CHAPTER

2

Laura, dear, what are you doing wandering around in your condition?”

My eyes were inexorably drawn to the necklace adorning the whore’s throat. My mother’s sapphire-and-pearl pendant had traveled from New York City to Galveston, across Texas and Indian Territory to the Mississippi River. It was my protection from destitution, the seed money Kindle and I would use to start a new life. Rosemond touched the necklace and smirked. I imagined reaching out and ripping it from her long, vulnerable neck.

Rosemond’s demeanor changed as soon as she caught sight of the redheaded woman. She reached for me, smelled the sour aroma of urine, and drew back. Her lip curled, but her voice was solicitous, as if speaking to a child or an infirm elder. “What happened?”

“She was thrown out of that saloon,” the redheaded woman said. I followed her outstretched arm and saw the man I’d followed earlier leaning against the post, smoking a cigar and watching us.

Rosemond smiled at the woman. “And who are you?”

“Cora Bayle.”

Rosemond’s smile turned into a wide, wolfish grin. “That certainly clears up my confusion.”

“I thought I saw Kindle.” Despite the shot of moonshine Dunk had given me, my tongue refused to work properly. My words came out in one long slur.

Rosemond’s grin didn’t waver, but I saw a small muscle pulse in her jaw. “And now we’ve missed our train.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Cora asked.

“Her monthly courses. Excruciating pain.” Rosemond switched the flour sack into the hand holding her purse and grasped my elbow with the other. “Thank you for your help. Come along, Laura.”

Cora stepped between us. “She said you kidnapped her.”

Rosemond raised one eyebrow and took a long moment to look Cora Bayle up and down, her gaze settling on Cora’s heavily freckled hands white-knuckling her carpetbag. When Rosemond finally looked at Cora’s face again, her expression cleared. “Nora.”

“My name is Cora. Who are you?”

“Rosemond Barclay. Her sister.” Rosemond stepped slightly away from me, and Cora followed. “You look like an intelligent woman; surely you can see my sister isn’t in her right mind.” I tried to stand steady on shaky legs.

“I see she has a days’-old black eye and a lump on her forehead above it. I also see she’s high, most likely on laudanum.”

“You have experience with it?” When Cora didn’t respond, Rosemond continued. “It is the only thing that gives her relief. Unfortunately, it makes her unsure on her feet. She falls regularly. I try to keep her in bed, to monitor the amount she takes, but you know how sneaky dopers can be. I left her alone for mere minutes and she snuck away, probably trying to find more opiates.”

“She was looking for a man.”

Rosemond laughed gaily. “Aren’t we all?”

Cora couldn’t keep the flush of embarrassment from overtaking her pale complexion. Rosemond’s sly expression told me she noticed. “Laura was abandoned by her husband. He was quite the rake. A gambler, drunk, and womanizer. I tried to warn her.”

“No.” I shook my head but couldn’t dislodge the words I wanted to say from the brick wall in my mind. I hit my forehead with my fist, and the dull throbbing returned. I rubbed my eyes against my threatening tears. “That’s not true.”

“She defends him still.” Rosemond shook her head. “I’ve tried to make her understand it’s a fool’s errand to rely on a man to make her happy or provide.”

“A fool’s errand?”

“Men can and do leave, and where does that leave the woman? Destitute, at the mercy of family, if she has any, with few options of making a living.” Cora’s chin rose higher. Rosemond looked at me. Her smile was caring, but her eyes were flinty and cold. “Laura is destitute. Completely reliant on my goodwill. As well as my bank account.”

The threat was clear. I glanced toward the end of the street. The prairie yawned into the bleak, featureless distance. Storm clouds hung above the ground like a curtain of smoke after a battle. I had nowhere to go and no money to get there. I searched the main street for the sheriff’s office, my only option. As if reading my mind, Rosemond threaded her arm through mine and turned her attention to Cora. Thunder growled in the distance.

“Well. I suppose that’s our cue to procure lodgings for the night. Thank you for your help.”

We moved off. I looked back at the saloon. The man I’d followed was gone.

I allowed Rosemond to pull me along, hoping her bottle of laudanum had missed the train as well.

