That hadn’t gone like Annie’d thought it would.
The next morning, she walked down the streets of Cincinnati, toward the post office, the sound of the gunshot still echoing in her head, and she couldn’t help but wonder what the mayor had been about to say. She wanted the garou dead as much as anyone, but he’d been close to telling them something about the Alpha.
How stupid of Jack McCall to shoot the mayor right before he gave up important information.
Who was that Mr. McCall anyway? He wasn’t even part of their posse.
Well, the city was down one evil garou, and no one would be biting any more innocent people in factories. The whole shooting the mayor might be an issue, but that was Mr. Hickok’s and Mr. Utter’s problem to solve.
She tried not to think about the way the mayor had shifted back into his human form as he died.
Because he was dead.
Because Jack McCall had shot him.
Was it still murder if the man had been transforming into a wolf right there? What about if he’d been responsible for a dozen innocent people getting bitten?
Annie put those and other uncomfortable questions away as, at last, she reached the post office, the letter—and her contest winnings—clutched tight in her hand. It was an awful lot of money to entrust to the postal service, but she didn’t have time to take it home herself—not if she wanted to perform at the show tonight.
As Annie pulled open the door to the post office, she noticed a familiar figure at the butcher shop next door: Jane. She wasn’t doing much of anything, just standing at the window like something interesting was happening inside.
“Jane!” Annie waved. “Jane, over here!”
Jane didn’t seem to notice her.
“Jane, it’s me! It’s Annie!” They’d been roommates since yesterday, and if that didn’t make them best friends, Annie didn’t know what would. But at no point did Jane look over, although several other people gave Annie a wide berth as they went about their business.
Frowning, Annie stomped into the post office and waited her turn. “How much to send this?” she asked when she reached the front of the line.
“Three cents,” replied the postal worker.
“Three cents?” Annie cried. “Are you kidding me?”
Three cents was the modern equivalent of about seventy-three cents—for a simple first-class letter! Annie, who hadn’t sent many letters before, was outraged.
Of course, she paid the exorbitant price, carefully counting out three pennies in the slowest possible manner, and released the letter containing a hundred-dollar bill (one hundred dollars, people!) into the hands of the postal worker who no doubt hated her by now.
Annie marched back outside, feeling as though she’d been robbed, and found Jane still gazing into the butcher shop.
Annie walked over to her. “Hi there, Jane.”
Jane jumped and spun to look at her. “Annie Mosey! Lord, you should wear a bell. Where’d you sneak up from?”
“The post office.”
“Oh.”
“Are you all right? You seemed deep in thought.”
Jane glanced at the butcher shop one last time, then started walking away. “I was thinking about those poor folks from the factory. They didn’t deserve what happened to them.”
Annie couldn’t disagree with that. They were garou now, but it wasn’t as though they’d asked to get bitten. They were victims of circumstance. But if Annie knew anything about the garou (and she rather thought she did), it was this: they would soon be monsters.
“It’s a shame they’ll probably do something terrible someday, and then we’ll be right back in Cincinnati so that Mr. Hickok and Mr. Utter can arrest them,” Annie said at last.
Jane looked curiously at her, but before Annie could ask if the other girl disagreed, Jane said, “What were you doing in the post office?”
“Sending a letter to my family. Did you know stamps cost three cents?”
Jane nodded disgustedly. “It’s robbery, that’s what it is.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” Annie grinned at the other girl, happy to have something in common with her at last. “Do you send many letters? I expect I’ll be sending plenty to my family as we travel the country. Plus, I want to send them some of my wages; the contest winnings will almost pay off the farm, but they still have to eat.”
“I send lots of letters,” Jane said gruffly. “Tons. And I send money to my family, too.”
Annie’s grin widened. “Mother? Father? Siblings?”
“Siblings,” Jane said. “Parents died a long time ago.”
Annie’s heart clenched, and she nodded. “My pa, too. It’s his rifle I use, in his memory. Mama just got remarried. It’s been . . .” Well, she didn’t really want to talk about how her mama had been since marrying Grandpap Shaw. “I have lots of siblings, though. Three sisters. A brother.”
