CHAPTER

18

Dear Mary,

I’ve been starting and stopping this letter for weeks. The urge to speak to you overshadowed every time by the knowledge that my letter will not be received with joy or equanimity. I understand if you blame me for your brother’s death. I will never forgive myself for being the cause of his downfall. If I had kept my distance from him, as I knew I should, he would be alive today. The knowledge is almost too much to bear. A pall has fallen over my existence, and I’m not sure it will ever lift, nor do I want it to. I don’t want to move on and be happy if Kindle isn’t with me.

I wish I could find comfort in your God. I have tried, but there is no solace, no voice speaking to me. I don’t blame Him. I’ve ignored Him for years, to only call out when I’m in pain. He is rightly angry with me and, truth be told, I’m angry with Him.

I am sure you visited with Kindle before the trial, and he possibly told you the story of his capture. Rosemond Barclay helped me escape, at Kindle’s request, she says. I still don’t believe her, but, both being orphans with no friends, we have come to the conclusion that having each other is better than no one. At least, that is the conclusion I have come to. I suspect Rosemond genuinely likes me. I cannot fully trust her yet. Maybe in time.

We have settled in Cheyenne. We get along tolerably well. She seems to have found a genuine happiness, and has lost the hard edge of her personality I’ve known from the beginning. She and Cheyenne are kindred spirits, both working hard to polish off their rough edges into some semblance of civility. Rosemond is a painter and has opened a sign business, and is doing well, well enough that she has obtained the respectability she craved in a short time. I am nursing the portion of the population the doctor refuses to care for, and working toward saving enough money so I can return east to see you, pay my respects to Kindle’s grave, and continue on to my family in England as originally planned.

My days have fallen into a rhythm. Waking, making breakfast, cleaning up, going across the tracks to visit patients, stopping by the Posts’ general store on the way home to pay down on the gun they sold to me at a high interest rate after I confessed to stealing it (I do not feel safe without one now), picking up orders for Rosemond and whatever supplies she needs, returning home to fix a late lunch. The afternoons are filled with suture practice—I have transitioned from needlepoint to working on a dead piglet to more closely mimic human flesh—and walks around town. Occasionally, I will stretch canvas on frames for Rosemond, or do other odd jobs to help her stay on top of her thriving sign business and fledgling portrait business.

Kindle is never far from my mind. When I am alone, tears prickle my eyes and flow freely down my cheeks during whatever task I perform. I fall asleep crying, and wake crying. If Rosemond sees my red eyes each morning, she doesn’t mention it, a small gesture of grace I appreciate.

Every day as I walk through this new life, as I talk and smile and cook and sew and visit my patients, I think: this is the life I should have had with Kindle, then realize it was the life I argued with him about, that I pushed back against. At this moment, I would gladly give up my profession for a routine day with Kindle.

I finally had the courage to write because I need a favor. Do not be indignant; the favors aren’t for me. A woman named Portia Bright and I have started teaching women to read. Prostitutes, specifically. These are women who have no hope of any life but servicing men and dying in a filthy crib, either from being beaten by a john or by an overdose of opium. It’s our hope that a little bit of education will allow them to leave the life and stand on their own. Most of these women just want to feel valued, and have someone see them as something other than a body to be used. Teaching them to read and write is a small step on a long road. Will we be successful? I do not know. But I am convinced that I need to try. I have seen so much death, been responsible for too much, that I want to be responsible, if even in a small way, for bringing hope into someone’s life.

We are in the process of raising money for a library in Cheyenne, and the committee chair has promised that a portion of the money will be spent on readers. Until then, we are reading out of the Bible and using the few books we can borrow from other women in town. If you have any books from your library to spare, it would be greatly appreciated.

There is a woman here, a Negro prostitute, who is pregnant (most likely with a white man’s child, though it could be a Chinaman or Negro’s child, as well) and does not want to keep the baby. For the cost of a one-way ticket, I have offered to bring the baby to you and your orphanage. I can’t think of a safer place for a child such as this. She should have the child in a couple of months, and I will leave as soon as possible. Cheyenne is pleasant enough, as frontier towns go, but I cannot seem to feel settled here, no matter how routine my days are. My body hums with a nervous energy, a need to move, to escape.

