet coat and boots. Someone wrapped him in blankets warmed near the stove. He shook violently, and every breath sounded dragged from too deep in his chest.

“Is anything broken?” Everett asked the man kneeling beside the cot.

“Bruised bad,” the man said. “Chilled worse. He needs dry heat and someone to keep him awake if he can manage it.”

Albert’s eyes opened halfway. “Dorothy?”

“She is coming,” Everett said. “And if you have any sense left, you will still be here to explain yourself when she arrives.”

Albert gave a weak sound that might have been a laugh if it had not ended in a cough. “She’ll scold me.”

“Good,” Everett said. “A man who can be scolded is still a living man.”

Dorothy arrived with her shawl half slipping from one shoulder and fear written so plainly across her face that Albert would have reached for her if his arms had obeyed. Everett had told her Albert was alive. He had said the words before anything else. Still, the walk to the mill had carried her straight back to the day Henry did not come home.