Five minutes later we were in a surprisingly lavish room on the second floor of the hotel. A canopied bed anchored the room. A white ceramic chamber pot was visible beneath the bed, and its matching pitcher and bowl sat on the chest of drawers. A straight-back chair and table were tucked into the corner on one side of the bed; on the other side a three-paneled partition blocked off a large copper tub. I went to the window, pulled back the dusty-smelling red drapes, and stared through the wavy leaded glass at the street below. A man wearing a tin star stood on the porch of the building across the street talking to the man I’d followed into the saloon, the Wanted posters nailed to the wall flapping in the breeze next to them. The sheriff lit the other man’s cigar, then his own cigarette. They smoked and stared in the direction of the coming storm. They tipped their hats to Cora Bayle, and the sheriff spoke to her while motioning to the storm and to the hotel. Cora replied, and he nodded, touched his hat again, and the two men meandered down the street in the direction of the saloon. Cora Bayle glanced up and down the street, a lost and aimless expression on her face. Thunder broke, louder this time, and a gust of wind blew a poster from the wall.

Rosemond turned me away from the window and slapped me across the face so hard I almost fell to the ground. She grabbed my upper arm and pulled me close enough I could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. She put her finger in my face. “Don’t you ever do that again.” Her smallpox scars, normally well camouflaged with paint, stood out white against her red, angry complexion. “Where’s Dunk?”

“In the last car of the train, I suspect. Gambling.”

“Godammit,” she said under her breath. “You better pray to God Dunk gets off at the right station and remembers our trunk. Everything we need to start over is in that trunk. Money, the deed to a lot, the receipt for a prebuilt house. If Duncan …” Her fingers dug into my upper arm before releasing me, and she walked away in frustration and anger.

“Duncan told me you’re starting a brothel in Boulder.”

She wheeled around. “He what?”

“He told me everything. I don’t know what you expect from me … but I’m with you only until Kindle is freed and comes to find me.”

“Kindle is in the brig in Saint Louis. He won’t be coming after you anytime soon, if ever.”

“They won’t execute him.”

“We can only hope.” She stared at me with disgust. “I thought you were different.”

“Than what?”

“Women like Cora Bayle who can’t function without a man taking care of them.”

“I’m not like her.”

“Chasing after a stranger because you think he’s your husband? You better hope she didn’t understand what you said.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said his name.”

“I did?”

She shook her head and sighed. “We’re traveling across a country buzzing with the story of Kindle’s arrest, and speculation you’re alive.” She motioned toward the window. “There’s nothing else to do but gossip in towns like this. You wandering around calling out for Kindle doesn’t help. I’m trying to help you.”

“By kidnapping me?”

“I told you on the boat: Kindle asked me to help you, to save you from Lyman, and the hangman’s noose.”

“You can say it as often as you like, but I will never believe Kindle asked you to help me. He knows how I—” Loathe you. I caught myself, Rosemond’s threat of my destitution fresh in my mind. She crossed her arms and waited, eyebrows raised as if she knew what I’d wanted to say. “If Kindle is executed, I hardly care about my own neck.”

She uncrossed her arms and rolled her eyes. “Kindle is a good man, I’ll grant you, but really, Laura. I didn’t think you would buy into the myth of love and marriage hook, line, and sinker.”

“A woman like you couldn’t possibly understand.”

“A whore, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“You’re right. I’ve never met a man whom I wanted to be beholden to.” She caressed the cheek she’d slapped as if asking forgiveness, and cradled my face with her hands. “Laura, how many years did you live without a man?”

I didn’t answer.

Rosemond smiled wryly. “Come now. We can be honest with each other. Thirty? Thirty-one?”

I shrugged one shoulder. Rosemond laughed. “So vain. I like that about you. Did you need a man to accomplish your goals? Become a doctor to the women of Washington Square?”

I shook my head.

“No. You did it on your own. William was a good man, as far as men go, but do you honestly think he would stand by and let you have a profession? He would expect children, a wife to cook and clean. Within a year you would have precisely the kind of life you rejected when you went to medical school.”

I turned my head away, but Rosemond moved it back. I looked down, remembering my argument with William on this subject. “You know I’m right,” she said.

“No. We agreed.”

“Laura. Men will say anything to get what they want. Even Kindle. You would have given in to his wishes in the end, you and I know it. Close your eyes.” Her voice was soft and consoling. I furrowed my brows, my stinging cheek reminding me not to trust Rosemond Barclay. She smiled, as if reading my mind. “I’m not going to hurt you. Go ahead. Close your eyes.” She closed hers, and I followed suit. “Imagine you’re free. No one is chasing you. You can have whatever life you want. What is it?”

I saw myself walking down the wooden sidewalk of a burgeoning town, holding my medical bag in my hand, people greeting me with a smile and calling me Doctor.