Please telegram if I and the baby are not welcome so I can make other arrangements for the child.

With Warmest Regards,

Laura

“What’s this I hear about you amputating a man’s foot?”

“Good morning to you, too, Amalia,” I said. I noticed Lily Diamond across the large, open-sided tent, bustling over to us.

The sun was rising in a burst of orange and pink on the eastern horizon as the town readied for a spring festival to benefit the future library. Instead of a staid fund-raiser in the confines of one of the numerous Cheyenne hotels, the committee had planned it as an outdoor spring festival, celebrating the end of a long, cold winter. It was a brilliant move, as almost every resident of Cheyenne, regardless of class, occupation, or color, had been buzzing about the fair for weeks. Amalia Post, as chairwoman of the library committee, was everywhere at once but made time to quiz me about an event I had hoped to keep secret for a while longer.

Three weeks after visiting Calico Row the first time, I’d returned one early evening, dispensing mercury to the afflicted whores and talking about the importance of using sheaths consistently for protection against venereal disease and pregnancy, and offering to teach the women to read. The latter suggestion received as much teasing and scorn as the suggestion of using sheaths, but I saw cautious interest beneath their brittle, suspicious exterior and suspected that in time they would come around.

I was in Monique’s crib, checking on Lavina and assuring the women there was no ulterior motive with my offer to teach them to read, when we heard a commotion outside and went to see what was happening. Two young men were carrying another between them, entreating Jesper to help. A thick trail of blood followed them.

“In here,” I said. They looked at me in shock for a moment, a white woman in their neighborhood ordering them around, until Monique gave the same order and they obeyed without question.

The man’s foot hung to his leg by a thin strip of muscle and his dark complexion was turning gray from loss of blood. I quickly fashioned a tourniquet to stop the bleeding and save his life, and stared at the injury. I’d seen enough amputations in the war I could’ve done my own even without years of training. But I also knew if I healed this man, I would bring unwanted attention to myself, in the form of Dr. Hankins, who thought so little of the white widow ministering to the denizens of Calico Row he hadn’t bothered to meet me. I agreed to help and exacted a promise of secrecy from the people assembled around the boy’s bed, a promise that hadn’t lasted a day.

“Yes, yes, it’s a fine day,” Amalia said. “Is the rumor true?”

“Are you asking her about the Negro?” Lily said.

“Yes.”

I sighed. “To be honest, it was hardly an amputation. The foot was held on by merely a thin piece of muscle. More a snip and a suturing.”

Lily Diamond gasped. “Helen, why would you do such a thing?”

“He would have died if I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you call Dr. Hankins?” she asked.

“There wasn’t time.”

“I doubt Roger Hankins would have hurried over to help a Negro. He’s a Rebel,” Amalia said.

Lily blanched. “I’m a Southerner, too.”

“As am I,” Rosemond said, sidling up to the group with Portia in tow. This morning Rosemond had diligently scrubbed dried paint from her cuticles, and didn’t reach for her paint-splattered work clothes. Instead she wore a dress with large, bright green flowers on a buff background. She was turning heads, men and women alike, and I appreciated for the first time the beauty and charisma that had made her so successful as a madam in Saint Louis. Portia seemed dazzled, and though she tried to show interest in the conversation, her gaze kept sliding to Rosemond.

“And I don’t hold it against either of you,” Amalia said. “Will the boy survive?”

“Of course he will. My sister is a brilliant nurse,” Rosemond said, showering me with a fond smile. It was a far cry from the reaction she had when I arrived home, bloodstains streaked across my shirt and skirt.

Godammit, Laura! Do you want to get found out?

He would have died, Rosemond.

Better him than you.

“He’s young and strong,” I said to Amalia. “As long as infection doesn’t set in, he should recover. Monique and Jesper are caring for him, and doing an excellent job following my instructions on keeping his wound and bandage clean. I’m going by later to check on him.”

“I feel I should warn you,” Lily said, leaning forward and dropping her voice. “You’ve raised some eyebrows, Helen, showing up Dr. Hankins like that. I assured Mr. Diamond you didn’t mean anything by it, but he wasn’t moved. He doesn’t like you for some reason,” Lily said, puzzled.

