Sending Wages North

Margaret counted the coins twice before she wrapped them in brown paper.

The little stack on the table held more than she had ever sent home at once. She drew the string tight, then sat still with the parcel in both hands while the kitchen window took the morning light. Outside, a wagon wheel creaked past the yard. Inside, one of the new cooks clinked a spoon against a pot and glanced her way as if to ask whether she needed help.

Margaret shook her head and pressed the paper flat.

Her mother’s letter lay beside the packet, folded along the same crease as the last one. The writing was careful and small.

Your money paid for flour and lamp oil, and I have enough left for winter coal, it said. Do not fret over me. A woman can carry a hard year if she keeps her back straight.

Margaret touched the lines with one finger, then reached for the parcel again. She had doubled her old wage now, and no hand had to push it into hers. No one watched while she sealed the envelope. No one counted how many hours she had stood at a stove.

She tied the flap, set her initials on the front, and handed it to the ranch rider waiting by the door.

“Bring it straight to town,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The word still made her pause. He had said it plain, not as a joke.

When he was gone, Margaret turned back to the worktable. The morning meal had gone well. The eggs had set clean in the pans, the biscuits had browned at the edges, and no one had shouted. A tray sat ready for the hands in the east field, wrapped with a cloth against the wind.

She lifted it with both hands.