“Where’s Kindle?” I opened my eyes to Rosemond’s knowing gaze. “Was he there? You don’t have to answer. You’ve survived for thirty years without him, you can survive the next thirty without him, too. Of course you want to be with him, you’re in love. But you have to come to terms with the idea you might not get the chance.” Rosemond rubbed her thumb along my lower lip. “If it’s about sex, I can help you.” Her gaze settled on my lips and her mouth opened slightly. I pushed her hands away and stumbled back.

Rosemond laughed. “Don’t be such a prude, Laura. William told me enough for me to know you’re an energetic lover.” I lunged toward her, but she moved away quickly. I fell to the floor, her laughter ringing in my ear. “If he lives, there’s no doubt he’ll chase your snatch across the world, if necessary.”

I looked up at her. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m not the one on the floor, covered in horse piss and dope sweat.”

“No, you’re the one forcing laudanum down my throat.”

“I’m hardly having to force it on you. You’ve been in pain.”

“You’re trying to keep me under control.”

She shook her head. “You’re determined to see everything I do through a negative lens. I wish Kindle had given me some token to prove to you I’m doing this on his bidding. Lord knows you’re more trouble than you’re worth.” She walked to the bed and pulled the bottle of laudanum from her purse. She uncorked the bottle and waved it underneath her nose. “If we’re judicious with it, it should last until we arrive in Boulder.” She held it out to me. “Do you need it? Or are you feeling better?”

Though my mind was clearing, my hands shook, the outward evidence of the bone-deep trembling in every part of my body. One sip would alleviate it. I turned away and sat heavily in the chair, exhaustion seeping from every pore. “I need to get back to William.”

“Why? To save him?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you aren’t aware, but the yarn Henry Pope spun about you two dying in Indian Territory has been proved a lie. When you walk into Jefferson Barracks claiming to be Kindle’s wife, you will be taken into custody immediately.”

“Mary! I’ll go to Mary, work through her.” As soon as I said it, I knew it for a ridiculous idea. But, once uttered, I was committed to the argument, if only to keep from admitting Rosemond was right.

“Kindle’s sister? I’m sure the Pinkertons have already visited her, are probably watching everyone who goes in and out of the orphanage.”

I balled my hands into fists against the tremors. “I’ll cable Harriet Mackenzie. She helped us escape Jacksboro. She will help William, testify on his behalf.”

“And risk her own reputation? How many times do you expect other people to save you?”

“I don’t. It’s not like that.”

“Laura, Kindle knew the consequences of his actions, and he knows how to save himself, if it can be done. He has a better chance of acquittal if you aren’t there, confusing the issue.”

“I’m his wife. I should be there.”

Rosemond inhaled dramatically and spoke at the ceiling. “Why do I ever try to reason with emotional women?” She leveled her gaze at me. “Even if they would listen to you—which they wouldn’t; you’d be sent to New York immediately—anything you say will be dismissed as biased because you’re his wife. Now, I’m done talking about this. You cannot go back. There’s nothing you can do.”

I bristled at being told what I could and could not do, what was and was not possible. How many times had I flouted the rules and gotten what I wanted, sometimes by sheer force of will? This situation was different. If I failed, it might cost Kindle his life. I’d already put Kindle’s life at risk more times than I wanted to count. I wouldn’t do it again. But moving west, away from Kindle, was unbearable. My heart was being stretched thin, like a rubber tube, and would eventually snap.

“I want to be there, near him.” I swallowed the pride lodged in my throat and forced myself to beg. “Please. Let me have that at least.”

“No.”

“I doubt William wanted me to help you open a brothel.”

Rosemond laughed. “I’m not opening a brothel, Laura. If I were, you’d be the last woman I’d ask for help. Kindle wanted me to take you to safety, which I am. Though I’m starting to regret my decision. He has no idea where we are. It’s the safest way.” There was a knock at the door. “The farther away from New York you get, the better.” Rosemond opened the door, and the hotelier’s wife and another man walked in carrying four buckets of steaming water. They dumped it into the copper tub.

The woman stared at me, my fists balled, my chest heaving. “Gets cold fast.”

Rosemond peeked into the tub. “One more trip with water.”

“Four buckets are plenty for a bath.”

“Your husband assured me my every need would be met.”

The woman glared at Rosemond, taking in her fine dress and the expensive necklace around her neck. “I’m sure he did.”

“Four more buckets. Soap and towels.”

The woman left, rattling her buckets in disapproval.