Rosemond and I glanced at each other, knowing full well why Harry Diamond didn’t like me. “I have that effect on men,” I said.

“Enough chitchat. Let’s get to work,” Amalia said. “Do I need to go through your job here, Helen?”

I looked at the table full of jars of candy from Amalia’s general store. “No. I imagine I can muddle through selling penny candy.”

Amalia nodded curtly and walked off, Lily in tow. “Are you sure you can handle this grave responsibility on your own?” Rosemond teased.

“It will be a struggle, I’m sure.”

Rosemond waved at a new arrival who entered the tent. “There’s the governor’s wife. I am determined to get her commission today. Excuse me.”

Rosemond sashayed away, leaving the faint scent of lavender in her wake. Portia and I watched her go, both more than a little awestruck.

Rosemond had thrown herself into earning respectability with an enthusiasm I frankly didn’t expect. Gone was the cagey, calculating whore. In her place was a woman who fit so easily into Cheyenne society no one challenged her right to be there, or her new identity. It was the territory capital, after all, and Rosemond had been a favorite of many of the politicians and businessmen for years. Rather than expect to continue their commercial relationship, the men were eager to pretend the history didn’t exist, especially if their wives were Cheyenne residents. Rosemond’s civic participation gave many a married man heart palpitations until they realized she had no intention of revealing her previous occupation or their support of it. Portrait business started to flow toward Rosemond, so much so that she was in a near way to be out of the sign business altogether. A small voice in my head said there was a connection between her willing silence on her clients’ pasts and the blooming portrait business. I was torn between admiration and judgment, with admiration winning more often than not.

I had been enveloped into society by way of her dragging me along to every bridge game, church service, women’s committee meeting, and philanthropy effort Cheyenne had to offer, and they were innumerable. The men wanted to capitalize on the West; the women wanted to civilize it. A theater, symphony, and opera were all on the drawing board, though years away from fruition. Modernizing the hospital—which I’d avoided; I knew myself well enough that I could not walk into a hospital without giving away who I was—and starting a library were more immediately attainable and easier to sell to the philanthropic public.

I’d gone with Rosemond willingly—it was my job to help her settle in, after all, and I had my own project I wanted to see to fruition: teaching prostitutes and Negroes to read. It soon became apparent that Rosemond got along with the society matrons of Cheyenne very well without me, and that no one was terribly interested in educating whores and former slaves. Though I found all of the causes worthy, I could barely stand most of the women involved in the various committees. I’d never been able to stomach the obsequiousness of society women and their good deeds, suspecting that many of them cared not a whit for the deed but only how managing it or participating in it made them, and by extension, their husbands, appear to the world. Which, I came to realize, fully explained why none of these women were interested in my cause. Since no one would help me publicly, I decided to throw myself into the one committee that I could possibly manipulate to achieve my goal: the Cheyenne Public Library. Which explained why I was selling penny candy at a fund-raiser barely four weeks after arriving in Cheyenne.

“Where is the Reverend?” I asked Portia.

“Saturday morning is his devotional time, when he readies his sermon. He will come later.”

“Has he come around on our project?”

Portia looked across the tent and shook her head.

When I finished bandaging Drummond’s boil, I’d gone to make amends with Portia and the Reverend. On the walk to their house, I’d kicked myself for arguing with the one other person, besides Rosemond, in Cheyenne who knew my identity. My mouth had always gotten me in trouble. I had to pray this time it would get me out. The Reverend had been easy to coerce back into my good graces. I spoke of having time to see the error of my ways, and of course the natural course of things was for the man to be the dominant mate. I’d almost choked on the words, and when I glanced at Portia, I could tell she saw right through my lies. I’d thought she would once again look upon me with puckered disapproval but was gratified when her face relaxed into a smile so faint, her husband was too obtuse to see it.

I mentioned my idea about teaching the soiled doves to read and write and almost lost all of the Reverend’s goodwill. He launched into a diatribe about how Wyoming territory made a colossal mistake giving women the right to vote and own property. Five minutes later, when he transitioned into the four horsemen of the apocalypse and Revelation, I’d had enough. I started to rise, but Portia put her hand on my arm and shook her head, her eyes never leaving her husband, who’d long since stopped seeing us and instead saw the world burning down around him.

