Imogene looked from the helpless white fingers to her own blunt, capable hands, and a heavy tiredness blanketed her features. Lying down on the cot by the far wall, she let herself sleep.

            When she awoke, the afternoon sun was throwing the shadow of the hotel across the backyard. Sarah was still sleeping. Imogene levered herself stiffly out of her cot and sat down near the window to write Margaret Tolstonadge a brief account of their journey and Sarah’s illness, ending with: Please write Sarah Mary of Matthew and of home. She is still very ill and is not a strong woman. I think news of home and family would be so good for her now. As ever, Imogene G. She addressed it in care of Mrs. Thomas and, with a last check on Sarah, slipped out of the room.

            Having posted the letter, Imogene walked slowly up the boardwalk, her heels making a hollow sound on the wood. The sun shone under the wide overhang of the wooden awning, and Imogene tilted her face back to catch the light. Brown-and-white sparrows perched in the rain gutters, and the bright yellow-orange breast of a Western oriole flashed over V. Milatovich’s grocery store.

            Outside Willamette’s Dry Goods and Feed, two men lounged in a warm square of sunlight, their shoulders braced against the building. One was young, around thirty, with thick brown hair that curled boyishly over his ears. Large features crowded his face, and one side of his mouth drooped a little, giving him a puckish look. The other, gnarled and grizzled and in his fifties, was not over five feet seven inches tall, even in his thick-heeled boots. A sharp beak of a nose dominated his face, and bright blue eyes twinkled deep on either side of it. As Imogene drew near, the older man pushed himself out from the wall and tugged at the brim of a battered old hat. His right hand was missing all but the middle finger and thumb.

            “Afternoon to you, ma’am.”

            “Good afternoon.” Imogene nodded, giving them both a cursory glance.

            “You be the lady come in with the little sick miss the other day?”

            Imogene stopped. “Yes, I am.” She waited. The man had his hat off and was standing respectfully enough. He had to look up to talk with her. His companion had relinquished the support of the wall at Imogene’s approach and pushed his hat back in deference to her sex.

            “If you’re a spinster lady or a widow, I’d like to suggest we get hitched.” The man rubbed his grizzled head with the stumps of his fingers in an overabundance of humility. Imogene stared at him uncomprehendingly. “I’m proposing matrimony,” he explained.

            Imogene touched her drawn cheeks, her hair; then, with an obvious effort at self-control, she dropped her hands to her sides. Blood rose in her face to the roots of her hair, only her lips and the edges of her nostrils retaining their former pallor. “Excuse me.” Holding her dress back so it wouldn’t brush against him, she stepped around the man as though he were a pile of manure.

            Undaunted, he called after her, “You ever change your mind, name’s McMurphy. Willamette’ll know where I can be found.”

            The younger man laughed. “Now you’ve torn it, Mac. You’re too little. Gal like that throws the little ones back.”

            Mac hit him with his hat. “Go on. Mouth off. You got yourself a woman.”

            The younger man snorted derisively.

            Sarah was asleep. Still warm with fever, she had thrown off her covers and her small feet showed pink beneath the hem of the nightdress.

            Quietly, Imogene unpacked the rest of her bags and put her things away. She saved out ink and a dozen sheets of white paper. When the room had been tidied to her satisfaction, she sat down again at the window and carefully wrote in large letters across the top of each sheet: LAUNDRY AND MENDING. I. GRELZNIK—INQUIRE AT THE BROKEN PROMISE. She waited several moments for the ink to dry, then took them downstairs.

            Lutie was busy in the kitchen. But for the parlor, the kitchen was the largest room in the hotel, with the stove and pantry at one end and a long plank table flanked by benches at the other. The hotel residents ate in the kitchen along with two railroad men who lived near the station and boarded with the Bones. Lutie was cutting potatoes into cubes with a meat cleaver when Imogene came in.

            “Pardon me, Mrs. Bone.”

            “Lutie. We’re not so formal as all that.” She waved the cleaver in the direction of the bench opposite. “Sit yourself down. How’s little Mrs. Ebbitt?”

            “Still sleeping.” Imogene slid in between the table and the wall.

            “That’ll do her more good than anything. What’ve you got there?”

            Imogene had laid the papers out on the table. “That’s what I’ve come to ask you about. Until I can find a position, I’ve got to turn my hand to something to earn our keep.” Lutie’s face clouded as she read the leaflets. “I still have enough to pay the rent,” Imogene added quickly.

            “I’m not worried about that, hon. I expect Fred and I aren’t going to starve if we have to carry you a bit, till you’re settled. Taking in laundry just maybe isn’t the best way.”

            “There will be no teaching positions until fall term, and I want to pay our way.”

            “Chinese do most of that kind of work. Some white folks do it, it’s just that a Chinee’ll work for less money. I don’t know how they live, but they do. It kind of puts the squeeze on everybody. I don’t think you can get by charging less, and nobody’s going to pay you more.”

            “I need to do something.” Imogene poised her pen over the ink bottle. “How much should I charge?”

            “Fred and I can carry you for a bit.”

            “A nickel per shirt and ten cents for trousers?”

            “Whatever you make it, six Chinese will go you a dime better.”