Rosemond set the laudanum on the chest of drawers, bent down to see her reflection in the dappled mirror, and adjusted her hair. She removed my mother’s necklace and dropped it in her purse. “No need to tempt the locals. I’ll go to the shebang and get you a dress. Or would you prefer men’s clothes?”

“We aren’t finished with our conversation.”

“Yes, we are.” She walked out of the room, leaving the bottle of laudanum on the dresser to mock me.

I’d barely settled into the bath before the hotelier’s wife bustled back into the room without knocking and picked up my clothes. “Miss High and Mighty wants me to wash these. Acts like I’m a common laundress.”

“It’s how she treats everyone. She didn’t say thank you, did she?”

The woman harrumphed. “No.”

“I thought not. Well, thank you, for the bath and washing my clothes.”

The stout woman nodded, somewhat consoled.

“What’s your name?”

“Martha Mason.”

“I’m Laura, nice to meet you.”

Martha nodded curtly, as if unused to a friendly word or female camaraderie. She was built like a bulldog: short and thick with drooping jowls and large, slightly protruding eyes. Her hands were thick, strong, and chafed. Deep red gashes split her skin on the tips of her thumbs, the result of hard work in the cold, dry winter air of the plains. She waddled slightly when she walked, not from obesity but most likely from constant pain in her legs from standing and moving all day. I suspected her thick legs would be a map of popped veins. Painful and incurable. I ran my hands over my smooth, unblemished legs, realizing for the first time they were the one area of my body that had seemed to come through my yearlong ordeal unscathed.

“Poor woman.”

“What?” I asked. Martha stood by the window. Fat raindrops spattered on the glass. The sky outside had darkened until it almost looked like nighttime.

“The hatchet-faced redhead. She’s about to get doused. I should probably go get her inside. Bet she doesn’t have the money for a room.”

“Why do you think that?”

She looked over her shoulder at me. “If they had money, they wouldn’t be mail-order brides, now, would they?”

“I suppose not.”

“Gabe Bullock, the scoundrel, left her high and dry. Heard him talking weeks ago like he’d be the one to get a pretty one. Gabe always has been a big talker, especially for a plow chaser. Though in his defense, she’s one of the homelier ones I’ve seen.”

“You see a lot?”

Martha nodded. “Men realize pretty quick they need a woman out here, and there sure ain’t many single ones to be had. The single ones are snatched up like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“You think if Cora stayed she would find a husband?”

“That her name?”

“Yes. I saw the scene on the platform. How did you hear about it?”

“Gabe went shooting his mouth off down at the Jug. Don’t take long for news to travel in Grand Island. To answer your first question, I don’t know. You’d think so, but she is ugly as a mud fence. ’Course, not many a man around here’ll want to take her, being as Gabe rejected her.” She gazed off in the middle distance, and her mouth turned down. “Those who will would give her a hard life.” She shook her thoughts away, smiled thinly, and said, “Well.” She bundled my clothes beneath one arm and went to the door. “These’ll be ready in the morning.”

“Thank you. Would you do me a favor?” Martha’s eyes narrowed, as if afraid I was about to take advantage of her. “Would you take the laudanum away?” I nodded at the laudanum sitting on the dresser.

“Don’t you need it?”

I want it, desperately. I inhaled sharply and ignored the throbbing in my head, the thrumming beneath my skin, the alternating hot and cold sweats. But the pain in my abdomen was thankfully gone. “No. I’m feeling much better.”

“Suit yourself.” She picked up the bottle and closed the door behind her.

I leaned my head back against the edge of the tub, closed my eyes, and thought of my father, Matthew Bennett. My dear sweet father whose last months had been spent in an opiate haze, trying and failing to rid himself of the chronic pain that was a result of his injury in the war. How my patience had run thin with his addiction until, with the hubris of youth and inexperience, I finally told him precisely what I thought of his weakness. He’d died not long after, without my ever having the opportunity to apologize, to tell him how much I admired him, how I wanted to become a doctor to be like him, that my anger and shame was born of the loss of my dream of working in a practice together. I’d refused to give him any quarter and now here I was, seven years later, beset by the cravings that tortured him and finally killed him.

“Forgive me, Papa.” I took a shaky breath. “Help me.”

The quiet room taunted me. There was no one to help me. I was alone.

As best as I could figure it had been three days, at most, since Kindle had been arrested on the steamboat and Rosemond “saved” me from John Lyman. Between the concussion the boatman had given me on the Mississippi and the pain-fueled opiate haze, the ensuing days were a blur of impressions instead of memories.