When he at last ran out of steam, Portia spoke. “Of course you’re right, Oliver. But think of how a literate wife might be able to aid her husband. Many miners and farmers aren’t, and would find a literate woman, who had the appropriate deference for the man’s superiority, a great solace. We wouldn’t teach them to read so they get ideas above their lot, but so they may be of greater use to their husbands. Isn’t that right, Helen?”

In that moment Portia and I became, if not friends, at least comrades. I swallowed my retorts and agreed. Portia, being a former schoolteacher, took the lead on teaching the women to read. I focused on their physical well-being and the Reverend focused on their souls.

I turned to Portia. “Did you educate the prostitutes back East? Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask: where are you from? I’ve never known.”

“No. The madams were protective of their charges, and many of them knew how to read. Excuse me.”

She made her way quickly across the tent and was soon lost in the crowd.

I set about straightening the candy jars, and opening the lids and smelling the candy, wondering who in the world I was going to sell hard candy to, and why Portia had avoided telling me where she was from. I looked around the tent: Amalia and Lily Diamond manned the booth with the auction items, explaining and talking up all the good the money would do for the community; Rosemond seemed to be trying to shake hands with every prominent citizen Cheyenne had to offer. I snatched a lemon drop from a jar, turned my back to the crowd, and popped it in my mouth. When I turned around, a swarm of wide-eyed chattering children descended on my booth, eager to spend their pennies on the brightly colored confections.

I spent a solid fifteen minutes trying to calm the rambunctious children, excited and indecisive with so many options to choose from. They asked questions of me and one another, discussed the options, argued about which flavor was the best. They all decided at once, and changed their mind two or three times. I would serve one, and two would take his place. It was like chopping off Hydra’s head. At the height of it, I spotted Amalia across the room, watching me with a small smile on her face. I pushed an errant strand of hair from my eyes and continued serving the never-ending stream of children.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the children had disappeared, and I was left looking out at a sea of adults—politicians, farmers, miners, prostitutes, and wives. If I didn’t have the half-full jar of pennies and the half-empty jar of candy as proof, I would wonder if the last few hours had been a nightmare.

“Why do you look so dour?” Rosemond sidled up to my booth, a large, teasing smile on her face.

“I’m eating a lemon drop. Don’t tell Amalia I’m sampling the goods.”

“Your secret is safe with me. I’ve come to help you.”

“Now that the rush is over? I didn’t know there were so many children in Cheyenne.”

Rosemond laughed.

“I suspect Amalia gave a penny to every one. I think she still holds the gun against me.”

“You did steal it.”

“I’m paying her for it, at an exorbitant rate, I might add.”

“Oh, stop griping. It’s for a good cause.”

“Amalia better make good on purchasing the first readers for the collection, and a Brontë or two.”

A little boy came up to the booth with a penny. His hair was parted in the middle and slicked down with a shocking amount of oil. His clothes were clean but worn at the edges, and his hands had the look of being freshly and savagely scrubbed. He took his time choosing, not out of excitement but with the mien of a child who wasn’t about to waste this unforeseen opportunity to treat himself.

“How did you manage to finagle your way out of any responsibilities?” I asked Rosemond.

“It’s a gift.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.”

“I do not.”

“Can I have a stick of peppermint, miss?” The little boy placed the penny on the counter and looked up at me with soulful brown eyes framed by long eyelashes.

My heart clutched, and a wave of crushing grief and guilt at forgetting Kindle overcame me. Though I managed brief moments of forgetfulness, the loss of Kindle was always with me, brought forward in dozens of little ways, even in the eyes of a child buying candy.

I forced a smile. “Excellent choice.”

He clutched the thick stick of peppermint in a hand that would soon be red and sticky. He smiled and could hardly get his thanks out of his mouth before licking the peppermint. I dropped the penny in the glass jar that served as a bank.

“Thanks for the penny, miss.” He touched his flat hat at Rosemond.

“You’re welcome,” Rosemond said. She watched the boy walk off and turned a playful smile toward me. “What? Children deserve a treat every now and then.”

“You’re the devil.”

“I’m a Good Samaritan. Treating children”—she squeezed my arm—“and keeping you busy.”