Jane’s smile was more like a grimace. “Yeah, me too. Three sisters and a brother.”
“Oh my gosh,” Annie squealed. “We’re the same!”
(Poor Annie. She’s trying so hard.)
Jane shook her head. “They rely on me. It’s a lot of responsibility. Weighs on me sometimes.”
“I know exactly how that feels,” Annie said. “You know, we should write our letters together. And go to the post office together. Maybe we can get a group discount on postage.”
“I, uh, don’t think it works like that.”
But Annie wasn’t listening. Already, she was imagining the two of them sitting at a table, their papers neat and orderly, and the scent of ink on their fingers as they penned detailed letters to their siblings. How wonderful it would be to have something to share with Jane. They were the only two girls in the posse, after all; they needed to stick together.
Little did Annie know, but Jane’s mind was far, far away from letter writing. “I have to go,” Jane said, peeling off as they passed a saloon.
“Wait,” Annie called, but it was too late. Jane was gone, and Annie was alone.
Annie wasn’t one for paranoia, but it seemed like people were avoiding her.
First Jane had abandoned her for the saloon, and then Frank claimed he was teaching his dog new tricks. Annie had offered to help, reminding him that she had a way with animals, but he said he had everything under control and didn’t want George to get distracted by her.
But she could not ignore the unusual coolness to his tone. Or maybe it wasn’t unusual, and she’d misunderstood the connection she’d believed they were developing.
Alone, Annie practiced for the show, reread Fearsome Garou and Where to Find Them to brush up on her garou knowledge, and started sewing a new dress she could wear on the stage. She also finished that dress, because she had no one to talk to or go on a walk with.
The new dress was pink, fell to the middle of her calves, and had an embroidered flower up the skirt. It was perfectly girlish, and she loved every stitch of it.
She didn’t have anyone to show, though.
Finally, it was time.
Annie pranced onto the stage at the Coliseum Theater, her rifle resting on her shoulder, and the crowd cheering as she reached the center.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen!” Mr. Hickok waved for everyone to quiet down. “Before we get started, the Wild West show has a surprise for you all tonight!”
Everyone cheered again.
“And I suppose you’ve already seen her.”
The cheering crescendoed.
“Because she couldn’t wait to come up here and give you the performance of a lifetime. Please welcome the newest member of the Wild Bill’s Wild West, Annie!” Mr. Hickok stepped aside and motioned to her.
Annie smiled and waved.
Jane stood on Annie’s left side, clapping too, while Frank stood to her right. He was working the crowd, urging them to cheer even louder, and when he glanced her way and their eyes met, and his were so warm and inviting, Annie’s heart lifted into her throat and her foot actually popped back.
The audience screamed.
He’d been too busy for her earlier, but maybe it hadn’t meant anything. George did love her, and it was probably easier to train him if Annie wasn’t around.
So everything was fine between her and Frank. Good. That settled, she threw herself into the show they’d rehearsed, giving it everything she had.
The first act was a retelling of Annie’s introduction to the Wild West show, including the competition, although it had been thoroughly revised to include a lot more George the Poodle, Jane and her bullwhip, and even some singing. The vote had been left out, which was probably for the best.
After that, they moved on to trick shots, aiming for smaller and smaller targets—like playing cards and thimbles. The audience ate it up, a few even offering items out of their own pockets. At one point, Frank was given a lady’s hairpin. He tossed it into the air, Annie shot, and Frank handed the bent pin back to the young lady with a flourish.
Finally, they reached the grand finale, tense with a fictional garou hunt, which Mr. Hickok narrated. This animated, excited man was a mask he put on when he was onstage, she realized, because this was certainly not the Wild Bill she was coming to know. And then there was George: he was the “garou,” and no one could take him seriously, because every time he was “killed,” he rolled onto his back and wagged his tail as his tongue lolled out of his mouth.
By the time Mr. Hickok swept back to the center of the stage, the audience was roaring with laughter and applause. “Thank you, all!” He waved his hat around. “Thank you so much for coming to our show.”
