Sundown at Silver Hollow

The sun cut the rim of the canyon like a coin dropped edgewise into a wash of copper and dust. Silver Hollow woke slow and stubborn, as if the town had to convince itself to breathe each morning. Planks of the boardwalk creaked where the wind moved through empty shirts hung to dry. The general store's bell added a metallic note; a dog yawned and lifted its head, then settled back into the shade of a wagging porch. Maeve Calhoun smelled coffee and horse sweat before she saw them both. Her hands were black with oil and embossed leather when she pushed open the door to her shop, the hinges complaining in a stray half-sentence. The bench smelled of tack, the iron forge gave off a ghost of warmth, and a pocket of light lay across the worktable where tools rested like quiet promises.

She set a boot she had been stitching on the bench, fingers methodical and sure. The leather took the shape of her palm; Maeve had made a thousand pieces for a thousand needs and knew how each stitch changed more than an object. Outside the shop, Miss Liza, who taught the school, walked past with a basket of papers clutched to her chest. Tommy—small, freckled, and given to sudden laughter—raced by with a homemade kite that had lost half its tail. He careened and nearly knocked over a row of saddles. "Watch it, kid," Maeve said without looking up, and Tommy's grin shone like a coin.

"Morning, Mae," Miss Liza called. "There'll be a meeting by the pump at noon. They're saying Pike & Gant sent men from the line office."

Maeve's hands stopped a moment. The words fit into the shop like a stone dropped into oil: ripples, then tight circles. Pike & Gant was the railroad concern building through the ridges—steady, loud as a smith's hammer and twice as uncompromising. Men from the line office meant surveyors and papers; it also meant men who could smile while taking what they wanted and leaving no footprints worth counting.

She finished the last stitch and smoothed the leather between thumb and forefinger. The bell above the door chimed as Doc Hollis came in, boots kicking up a scent of liniment and tobacco. "You hear?" he asked, pulling open a jar of balm. "They want to mark the old mill ditch for a spur."

Maeve let the tools fall into the cup where they clacked like low thunder. Her chest felt hollow, as if someone had taken the measure of it. The mill ditch fed the town through summer and drought. It fed Miss Liza's garden and the hollowed well behind the school. It fed Tommy's tendency to spill crumbs on the steps and the way the laundress could smell soap in her dreams. "We'll meet noon," she said. "I'll be there."