Warmth spread throughout my body. I felt stupid, and a little ashamed. I’d assumed Rosemond’s insistence that I attend every social activity had been to help her get a toehold in society. I was sure that was part of it, but another part had been motivated by her desire to distract me from my grief. If I was honest with myself, my desire to help the prostitutes was as much to keep my mind off Kindle as it was to balance out the scales of the lives I’d ruined in the last year. I wondered how much of Rosemond’s manic energy these past few weeks was her attempt to keep her mind off Dunk’s death. We never spoke of him, but his ghost was there.

“Thank you,” I said. I kept my eyes on the crowd in front of me, lest I start crying.

Rosemond sold a rope of licorice and dropped the penny into the jar.

“What have you been doing?” I asked Rosemond.

“Convincing men to bid on my services so I can paint their lovely wives.”

“Are any of them afraid of the secrets you might tell?”

“They should only be nervous if my donation isn’t the highest seller.” She smiled, and I knew she was teasing. “Honestly, your portrait is doing my job for me.”

Across the way, people crowded around the sample of her work: me staring out a train window. As good as her word, Rosemond had managed to capture my expression of longing, as well as my grief. I could hardly look at it, no matter that it was brilliant.

“Why don’t you take a break? Walk about a bit,” Rosemond said.

“I shouldn’t leave my post.”

“It’s not sentry duty. Here.” She pulled a nickel from her pocket. “They’re selling iced tea across the way. It’s so strong and sweet a spoon will stand up in it. Get us both a glass. Later, if you play your cards right, I’ll buy you some of Gustav’s sausages.”

“You’re feeling flush,” I said.

“I have a feeling I’m going to have at least four commissions after today.”

“Did you get the governor’s wife?”

“I did, and I have you to thank for it.” She kissed me on the cheek. “So go on, while I’m feeling generous.” She waved at someone and I followed her gaze to Portia, who looked disapproving.

“She puzzles me,” I said.

“Who?”

“Portia. There are times when I think she likes me, but she always seems to look disapproving around me.”

“You have that effect on people.”

“I do not.”

Rosemond held her thumb and forefinger close together. “Maybe a little.”

“And here I felt I was being conventional. For the first time in my life, I might add.”

“Convention fits you like a glove.”

I glared at Rosemond, though I couldn’t argue with her point. I’d been doing my best to stay beneath the town’s notice—helping the boy with the amputated foot was the exception—and had discovered how easy, and almost pleasant, an ordinary life could be. In my optimistic moments, I felt like a phoenix readying to rise from its ashes. Other times, I was put in mind of a snake shedding its skin.

I waited in line for the tea and let the energy of the crowd infuse me with strength. Gustav was selling his sausages two booths down, but the amazing aroma of roasted meat was everywhere. My mouth watered and I smiled, looking forward to eating something I hadn’t cooked for the first time in weeks.

“Helen Graham?”

Whenever I met a stranger, my instinct was to determine whether he was a Pinkerton or a bounty hunter. The man who stood next to me was too respectable-looking to be a bounty hunter, and his face was too soft and open to be a Pinkerton. The cuff of his right sleeve was stained with a drop of blood and he held a well-worn satchel in the same hand. “You must be Dr. Hankins.”

“How did you know?”

“I figured you would come find me eventually.”

“Yes, you can’t amputate a man’s foot without someone taking notice. It was a fine piece of work.”

“You’ve seen Thomas?”

“I did. The prettiest bit of suturing I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, I am a woman. Sewing always has been a talent of mine. I’m going to check on him after the benefit ends. You are welcome to come along and take over his care.”

I stepped up to the counter and ordered the two teas.

“Have anything stronger?” Hankins asked the man, who nodded and drew Hankins a beer from a keg.

“Stop being cagey, Mrs. Graham. Tell me how you knew to amputate his foot, and how you keep infection from setting in.”

“I was a nurse during the war and saw my fair share of amputations. My father was a doctor, and I nursed for him after the war ended. He took me under his wing, so to speak. He knew I could never be a real doctor, but he thought it would serve me well to be able to do basic medical procedures when he was gone.”

“I hardly call amputation a basic medical procedure,” Hankins said.