If Annie had ever had any reservations about show business, she would never admit to it after this. As the applause escalated and everyone from the company took a bow, Annie knew this was where she wanted to be. Up here, on the stage, with these people—her heart felt full with happiness.
“And let’s hear it one more time for our newest member, Annie!” Mr. Hickok shouted over the din. “You’ve just witnessed history with this one!”
Annie curtsied, smiling so hard her face hurt.
Then, the curtain fell and the audience began to filter out, and the mood backstage shifted.
Frank, who’d been his normal warm and charming self during the show, abruptly pulled away from her. “I have to help clean up.”
“I’ll help, too!” Annie trotted after him. “The show was amazing,” she said, reaching for a nearby broom. “All those people! I can see why you love it.”
“Yeah, it was amazing.” But Frank didn’t sound excited, only irritated. He took the broom from her and nodded toward the door. “Go meet your adoring public.”
She tilted her head and frowned, but she was new around here, and maybe he was always moody like this after a show? (He hadn’t been before, when she’d demanded to join the posse, but . . .)
“Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine.” He motioned for her to go, then started sweeping bits of paper and glass and shotgun shells without another word.
Stung, Annie got her gun and headed over to the door and found a dozen young women (the same unchaperoned young women who’d been fawning over Frank after every show), and even a few reporters.
“Annie!” one of the young women called. “Annie, come here!”
Annie smoothed her dress and smiled, suddenly imagining a class for women in which she taught gun safety, how to shoot, and more gun safety. If they were interested in her performance tonight, she’d be happy to teach them.
“What’s it like working with Frank Butler?” one asked.
Annie groaned.
“You must have a very close relationship by now,” another said. “But how close?”
Annie glanced over her shoulder, where she could see Frank pause his sweeping and lean over to say something to Jane. He did not look at Annie.
“Well?” the young woman asked. “How close?”
Not as close as Annie had thought. Not as close as she wanted to be.
The truth of that feeling bloomed in her stomach, and then sank with the understanding that Frank was (probably) being cold to her for a reason, and she didn’t know him nearly well enough to be able to guess what that reason might be. Except . . . she did know the Wild Bill’s Wild West was his great love, and she had just received an immense round of applause on the stage he’d worked so hard to build.
Was he . . . jealous? Threatened?
“You’ll have to ask him how close we are,” Annie said with a wink, even though a sharp pain sliced through her heart. She’d liked him. Really liked him. She’d been ready to kiss him, after all, and then he’d pulled away. Now, here he was—well, over there, but you know what we mean—feeling threatened by her success simply because she was a girl. Didn’t her success make the show’s prospects better for everyone?
Some of the young ladies groaned. “Annie, please. He’ll never tell us. All he does is sign autographs and say nice things about our hair, and then he goes off with Wild Bill and Calamity Jane.”
Annie shrugged. “Then I guess you’ll never know. But I will tell you this.” She leaned forward. The young women leaned forward, too. “There’s no business like show business.”
“Miss Annie!” A reporter pushed his way through the throng of young women. “We want a photo for the paper!”
Annie lifted her rifle to rest on her shoulder and smiled as the camera flashed, and she blinked away stars.
“What’s it like performing with Wild Bill’s Wild West?” the reporter asked, pencil poised over a notebook. “Where did you grow up? How did you learn to shoot like that? And what’s your last name?”
Annie worked through the assault of questions, starting to answer the last one first, but she paused.
Mama and Grandpap Shaw didn’t approve of her joining the show. Her sisters and brother were supportive, but still, she needed to protect them from newspapers and anyone else who might bother them. They liked their privacy.
She couldn’t give the reporter the name Mosey. She needed a different name for the stage. Something strong and memorable, but mostly something meaningful to her.
She’d been thinking about that elderly man from the train lately, the one who’d reminded her that people could be kind and compassionate, the one who’d cared for her when he had every right to take her back to the Wolves after learning she’d run away.
Annie wanted to be like that: good-hearted and thoughtful, helping people who weren’t as fortunate as her.
“Well?” asked the reporter.
“Oakley,” she said. “My name is Annie Oakley.”