CHAPTER

14

Reverend Bright sat in a chair next to my bed, reading the Bible. He was a trim man with long legs and small hands. His smooth face suggested a youthfulness his receding hairline and weak chin contradicted. His thin lips moved as he read but his eyes remained stationary, leading me to believe he recited the passages from memory.

He glanced up and a smile broke across his face. “You’re awake.”

“What are you reading?”

“Job.”

“Well, at least you’re not reading Psalm Twenty-Three over me.”

Reverend Bright smiled. “You aren’t that far gone, I hope.”

I didn’t answer but took in my surroundings. The room was sparsely furnished, as I suppose all new houses are. There were signs of hasty construction here and there: a crooked, jutting nail, a divot in the wood from a missed hammer hit, a gap between the glass and windowsill. It smelled refreshingly of new lumber, a scent I’d come to associate with the West almost as much as body odor, blood, horse sweat, and manure. I thought of the freshly hewn boards in Kindle’s officer’s quarters at Fort Richardson and turned my head from the Reverend.

“How long have I been here?”

“Two days.”

“And before?”

“Three.”

“Where’s the telegram?”

“Your sister took it.”

I turned away and, for the hundredth time, saw Kindle tied to a post in the middle of a parade ground, staring down the firing squad with his one good eye, the flash of light and smoke from the guns’ muzzles and Kindle slumping against his restraints.

“And the letter?”

“What letter?”

“To my cousin, Charlotte?”

“There was no letter.”

I threw my arm over my eyes against the light. Hadn’t I written a letter? Or merely composed one in my mind?

The legs of Reverend Bright’s chair scraped across the floor. He touched my shoulder. “Helen, your husband—”

“Don’t tell me he’s in a better place.”

“But he is. He’s with our Lord.”

I rose from the bed and walked on weak legs to the nearest window. Behind a line of tents, a vast, featureless plain stretched out to infinity. Of course. “How far west do I need to travel to see a goddamn tree?”

The Reverend chuckled. “You’re almost there.”

“Whose house is this?”

“Eliza’s. The prefabricated house arrived by train the day …”

“I found out my husband was dead.”

I opened the armoire and found two skirts, shirts, a navy brocade vest, a thick brown leather belt, a pair of sensible boots, and a straw hat. A chemise, corset, and petticoat were folded on the bottom shelf. A hairbrush and mirror lay next to a pitcher, bowl, and fresh bar of soap on a nearby table. “It seems my sister has thought of everything.”

The Reverend cleared his throat and stood. “She is concerned about you.”

I laughed. “Don’t let her manipulate you, Reverend. She is only concerned with herself.” I placed the telegram on the table. Capt. WK convicted …

“Did you read the telegram?”

“Yes. Your sister told me your story.”

“My story. You’ll have to specify which story so I’ll know which lies to stick with. There are so many I can hardly keep track myself.”

“You have been through more tribulations than any woman should have to, Catherine.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “She told you everything.”

The Reverend nodded.

“With Rosemond as my savior.”

The Reverend paused, brows furrowed. “She helped you escape Saint Louis.”

“She did. Did she tell you about her life there?”

“No.”

“Cora Bayle?”

“Who?”

“No. I didn’t think so. Does your wife know who I am?”

The Reverend shook his head. “Eliza told me in the confidence of a minister and my parishioner.”

I laughed heartily at this. “Eliza a Christian? Don’t believe it for a second, Reverend.”

“It isn’t my place to judge one’s sincerity of belief but to offer counsel when needed and asked for.” He studied me. “All you have to do is ask.”

“You want me to confess my sins?”

“If that’s what you feel you need to do.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my sins and guilt are my own.”

“Are they? Would Duncan agree with that statement? Or your husband?”

His voice was temperate but his eyes told of judgment, his thin mouth of disapproval. When I didn’t reply, he continued. “God is punishing you, Catherine.”

I found my voice, but it was raspy and low, full of a myriad of emotions. “Don’t call me Catherine.”