“The amount of times it was performed in the war made it routine, don’t you think?” I continued. “Before my father died, he became obsessed with Joseph Lister’s work.” Hankins scoffed. “I thought Lister’s theories were logical and decided there could be no harm in using his guidelines if I was ever in the position to need them. I’ve made sure I have carbolic in my medical kit since.”

Two iced teas and a glass of beer with a thick head were placed on the counter. Hankins put his hand out, said, “Allow me,” and paid for my tea. The ice clinked against the glass. Hankins started walking behind the booth, expecting me to follow.

“I need to take this to Eliza.”

“It won’t take but a moment.”

I sighed and followed, determined to get the scene over with.

“It’s a good story, as far as it goes.” Hankins took a long pull of his beer and wiped the thick foam from his mustache.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ve never known a nurse to perform an amputation when a doctor is easily called and there is a hospital available.”

“I was under the impression neither treated Negroes.”

“Of course I would have treated such a grave injury if they had come to me. But they do not.”

“Maybe you should ask yourself why.”

Hankins lifted the glass to his mouth but stopped before he drank. He lowered the glass with deliberate slowness. “I know who you are, Miss Bennett.”

I kept my face passive but internally kicked myself for baiting the man. “Who?”

He set his bag on the ground and reached into his inside pocket. He removed a folded piece of paper and tried to give it to me. I lifted the sweating glasses of tea.

“Aren’t you curious?” he asked.

“I know what it is. What do you want, Hankins?” I said with a weary sigh.

He tucked the Wanted poster in the top of my vest to mock me, but his expression regained its friendliness. “Now, Miss Bennett, don’t sound so dejected. Did you honestly think you could hide in the West? With the rapid communication we have now through the telegraph and the railroad? We get news from New York within the week, and your story has dominated the papers at different moments since last February. Everyone west of Saint Louis is on the lookout for a woman with unnatural medical skills. A thousand dollars is a fortune.”

“I only intended to be a nurse.”

“But you couldn’t let that boy die. Like a good doctor. You risked your safety to save him.”

There was no point in trying to placate the man. He knew who I was. I was at his mercy and the worst he could do to me was to turn me over to the sheriff. The more people threatened me with it, the less I cared.

Hankins leaned forward, met my eyes, and said with feeling, “I admire that. I saw the work you did on that boy and, as much as I don’t want to admit it, you did a fine job.”

“I’ve done better. I’m out of practice.”

Hankins smiled. “The papers said you were arrogant, but you sound almost humble. You’re quite skilled.”

No surgeon worth his salt would have said my work on Thomas was “skilled.” Serviceable, yes, but well below my usual standards. Standing over Thomas’s severed foot, fumbling with the thread and needle, my hands awkward and stiff as I sutured his wound, I told myself it was because I hadn’t worked on flesh in so long, that needlepoint was a poor substitute. My heart raced with nerves and my hands shook, and I’d realized I hadn’t taken up the needle for surgery since General Sherman held a lantern for me in Fort Richardson’s hospital. The procedure took twice as long as it should have, and my fumbling and incompetence, while appropriate for a nurse out of her depth, haunted me still, and had planted an idea in my mind that was growing stronger, and more alarming, by the day.

Hankins drank his beer and said, “I’m want to offer you the best of both worlds. You keep your assumed name; Graham is it now?”

I nodded.

“How many have you had since you left New York?”

“Too many.”

“You keep your name, and you become my nurse. You’ll attend me on calls on this side of the tracks, to establish that you are extraordinarily skilled, and to establish my mentorship. You’ll be a quick learner, obviously, and, will soon take patients of your own. You’ll continue on with your practice on the other side of the tracks. If there’s another case like the amputated foot, you will call me, so as to not raise suspicion. I’ll let you assist as much as necessary. You are better at sutures than I am.”

“What will you pay me?”

“Pay you? You’ll pay me half of whatever you get from your patients.”

“My patients are able to pay little. It would take months to earn what you could get immediately from handing me over to the sheriff. Wouldn’t that be the smarter play?”

“Heavens, no. I know myself well enough to know I’d drink through that one thousand dollars in record time. Taking half of your earnings in perpetuity will be much more lucrative.”

“I could leave town.”

