Bender Inn - interior

Journal Entry – October 1, 1871

Location: Bender Inn Interior

The lavender in the air does little to cover the coppery edge clinging to this house. Beneath the wooden floors, I imagine the blood still seeping — slow, patient. The trail robbers won’t trouble anyone again. Pa made sure of that.

Abigail hasn’t spoken much since. She sits rigidly at the table now, hands folded so tightly her knuckles pale. There’s a tremble in the cup she holds, a faint clatter every time the porcelain kisses the saucer. She won’t look at me for long, just quick glances that ask questions she’s too afraid to say aloud. I wonder if she’s afraid of him. Or of me.

The parlor flickers with firelight and pretense. Patrons near the hearth tell half-truths with their eyes. One claims to be a preacher. Another says he’s passing through. No one asks questions here. And the ones that matter are never asked aloud.

A cracked mirror hangs beside the entry. It caught my reflection tonight—warped, as though even the glass knows better than to show things clearly. In that moment, Abigail saw it too. Her breath hitched. I smiled. She did not.

Outside, a storm gathers. Inside, the storm has already passed.