kettle of water next to the stove that stood against the far wall. The fire in the stove burned low, so she added a few pieces of kindling before placing the kettle on top. She grabbed two more kettles in fingers that ached with every movement, made her way down to the kitchen, and filled them from the pump that stood next to the big Dutch oven.
Soon, she was reclining in the tub, everything but her head, elbows, and knees submerged. Little wisps of steam rose from the water's surface, fading into the air like ghosts at the coming of dawn. Outside, she could still hear the muffled sounds of an ordinary day, and she smiled. Those people could continue about their ordinary days and nights free of the wendigo's terror. Mart Duggan could collar his rowdies, Jack Evans could court his whore, and Boots could serve his whiskey.
The thought of Boots made her smile widen. She'd have to stop by the Pioneer before they left town and inform the bartender of her victory so he could go back to being his jolly old self. Seeing men tense up with fear wasn't anything new for her, but it rarely happened to the local whiskey slingers. Such men were usually the ones who kept brave faces on while a town's citizens were vanishing or being eaten by some spook.
Maybe Boots just had a sensitive spirit, too sensitive for that kind of carnage. She'd pegged him as an Army deserter when they first met. She and Ben were on the first Jules Bartlett case then, and word had already spread through the town that a vampire was loose in the woods. The Pioneer was the new watering hole in the growing boom town, and she'd stopped by to wet her whistle. Boots had greeted her warmly despite the general gloom, and his mood had only improved when she ordered from his private stock. The thought of a vampire didn't seem to bother him then, but nobody had been eaten alive outside of his saloon that time, either.
The bath water began growing cold. Reluctantly, Cora roused herself from the tub. She wrapped a rough linen towel around herself, gathered her discarded clothing, and made her way back to the room. Ben hadn't moved from his seat. He glanced up as she entered, and she could feel his eyes lingering on her as she shut the door and knelt beside the bed and pulled out her trunk. She indulged him a little, taking her time as she removed the towel and pulled on her traveling clothes. He watched her all the while, only returning to his book after she fastened her belt.
Cora sat on the bed as she rummaged through her trunk, keeping her head down so he wouldn't see her flushed face. Ben's attentions, silent though they were, always made her feel beautiful. She knew she wasn't. She had looked into a mirror enough times in her life to know that. Her face was too thin, her teeth crooked, and her hair stringy. As a young woman, she would often stare at the pretty girls in town, sick with envy. She'd wanted nothing more than to be a proper Southern belle for a while, even if her family had been far too poor to afford fancy dresses and bonnets. It seemed cruel that the good Lord hadn't even blessed her with a pretty face.
When Ben looked at her that way, though, she felt different. His gaze was intense, almost reverent. She'd seen that look on his face when he watched a desert sunset or read a poem he was fond of. It had been reflected in mountain lakes and stained-glass windows. When he turned it on her, she felt as beautiful and majestic as any of them.
Everything was accounted for in their trunk except one thing. "You still got that knife on you?"
"Right there," Ben said, pointing to the bedside stand.
She picked it up and pulled it out of its sheath. The silver blade shimmered in the faint light. Grinning, she walked over to Ben and knelt in front of him. "You want to do the honors?"
Ben's blue eyes darkened. "You know I don't like that."
"Fine," Cora said. She ran her fingers along the scars on her left cheek, searching for the last one. When she felt it, she raised the knife to her flesh and pressed. The sting made her eyes water, but she drew the point of the blade down her