PART 2 — THE CLOTH THAT MADE A WHOLE TOWN AFRAID

Eleanor stared at Asher as though he had just opened a door she had believed sealed forever.

“Not contagious?”

“Maybe not.”

He picked up the lantern.

“But I need proof.”

“What kind of proof?”

“The kind nobody in Ashford bothered to look for.”

He examined her forearms again.

The redness stopped almost exactly where her work sleeves had ended.

Asher’s eyes narrowed.

“This isn’t spreading randomly.”

Eleanor looked down.

“What does that mean?”

“It means there is probably a reason.”

He crossed to her traveling bag.

Inside were two dresses, a comb, a small sewing kit, and the gray wool gloves Mrs. Hadley had given her months earlier.

Asher froze.

“Where did these come from?”

“Hadley’s store.”

He lifted one glove with a piece of clean cloth.

He smelled it.

His expression changed.

“What?”

“Chemicals.”

Eleanor’s stomach tightened.

“What kind?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He carried the glove to the table.

With a small knife, he scraped several tiny crystals from the inside onto a dark ceramic plate.

Eleanor watched him.

“What are you looking for?”

“Residue.”

“From the dye?”

“Possibly.”

He studied the crystals beneath the lantern.

“Some dyes and cleaning powders can irritate or burn skin after repeated exposure.”

He looked at her hands.

“Especially when the material stays damp against the skin.”

Eleanor stared at her fingers.

For months, she had slept alone.

Eaten alone.

Walked through streets where people stepped aside to avoid her.

Children had been warned not to touch her.

Women had whispered when she entered a shop.

All because nobody had bothered to ask a simple question.

What touched her skin?

“Can you prove it?”

Asher looked toward the window.

“I can try.”

The next three days changed everything.

Eleanor touched none of the clothing from Hadley’s store.

Asher washed her hands with clean water.

He covered the worst cracks with a simple salve.

He gave her fresh linen gloves.

And he watched.

Not like a doctor waiting for a disease to spread.

Like a man testing a theory.

On the second morning, the swelling had begun to fall.

On the third, Eleanor could close her fingers without pain.

On the fourth morning, she woke before sunrise.

For several seconds, she didn’t understand what felt different.

Then she looked at her hands.

The swelling was almost gone.

The cracks were beginning to close.

She ran from the room.

“Asher!”

He hurried inside from chopping wood.

“What happened?”

She held out her hands.

“Look.”

He took them carefully.

He examined each finger.

Eleanor laughed.

Then she started crying.

“You were right.”

Asher didn’t smile.

His eyes had moved to the gray gloves lying on the table.

During the night, he had soaked one in a basin of water.

At the bottom lay a pale residue.

Eleanor wiped her tears.

“What is it?”

“I’ve seen this before.”

“Where?”

“Years ago.”

He lifted the basin.

“At a textile camp north of here.”

Eleanor’s smile disappeared.

“What happened there?”

“Six workers developed almost identical wounds.”

Her heart sank.

“And?”

“They recovered.”

“How?”

“They left.”

“Just like that?”

“Within weeks.”

“Then why do you look frightened?”

Asher set the basin down.

“Because I remember the company supplying their cloth.”

He walked to an old trunk near the wall.

From inside, he pulled a folded newspaper clipping.

The paper was yellowed with age.

He unfolded it.

At the bottom was the name of the supplier.

Eleanor read it once.

Then again.

Her blood turned cold.

Hadley Textile Company.

She slowly looked up.

“That’s Mrs. Hadley’s family business.”

Asher nodded.

“Exactly.”

Eleanor’s relief vanished.

“If they knew the cloth could hurt people…”

“We don’t know that yet.”

“But someone knew.”

“Maybe.”

“Why would they keep selling it?”

Asher didn’t answer.

He looked toward the window.

Below the mountain, Ashford was barely visible through the morning mist.

“There’s something else.”

“What?”

“The workers at that camp weren’t all doing the same job.”

Eleanor frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Some handled the cloth.”

“Others?”

“Packed it.”

“Did they get sick?”

“No.”

“Then why me?”

Asher looked at her.

“Because you washed it.”

Eleanor’s breath caught.

“Wet fibers release things dry cloth doesn’t.”

Silence filled the cabin.

She thought about the endless tubs of water.

The heavy wool.

The gray gloves.

The burning sensation that always became worse after a long day.

The pattern had been there all along.

Nobody had looked.

“Doctor Whitmore could have figured this out.”

“He could have.”

“Then why didn’t he?”

Asher’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t know.”

Eleanor looked at the old newspaper clipping.

“Maybe he didn’t care.”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe someone didn’t want him to care.”

Asher slowly turned toward her.

That possibility changed the room.

Eleanor felt it too.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking your illness was convenient.”

“For whom?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then he said:

“For people who wanted you isolated.”

A chill moved through Eleanor.

“Why would anyone want that?”

Asher studied her face.

“Do you own anything?”

She frowned.

“What?”

“Land?”

“No.”

“Money?”

“Not anymore.”

“Family business?”

“My father left a small property outside Ashford.”

Asher went still.

“You still own it?”

“I think so.”

“You think?”

“After my father died, my uncle handled everything.”

“Who?”

“Marcus Voss.”

Asher’s expression changed.

“Your uncle?”

“Yes.”

“Does he live in Ashford?”

“Yes.”

“Does he have anything to do with Hadley?”

“I don’t know.”

Asher walked to the window.

“How long after your father’s death did the skin problems begin?”

Eleanor thought.

“About six months.”

“And when did your uncle start managing the property?”

“The same year.”

Asher turned.

“What happened to the land?”

“I was told it wasn’t worth much.”

“Were you shown the papers?”

“No.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then he reached for the old newspaper again.

“Eleanor, I think we may have been looking at the wrong illness.”

Her pulse quickened.

“What do you mean?”

“I think the sickness was real.”

She frowned.

“But not contagious.”

“No.”

“Then what was the real danger?”

Asher looked down at the gloves.

“The people who knew what caused it.”

Three heavy knocks struck the cabin door.

Eleanor jumped.

Asher’s hand moved instinctively toward the rifle resting beside the fireplace.

Another knock.

Harder.

Then a man’s voice came through the storm.

“Eleanor Voss!”

She went pale.

“Asher…”

The man outside shouted again.

“Doctor Whitmore knows you’re here.”

Asher’s face hardened.

He stepped between Eleanor and the door.

“Stay behind me.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”

The voice came again.

“You’ve been told to return to Ashford.”

Eleanor’s heart pounded.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“I know.”

The answer was calm.

Almost too calm.

Then the stranger said something that made Asher’s entire expression change.

“He also knows what your uncle did to your father’s land.”

Eleanor stopped breathing.

Asher slowly looked at her.

The stranger continued.

“And if you want to know why your husband—”

Eleanor’s face went white.

“I wasn’t married.”

A pause.

Then the man outside said:

“Your father, then.”

Asher’s hand tightened around the rifle.

The stranger’s voice lowered.

“Your father didn’t die naturally, Eleanor.”

Silence.

The fire cracked behind them.

Snow continued striking the roof.

Then came the final words.

“Doctor Whitmore wasn’t trying to cure you.”

Asher looked at Eleanor.

The color had drained from her face.

“He was trying to make sure you never discovered what was buried beneath your father’s land.”

The cabin fell silent.

Then the door handle began to turn.