Dakota Territory, 1881
The post office was quieter than usual that afternoon.
Dust floated through shafts of sunlight pouring from the enormous window that overlooked the town’s main street. Outside, wagons creaked across the dry road, and a horse flicked its tail beside a weathered hitching post. Inside, the scent of old paper, lamp oil, leather, and pine boards filled the air.
Sarah Whitmore sat stiffly on a wooden bench near the counter.
She was twenty-four years old, though the hardships of frontier life made her seem older. Her faded blue dress hung loosely around her slender frame, and dust covered the hem and boots from a long ride into town.
Every few seconds she shifted her weight.
Every movement hurt.
The pain had been growing for months.
At first it was only discomfort. Then burning. Then sharp stabs that shot through her lower back and hips whenever she sat.
Now even standing brought little relief.
She had traveled twenty miles that morning to speak with the town doctor.
The visit had lasted less than five minutes.
“Women’s troubles,” he had said.
Then he charged her two dollars.
Sarah had left fighting tears.
Now she sat in the post office waiting for the stagecoach that would take mail north.
The old postmaster, Henry Lawson, glanced at her from behind the counter.
“You feeling poorly, Miss Whitmore?”
She hesitated.
People rarely listened.
Still, she answered.
“It hurts when I sit.”
The words barely rose above a whisper.
Henry nodded politely.
Then he returned to sorting letters.
Sarah lowered her eyes.
Just like everyone else.
Nobody asked what kind of pain.
Nobody asked how long.
Nobody cared.
Outside, two businessmen stood beside a horse trough laughing about something.
Inside, the telegraph machine clicked steadily.
Life moved on.
And Sarah felt invisible.
The door suddenly opened.
A tall figure entered.
The room seemed smaller the moment he stepped inside.
Jacob Mercer removed his black bowler hat and brushed dust from his broad shoulders.
Most people in town knew him.
Some respected him.
Others feared him.
He lived alone in the hills west of town, trapping, hunting, and guiding travelers through difficult country.
He was nearly six feet four inches tall and built like an oak tree.
Animal furs draped across his shoulders.
Bone necklaces hung against his chest.
A hunting knife rested at his side.
Children whispered stories about him.
Many were untrue.
Jacob walked to the counter.
“Mail for Mercer?”
Henry retrieved a bundle of letters.
While waiting, Jacob noticed Sarah.
Actually noticed her.
Not the way men often did.
Noticing her distress.
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