“If you do, I’ll send Sheriff Hall after you. And we won’t bother with bringing you back alive. I told him who you are, by the way. He gave me the poster. He gets a cut of what you give me. Everyone benefits.”

“Someone paid me last week with a kitchen table. What then?” I didn’t bother to inform him of my favorite in-kind payment: a small leather scabbard fashioned inside the top of my boot to secret the knife, newly sharpened, I had stolen at the Nebraska whistle stop.

“I guess it’ll depend on if I need one or not.”

“What exactly will my tasks be?”

“Typical nursing tasks, as well as some doctoring over across the tracks.”

“I’m not going to wait on you, wash bandages, or clean up vomit or diarrhea.”

“Those are nursing duties.”

“I’m not a nurse.”

Hankins furrowed his brows and with a puzzled smile said, “You aren’t in the position to make demands.”

“Am I not? You forget, I can ride into the next town and turn myself in.”

“You’ll be taken back to New York and hanged.”

I evaluated Hankins. Despite the fact that he was blackmailing me with the option of servitude or death, I didn’t think he was entirely bad. Most doctors of my acquaintance would have found some fault, no matter how small, with my work, not praised it. It told me more about him than he intended. I believed that with time, and my ability to charm when I wanted to, I could win him over.

Then again, killing him would be easier.

“What exactly have you heard about me?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a simple question, but I’ll be plainer. What have the newspapers written about me?”

“You don’t know?”

“I’ve been told generalities, but I’ve never read an article. I take it back. I read one that was full of lies.” I thought of Pope and wondered how the penny dreadful of my adventures was selling.

“You killed your lover in New York …”

I chuckled and shook my head.

“… And ran to Texas. You survived one massacre, to be captured by Indians when you were almost to Fort Sill.” Hankins blushed and wouldn’t meet my eye.

“Go on.”

“You were rescued by an Army major, another lover, and you two were on the run across Indian Territory when a Pinkerton caught up with you. Obviously, the article about you dying was a total fabrication.”

“Obviously.”

“The Major was caught on a riverboat about a month ago, and they suspected you were with him. That you got away. Which you did. How accurate is it?”

“Not too far off the mark, to be honest. What else?”

“Your major killed a lot of men to keep you safe. Some say he killed his brother, but no one believes it.”

My throat thickened, and I stared off into space. “The things I’ve seen, and done, this past year … I thought the war …” I met Hankins’s eyes. “I never really understood what men, and women, were capable of. Kindle paid a high price for loving me. I’m sure I will eventually be held to account, too.”

“Paid a high price? What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard? He was executed a few weeks ago.”

Hankins jerked his head back. “He was?”

“Yes. We got a telegram.”

“Last I read, he was convicted of disobeying an order and sentenced to three months.”

My heartbeat throbbed in my chest, my head, in every part of my body. I couldn’t hear, and could barely think. I focused on the man standing next to me—what was his name?—and said, “What did you say?” in a voice so low and strangled I barely heard the words myself.

The man finished his beer. I drank from one of the glasses in my hand, wanting whisky, and revolted when the cloyingly sweet tea slid thickly down my throat. It was cool, and allowed me to speak clearly and see Hankins with focused eyes. “What did you say?”

“Your major is alive and serving time at Jefferson Barracks.”

I stared past Hankins at the edge of town. In the short weeks we had been there, the tents beside us had been pulled up, sold to a new settler, and moved to a new street farther out on the desert. The smell of fresh lumber would dominate until the dirt and grime traveled from the older streets to this one as it aged. Things moved fast in the West and could change in an instant.

I faced Hankins. “When can I start?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Perfect.” I turned away from him and stopped. Harry Diamond and Salter were in a deep discussion on the edge of the crowd. Salter had his head bent down so Diamond could speak in his ear, but Salter’s eyes were on me. Salter nodded and Diamond looked in my direction. I inhaled and turned back to Hankins.

“Who is the man Harry Diamond is talking to?”

“Salter’s his name. He’s a Pinkerton.” Hankins leaned close. “Better stay clear of him.” He laughed and walked off.