“Isn’t that your name?”

“I haven’t been Catherine Bennett in a long time. Here, my name is Helen.”

The Reverend nodded. “You’ve spent so many years violating God’s natural order of things that you’ve lost sight of yourself. Your trials are God’s punishment for the sin of pride.”

“God has made his point.” I held my arms out in front of me, presenting my wrists for the shackles. “Are you going to turn me in?”

“Of course not.”

“A thousand dollars is a lot of money for a poor preacher. Imagine the number of Bibles you could purchase with it.”

“I would never profit off another’s misfortune.”

I laughed again. “If you get desperate enough, you will.” I moved close enough to see the tiny creases on his lips. I raised my eyes and met his. “What is religion if not profiting off the misfortunes of others? If it weren’t for sinners you wouldn’t have a congregation, or a living.”

He swallowed. “I know of no preacher who is called to the ministry for riches. We struggle with our own demons, and want only to offer comfort in the word of the Lord to those who suffer.”

“Who offers you succor?” I whispered. “Your wife?”

The Reverend dropped his eyes to his Bible. “Of course. And God, his forgiveness.”

I wondered what sins the good Reverend had to confess, and if they were significant enough to make mine look small. “Did you wonder if the rumors about me are true? Is that why you were waiting patiently by my bedside? To ask for comfort in exchange for your silence? What do you want from me?”

The Reverend blushed and opened his mouth to reply when Rosemond interrupted.

“Alleluia, she’s out of bed.” She stood in the door, wearing a white smock dotted with paint over men’s trousers tucked into riding boots, a knowing smirk on her face as she glanced between the two of us. She was cleaning a paintbrush with a cloth. “You are a miracle worker, Reverend. Are you hungry, Helen? I have some stew on the stove.”

I was hungry but didn’t want to admit it. “Working already?” I said.

Rosemond smiled and looked genuinely happy for the first time since I’d known her. I could almost forget she was a manipulative bitch. “Yes. A sign for the new apothecary.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you if you would paint a portrait of Portia,” Reverend Bright asked.

Rosemond stopped twisting the paintbrush in the cloth. “Of course. Does your wife want to sit for it?”

“She doesn’t know yet.”

Rosemond’s face brightened mischievously. “If she resists, tell her I promise to make her as comfortable as possible.”

“I will.” He walked to the door. “How much?”

Rosemond looked up at him with a flirtatious little grin. “For you, free. As long as I can use it as my calling card for future portraits.”

“Of course!”

“If anyone asks, tell them I am charging you ten dollars.”

The Reverend laughed. “Now, Eliza, I cannot lie.”

“It’s a little white one.”

He shook his head in amusement. “I’ll talk to Portia right away.”

“I’m available at her convenience.”

The Reverend turned to me. “You asked me earlier what I wanted from you. I would like your help. My wife and I are trying to help the prostitutes on Calico Row leave that life.”

I laughed. “You want me to help you preach to whores?” Camille King had asked me if I was a missionary when she met me, a starving and desperate doctor begging for clients, even whores on Twenty-Seventh Street. Now, it seemed as if her initial impression would turn out to be true, though I was shocked Reverend Bright wanted me as a missionary after our earlier discussion.

Rosemond moved forward. Without her eyes leaving the Reverend’s face, I could tell she was sizing him up from head to toe and finding him lacking. “Indeed? What a noble cause.”

“Thank you.”

“What life are they saved into?” Rosemond asked.

“Marriage,” the Reverend replied.

Rosemond lifted her chin and nodded slowly. “Yes, there does seem to be a demand for wives in the West, almost as high as the demand for whores.”

“What do you need me for?” I asked.

“There is a doctor in town, Hankins is his name, that treats the whores. But he demands payment in kind from them, as well as money. We, Portia and I, thought it would be a nice change for the women to receive care from a professional who is only interested in their health and well-being.”

“As you and your wife are only interested in their souls?” Rosemond asked.

