He’d never thought of himself as a homebody but after two years in a mining camp, living much of the time in mud and muck, this place drew him like a moth to a light.
He gave his head a shake. Living in a cabin wouldn’t be bad either. There would be no carousing men. No fights. Why it might be even better than this house.
“You’re welcome to take your meals with us, of course,” she offered.
“Very well,” he said. Seems he had little option. He planted his hat on his head and opened the door.
“Supper will be in an hour,” Emily said.
“I’ll be back.” He had few supplies left and no desire to cook his own meal.
He led his horse past the barn and ground to a halt so fast his horse snorted. The cabin looked like a derelict chicken coop. He put his shoulder to the door to push it open and coughed. Inside there was a frame that was meant to be a bed, a table covered with a thick layer of dust and bird droppings, one wooden chair—missing the back—and a stove. The stove pipes hung from the roof. His hopes of better quarters than the mining camp lay shattered on the ground.
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