The Ledger of Red Crag

Sunlight came like a promise across Cinder's Crossing, bleaching the porch rails and throwing Mae Calloway's shadow long and crooked across the dirt. Her hands smelled of oil and hot iron; the workbench held a dozen half-finished things—springs, a dented conical lens, a strip of braided leather she kept for no particular purpose. Through the open door of the shed the town rose in slow, familiar notes: the bell at the depot scratching its single hour; a horse's hooves clopping past the livery; the distant, metallic laugh of the telegraph when someone sent a wrong code and corrected it with an embarrassed cuss. Beyond the buildings the plain spread, a slice of hard grass and sage and the low, red shoulder of the mesa that kept its secrets.

Mae wiped her hands on a rag and listened. Jory would be by before the noon train, full of questions and stubborn pride. The boy's face had the thin, determined look of someone too quick to grow up. He carried a metal tin where he kept screws and a small, battered harmonica that he played badly but with a grin that unmade her mood every time. She'd taken him on two summers ago after his ma got sick and the town turned their eyes because sickness cost coin. He wasn't family by blood, but the way he stacked the planks in the yard and fed the lame mare, Mae counted him like kin.

Grandad Ellis's shadow moved along the tumble-down fence. He hobbled with a cane that had once been a fencepost, and he liked to sing low, tuneless lines about trains and the sea, which he had never seen. He'd taught Mae how to read a blueprint the way other grandads taught their grandkids to spit and squint. "Don't use your strength where your brain will do," he'd say, and then laugh and hand her a wrench the size of a child's arm. Today he had a pail of water sloshing at his feet and a grin that meant he'd found a scrap of something somebody thought worthless.

Mae checked the tension on the spring she was tempering. The metal sang when she flexed it, a small note that made the dogs stir in their sleep. The town's problems fit into measures you could hold in your palm—broken axles, leaky pipes, a stubborn wheel. Still, there was the horizon, and it tugged at her. Not because she wanted to leave; she had places to fix and people who needed the light on, but because the railroad's iron ribbon stitched the world together and every man with money that rode it cast long, wanting eyes. Her thumb found the nick along the base of her palm, the small pale groove from a burn she earned the summer she welded a fitting that should never have been so proud. She traced it and remembered how the sparks had eaten the skin. It wasn't a neat thing to look at, but it held a lesson: hot metal, like a choice, cooled to whatever shape you held it to.