The preacher’s shoulders lifted and his face flushed, but his eyes didn’t meet either of ours. “Yes. Precisely.”

“Of course I’ll help you,” I said. “I have nothing better to do with my time.”

The preacher dipped his head. “Thank you. We will come by in the morning to take you to Calico Row, introduce you to the women.”

Rosemond let the Reverend out and returned, her expression one of amusement. “Were you trying to seduce the preacher?”

“I wouldn’t know how.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” She looked back toward the front door. “Though I can tell you from experience he wouldn’t need much seducing.”

“Do any men?”

She laughed. “No. No, they don’t. Enough about that boring little man. How are you feeling?”

“Tired.”

She nodded. “You need to move around, shake off the malaise. Let me finish my sign and we’ll go for a walk. I’ll show you the town. There’s water in the pitcher and soap and a washcloth in the drawer.” She turned to leave.

“How was Dunk’s funeral?”

Rosemond’s shoulders straightened. She turned to face me. “Nice. Portia sang ‘Amazing Grace.’ Dunk loved that hymn.”

I nodded. “It was sung at my father’s funeral.” I poured a glass of water and drank deeply. I closed my eyes as the water flowed down my throat, slaking my thirst and cooling my body, warm and languid from inactivity. “Rosemond, if I could change the past … I know I’m responsible—”

Rosemond put her hand on my shoulder. “Laura, stop. I know you like to think the entire world revolves around you, and that every decision a person makes is somehow related to you, but it’s not.”

“Why did you tell Bright who I was?”

“He read the telegram before I could burn it.”

“You burned it?”

“Of course I did. Bright is proof that even an idiot could put together the initials WK with the Murderess and the Major.”

“He’s not the only threat. Everyone is talking about it. I see the man from the train everywhere I go. I should leave.”

“Yes, I got your good-bye note from the hotel clerk, and the money, obviously. Where were you going?”

“Away.” Where I can’t hurt anyone. “I don’t know.”

“Laura, you saw the man from the train in a busy railroad hotel. He’s probably passing through. And hotels are hubs for gossip. It’s been two weeks. Interest in the story is already waning, and soon enough there will be another story to take its place. Stay here, cement yourself in everyone’s mind as Helen Graham.”

“Kindle’s dead. You’re freed from any obligation you thought you were under.”

“I wasn’t helping you out of obligation.”

“Then why?”

“Isn’t it enough that I am?”

“Kindle warned me about you.”

“Did he? What did he say?”

“That you aren’t a charitable woman.”

“I’m not.” Rosemond moved closer to me. “What else?”

I held her gaze steadily but didn’t reply. Kindle hadn’t been forthcoming on Rosemond or their relationship.

“Nothing? Do you really think Kindle knew me? He saw what I wanted him to see. What he wanted to see. You and I both know men don’t want to see the real woman beneath the silks and perfume and powder. How many men of your acquaintance knew you as you truly are?”

“Kindle, in the end.”

“I know you, and like you. I want to help you, to be your friend. It’s really as simple as that.”

Could it be that simple? I wanted it to be, but didn’t trust it, the purity of the reason. I wasn’t the type of person who engendered uncomplicated feelings, and looking into her eyes, I realized she wasn’t the type of person to have them.

In an effort to focus on anything else but myself or Rosemond, or whatever it was she wanted from me, I turned her head to the side and looked at the sutured gash on her temple. “You’ve kept it clean. Good. Have you been having headaches?”

“I’m fine.” She pulled her chin from my grasp. “I’m offering you a home, Laura. Stay or leave, it’s your choice. But your best chance to have a life is here, with me, and you know it.”

I found her in the front room. She took stock of me in my new clothes and smiled. “I wasn’t sure of your style. I, for one, am sick of wearing dresses. With skirts and shirts, we can share clothes. Once you gain a bit of weight, our size won’t be so different.”