I held out my hand and stared at the thin silver ring on my left hand. My wedding ring, the only thing Kindle had left of his beloved mother. I closed my eyes against the memory of my recent conversation with Rosemond. It was only natural my dream would go to my profession first. I’d spent many more years becoming a doctor and practicing as a doctor than I’d known Kindle. Of course he was part of my ideal future. Who was to say I couldn’t have a family and a profession? I opened my eyes. Society, for one. Most assuredly, the Wanted poster that followed me. Possibly Kindle.

Where was he? What was he doing? Had he been tried and convicted or found not guilty and released? I had no idea how slow the gears of military justice worked. Kindle could be forgotten in a damp cell for months for all I knew. Or he could be on his way to find me this moment, and find me he would.

He could have been convicted, shot, and buried by now as well.

No. I couldn’t think it. Wouldn’t think it. He must have friends in the Army who could help him, testify for him. He was well respected by his superiors, his peers, and his men. He would not be executed.

I shook the thoughts from my mind, sat up, and lathered the thin rag Martha had given me. It would feel good to be clean again, though how clean I would get was difficult to determine. The water in the tub was dingy with dirt and blood from my unwashed body. Disgusted with the idea of sitting in my own filth, I stood and accidentally caught sight of myself in the mirror across the room. The soap and rag slipped from my hand. The benefits of a healthy diet and exercise from six months at the orphanage had evaporated. My hair was lank and dirty, my skin pallid, a yellowing bruise on my forehead and purple halfmoons beneath my sunken eyes. I looked like a corpse. I felt like one, too.

Martha Mason walked in. “These is fro—” She stopped when she saw me. I didn’t move, too entranced by the vision of the living corpse standing in front of me. Martha closed the door softly behind her, placed the clothes she held on the dresser, and came over to me. “Sit.”

I obeyed. I pulled my knees to my chest and hugged them. Martha got the pitcher from the dresser, thankfully filled with fresh water, and poured a portion over my head. She lathered my hair and gently massaged my scalp. I pressed my eyes into my knees and tried to keep from crying. Since the fateful night James Kline found me on the snowy streets of New York City and told me I was accused of murdering one of my patients, my life had been out of my control. Whenever I’d tried to wrest control back from fate, something befell me. The snatches of happiness with Kindle were always short-lived, and followed with worse challenges, physically and mentally. Was this what my life was going to be? Lurching from tragedy to tragedy, the moments of happiness being subsumed by heartbreak and misfortune? What happiness would I find if Kindle wasn’t with me?

“This isn’t me.”

Martha poured water over my head and didn’t reply. She toweled my hair somewhat roughly and draped it over my shoulders. She lifted my left arm, studied the burn scars. Her eyes drifted to my right hand, slightly deformed despite having almost full range of motion back. “The West ain’t for the faint of heart, and that’s a fact. You faint of heart?”

“I never thought so.”

“You look it.” She stood and went to the chest where my new clothes lay. “Miss High and Mighty says she’s your sister. That true?”

I thought of Rosemond’s threat of abandonment and destitution. What would Martha do if I told the truth? Would she give me money to return to Saint Louis? What would Rosemond do if confronted about kidnapping me? Would she reveal who I was? Have me sent back to New York City?

Martha narrowed her eyes. Was this a test? I wouldn’t put it past Rosemond to pay Martha to test my loyalty. Somehow I knew if I was found wanting, being sent back to New York City would be the best option, and therefore the one Rosemond would be least likely to choose.

“Yes, she’s my sister. How did you come to be in Grand Island, Nebraska, Martha?” I asked, eager to divert her attention.

“I was a catalog woman myself. Thought I was getting a grand hotelier. Came out in sixty-seven and discovered it was a dirty tent, but we made it work. ’Course, I did the work and Ed takes the credit and the money. Built this in sixty-eight when the traffic got steady.”

“You’ve been here five years?”

“Feels like ten.” Martha sighed.

“You don’t like it?”

“Would you like living in this godforsaken place?”

“Probably not.”

“There you go. Here’re your clothes. Come on down for dinner.”

“Thank you. For everything.”

Martha nodded, shrugged, and left.

I dressed in the scratchy, cheap mourning attire—Rosemond’s idea of a joke, no doubt—and ran my fingers through my hair as best I could. I opened the drawer to see if there was a forgotten comb or brush and saw something more useful.

For the first time since being separated from Kindle, I smiled.