By midmorning, Andre had reached the livery stable near the center of town.
It stood between the blacksmith’s workshop and a long building where ranchers stored grain before sending it east by rail.
A row of horses watched him from behind the fence, their breath rising in pale clouds.
The stable owner, Mr.
Sullivan, was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties who had spent most of his life working with horses.
His beard had turned almost completely white, and he walked with a slight limp after an accident many years earlier.
He glanced toward the bicycle.
“That machine still holding together?”
“Most of it.”
“One morning you’ll arrive carrying it instead of riding it.”
Andre smiled.
“Then I’ll be giving it a rest.”
Mr.
Sullivan shook his head, though there was affection in his expression.
He had known Andre’s mother for years.
When she became ill, he had quietly arranged extra work for her son, and after her passing he had continued giving Andre whatever hours the stable could afford.
That kindness was never mentioned aloud between them.
There were things people in the West understood without needing to say them.
Andre spent the next several hours carrying sacks of oats, brushing horses, clearing old straw, and helping a ranch hand repair a broken harness.
The smell of leather, hay, and warm animals filled the stable, and for a while he was too busy to think about the county notice.
Around noon, Mr.
Sullivan called him into the office.
“There’s a parcel of medicine and a sack of feed that need to reach the Miller place beyond the south ridge,” he said.
“Their wagon’s still stuck near the creek.
You can take the bicycle as far as the narrow road and walk the rest.”
Andre nodded.
“I can do that.”
“The rancher will pay you when you arrive.
Get back before dark, and I’ve got another job waiting.”
The extra money immediately came to Andre’s mind.
“Thank you, sir.”
Mr.
Sullivan reached into a drawer and handed him a small paper-wrapped sandwich.
“Mrs.
Sullivan made too many again.”
Andre looked at the sandwich, understanding the familiar excuse.
“Seems she does that often.”
“Terrible habit,” the older man replied.
Andre tucked the food into his coat pocket.
By early afternoon, he had delivered the supplies to the Miller ranch.
The rancher’s wife thanked him warmly and paid him for his work, adding a small piece of cheese for Willa.
Andre carefully wrapped the cheese and placed it in his satchel.
The journey back should have been simple.
The south road wound through open pastureland before rising toward a low ridge dotted with cottonwood trees.
In summer, cattle grazed there, and wagons followed deep tracks worn into the soil.
In winter, however, the wind could cover familiar paths with snow, and the frozen ground made every mile more difficult.
Andre had traveled the road many times.
He knew where the creek narrowed, where the fence turned east, and where a small abandoned homestead offered shelter when storms crossed the plains.
That afternoon, he noticed something unusual near the old crossroads.
At first he thought it was a bundle of clothing caught against a fence post.
Then the shape moved, and he saw an elderly woman standing beside the road.
She wore a plain beige coat that looked too thin for the weather.
A gray scarf covered her hair, and she held a small leather handbag against her chest.
Her shoes were tidy but poorly suited to the icy path, and she appeared uncertain which direction to take.
She turned toward the hills, then back toward town.
Andre slowed his bicycle.
There was no wagon nearby, no horse waiting at the fence, and no house close enough to reach quickly on foot.
He might have kept riding.
The sun was already leaning westward, and Mr.
Sullivan had promised another job if he returned before dark.
Andre could almost feel the money from those extra hours resting in his hand.
But the woman took a step toward the frozen ditch, hesitated, and gripped the fence for support.
Andre stopped.
“Ma’am?
Are you all right?”
She looked toward him, surprised.
For a moment she seemed reluctant to answer.
“I believe I’ve taken the wrong road.”
Andre climbed off the bicycle.
“Where were you trying to go?”
“Back to town.”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Town’s the other way.”
The woman followed his gaze, and a weary smile touched her face.
“Then I’ve made rather a poor afternoon of things.”
Her voice was gentle and educated, but beneath its calmness Andre heard exhaustion.
He studied the road behind her.
“Have you been walking long?”
“Longer than I intended.”
She tried to smile again, but her hands were trembling.
Andre noticed immediately.
The cold was growing sharper, and the shadows beneath the cottonwoods were already spreading across the snow.
He placed his bicycle against the fence and stepped closer.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, dear.
Just tired.”
“Have you eaten?”
The woman hesitated.
“Not recently.”
Andre reached into his pocket and removed the sandwich Mr.
Sullivan had given him.
It was wrapped in brown paper, with one corner already damp from the warmth of his coat.
He offered it to her.
“Here.”
She looked at the sandwich and then at him.
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“There’s plenty.”
It was a small lie, the kind his mother had told whenever she placed the last biscuit onto someone else’s plate.
The woman seemed to recognize it.
She accepted the sandwich with both hands.
“Thank you.”
Andre watched her unwrap it slowly, her fingers stiff with cold.
He removed his gloves.
“Here.
Put these on.”
She shook her head.
“You’ll need them.”
“My hands are used to this weather.”
“Cold doesn’t care what we’re used to.”
That made him smile.
“Maybe not.
But I know the road.”
She studied his face for several seconds, as though she were trying to understand why a young stranger would stop for her when he plainly had somewhere else to be.
Finally, she accepted the gloves.
“You don’t even know me,” she said softly.
Andre shrugged.
“You looked like you needed help.
That’s enough.”