I ran my hand down the navy brocade tailored vest buttoned over a white shirt and lifted my khaki skirt. “The clothes are fine, thank you.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

Rosemond set her brush down. “What do you think?”

She had turned the front room into a studio. Light flooded in through the bay window on the front wall and filtered in through a gauzy curtain covering the side window. Paints, brushes, empty cans, scissors, knives, a handsaw, tools, and a partially framed piece of canvas sat on a table that butted up flush with the interior wall. Long, one-inch pieces of squared wood and a roll of thick canvas leaned against the wall. A drop cloth was thrown haphazardly over a trunk in the corner. Two easels sat in the middle of the room, one holding a framed canvas with broad black brushstrokes, the beginning of a painting; the other, sturdier easel held a large wooden sign, painted white with precise lettering.

“Did you spend every dime I earned?”

“Almost. Come. I’ve got stew in the kitchen.”

She led me down the dogtrot hall in the middle of the house—a room-for-room replica of the one in Jacksboro where I’d recuperated from my ordeal with the Comanche—and to the kitchen in the back of the house. The cast-iron pot sitting on the wood-burning stove gave off an amazing aroma. My stomach growled.

Rosemond ladled soup into a bowl and handed it to me. Besides the stove, a small worktable, and two chairs, the room was bare. We made space on the worktable and sat down to eat.

I spooned the stew and blew on it. My hand trembled, slightly, but the worst of my withdrawal had happened when I was in bed. I was exhausted from tossing and turning with insomnia and weak from refusing to eat the food that had appeared periodically on my dresser. My stomach had revolted at the idea, but my refusal had been fueled mostly by belligerence, as if rejecting Rosemond’s food would hurt her instead of me.

A thick roux coated the meat and carrot cradled in my spoon. The aroma of garlic and thyme wafted into my nostrils as I brought the morsel to my mouth. I chewed slowly, remembering sitting across a table from Maureen in my New York house, sopping up the last of the stew with a piece of thick bread. I’d never appreciated the touchstones of memory—smell, sound, touch—until I’d lost everything. Home. Profession. Love.

“Did you make this?” I asked, hoping Rosemond would attribute my thick voice to the stew instead of heightened emotion.

“I wish. Lily Diamond brought it. Do you know how to cook?”

I shook my head in the negative, since my mouth was full of stew. “Maureen taught me a little on the wagon train. Biscuits and beans. I learned how to skin and cook a rattlesnake in Indian Territory.”

Rosemond raised her eyebrows. “You’re hired. I’ll take care of the laundry.”

I abandoned my spoon in the bowl and held it in my lap. “We’re splitting up housekeeping duties?”

“It’s hardly fair for one or the other of us to do all the housework, don’t you think?”

“Rosemond, I’m not staying.”

She nodded. “I understand why you want to leave. You’ve had a shock. But it’s never a good idea to make an impulsive decision after your world’s been upended.”

“Do you speak from experience?”

“Hard-earned experience.” She stared off into the distance, her expression clouded with regret. When she focused on me again, her eyes were clear. “I’ll make a deal with you. Stay here with me for three months. It will give you time to grieve, and give the story of Catherine Bennett time to die down again. If you still want to move on after that, I’ll buy your ticket.”

The thin silver ring on my left hand clinked against the mug handle. The image of Kindle holding the ring with a bruised and bloody hand swam before my eyes. I would never touch those hands again. My recurring dream of Kindle playing the piano and our child running up to hug me would never come true. Every decision I’d made since the Salt Creek Massacre led to me sitting in this kitchen, and to Kindle being tied to a post and executed. Arguing with Rosemond wouldn’t change the past.

I nodded in agreement, too exhausted to care. I finished my stew while Rosemond sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, apparently lost in thought. I rinsed the bowl in the tub of water on the worktable, dried it, and returned it to its correct place.

Rosemond shook herself from her reverie, smiled, and stood. She placed her chair back against the wall and I did the same with mine. “Your cloak is in your chest. Grab it and I’ll show you the town.”