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learned how to work around his permanent injuries. He was careful to keep a respectful distance, but the naked curiosity in his face might’ve been mirrored in her own, if she hadn’t been so fiercely tired.
    “Washington,” she said aloud to the paper as she extracted it from the light brown envelope and unfolded it. “What’s so important out in Washington that I need to hear about it?”
    “Read it,” he encouraged her. Paul Forks couldn’t read, but he liked to watch other people do it, and he liked to hear the results. “Tell me what it says.”
    “It says,” she declared, but her eyes scanned ahead, and she didn’t say anything else. Not right away.
    “Go on.”
    “It says,” she tried again, then stopped herself. “It’s my . . . my daddy.”
    Paul frowned thoughtfully. “I thought your kin came from Waterford?”
    She gave a half nod that ended in a shrug. Her eyes never peeled themselves off the paper, but she said, “I was born there, and my momma and father live there now, working a farm that’s mostly dairy.”
    Paul might’ve been illiterate, but he wasn’t stupid. “Father? Not your real pa, then?”
    Though she didn’t owe him any explanation, she felt like talking, so she said, “My daddy ran off when I was little. Went West, with his brother and my cousin, looking for gold in Alaska—or that was the plan as I heard it. For a while he sent letters. But when I was about seven years old, the letters just . . . stopped.”
    “You think something happened to him?”
    “That’s what we always figured. Except, it was strange.” Her voice ran out of steam as she read and reread the telegram.
    “What was strange?” Paul prompted.
    “One day Aunt Betty got a box in the post, full of Uncle Asa’s things, and Leander’s things, too. Leander was my cousin,” she clarified. “And there was some money in there—not a lot, but some. There was also a note inside from somebody they didn’t know, but it said Asa and Leander’d died on the frontier, of cholera or something. Anyway, when I was about ten, the justice of the peace said that my momma wasn’t married anymore on account of desertion, and she could marry Wilfred. He’s been my father ever since. So I don’t know . . . I don’t know what this means.”
    The tone of her voice changed as she quit relating ancient history and began to read aloud from the sheet of paper, including all the stops.
    “To Vinita May Swakhammer stop. Your father Jeremiah Granville Swakhammer has suffered an accident stop. His life hangs by a thread stop. He wants you to come to Tacoma in the Washington territory stop. Please send word if you can make it stop. Sheriff Wilkes can meet you at station and bring you north to Seattle where he lies gravely wounded stop.”
    The letter sagged in her hands until it rested atop her knees.
    “Is that all?” Paul asked.
    “That’s all.” She stared at the letter, then looked up at Paul. “And all this time, I figured he was dead.”
    “It looks like he ain’t.”
    “That’s what it looks like, yeah,” she agreed. And she didn’t know how to feel about it.
    “What’re you going to do?”
    She didn’t shrug, and didn’t shake her head. “I don’t know. He left me and Momma. He left us, and he never sent for us like he said he would. We waited all that time, and he never sent.”
    They sat in silence a few seconds, until Paul Forks said, “He’s sending for you now.”
    “A little late.”
    “Better late than never?” he tried. He leaned back and bracedagainst the stairwell in order to help push himself back to a standing position. “Sounds like he might be dying.”
    “Maybe,” she agreed. “But I’m not sure if I give a damn. He left us . . . Jesus, fifteen, sixteen years ago. That son of a bitch,” she mumbled, and then she said it louder. “That son of a bitch! All this time, he’s been out West just fine, just like he said he was going to be. And all that time, we sat at