My breath came in short bursts. Salter a Pinkerton? Were he and Diamond speaking of me, or was I merely in their sight line? Or was this just another instance of me thinking the world revolved around me, as Rosemond said? Regardless, I couldn’t risk facing them, of Diamond and Salter seeing the fear I knew covered me like a second skin. I walked outside the tent and made my way to the candy booth from behind.

Rosemond and Portia were laughing and talking as if they didn’t have a care in the world. They were a study in contrasts: effortlessly beautiful versus quietly handsome; vivacious versus demure; manipulative and soulless versus steadfast and principled.

“What are you singing tomorrow?” Rosemond asked.

“‘For the Beauty of the Earth.’”

“To celebrate spring?”

“Yes. I thought I would continue the theme.”

“And will your husband’s sermon do the same?”

“We haven’t talked about it. He has been distracted of late.” She paused, and continued. “Your dress is lovely. You put all the other women here to shame.”

Rosemond leaned close to Portia. “Not a terribly difficult task, present company excluded.”

Portia dipped her head. “Rosemond,” she whispered.

I shoved the glass at Rosemond and she jumped. She pressed her hand against her heart and smiled, a slight blush creeping over her pockmarked face. “Helen! Where did you come from?”

The edges of my vision darkened. Portia’s smile dipped slightly at the sight of me.

“I saw you taking to Dr. Hankins,” Portia said.

I somehow found my voice. “Yes.”

“I suppose it was only a matter of time.” Rosemond drank deeply from her glass. Her eyes lit up. “That is wonderful. Do you like it?” She nodded to my own.

I breathed deeply, the urge to run as far from Cheyenne as possible battling with the urge to retrieve my gun from the house and make good on my threat to kill her for lying to me. With hundreds of witnesses there would be no doubt to my guilt and conviction if I did, and with law-and-order citizens like Amalia Post on the jury, I’d surely hang. “She lied to me” would be a weak defense. No, Rosemond’s punishment needed to be a living hell instead of fire and brimstone.

“Helen, are you feeling well?” Portia asked.

I stared at the preacher’s wife. “No.”

“Did Hankins upset you?” Rosemond said. “What did he want?”

Hatred bubbled up, threatened to consume me. I inhaled a long, shaky breath. “For me to work as his nurse.”

“What did you say?”

“I had little choice. He knows—” I looked at Portia. “Do you mind? I need to speak to my sister alone.”

Though taken aback, Portia agreed and left.

When she was well out of earshot I moved close to Rosemond. “Salter is a Pinkerton.”

“Who?”

My brows furrowed. “Salter. From Grand Island?” Rosemond shook her head. “The man who threatened me at the hotel.”

Her eyebrows rose in understanding. “How do you know he’s a Pinkerton?” I could see the flecks of gold in her worried brown eyes. I resisted the urge to gouge them out.

“Hankins told me. Hankins knows who I am, by the way.”

“What?”

“He thought my work was quite good, too good for a nurse. It took little effort to put two and two together.”

“I told you you should have let that boy die,” Rosemond said.

“No. No more people will die to save my skin.”

“What does Hankins want?”

“I’ll work for him and he will take most of my earnings.”

“Instead of turning you in?”

“He doesn’t trust himself with such a windfall.”

“That’s good.”

“How is indentured servitude good?”

“It keeps the noose from around your neck.” Rosemond’s brow furrowed and I knew her mind was working, calculating how to manipulate this best to her advantage.

“Worried I won’t get to fulfill my end of our deal?” I said, the rage at learning about her deception too fresh and strong to mask. I shall never forget the expression of shock and dismay on her face.

She hid it quickly, but her voice held the remnants. “I was trying to think of a way to convince you to stay. I assume leaving is your priority now?”

I thought of the weeks I’d spent grieving for Kindle, her willful deceit. She’d been manipulating me from the beginning. It was time she learned what it felt like. I would stay, take my revenge on Rosemond, until Kindle was set free. Pretend I was still the grieving widow, deepen our bond, make her rely on me, love me like the sister I pretended to be, and abandon her without a word.

I smiled. “I have nowhere to go, no one to go to. You’re stuck with me.”

She pulled me into a strong embrace. With a relieved sigh she said, “I’m so glad.”

I returned her hug, my gaze falling on Portia and Salter across the way, near each other but not together, both watching us.