“Take that, you little shit.” Willie whips off his belt and coils it. Sam cowers in a corner of the kitchen. “Don’t you go sassing at your ma.” Sam yelps at the first blow and ducks between Willie’s legs and out the back door.
“What the hell, Willie?” Ruby strains to grab Willie’s belt but misses. He coils it up again and stands between Ruby and the door. Ruby’s feet are planted firm. “Swine.”
“You calling me names?”
“Damn it, Willie, the boy’s just hungry. Do you have to go and wallop him over it? Or yell all the time. I’m tired of this, Willie. I’m tired of you.” Willie’s not even two days back from Tucson and Ruby has welts fresh on her back. She caught a glimpse of her shoulder blades in the mirror this morning. It hurt to put on her chemise.
Willie grunts. He lowers the belt and scratches his underarms. He’s still in his long johns. His hair sprouts from his scalp and his face is full of whiskers.
“You stink, Willie. Go get cleaned up. It’s nearly ten.” Ruby skirts Willie and pushes out the back door. No Sam.
A glint of sun slices Ruby’s eyes. What is it? She squints, her brow knotted.
It’s time …
Is it always this way? You feel a jolt? A voice? Like someone from somewhere—dead or imagined—gives you the nod?
… long past time.
And there’s no going back to what was, even two minutes before?
The door creaks behind her as she re-enters the kitchen.
It’s time, Ruby, long past time.
Into the bedroom, the words follow her. She backs up against the bureau, her hands behind her back. The curtains hang limp in the sultry air. “I want a divorce.”
“What?” Willie whips around, his eyes slits. He’s got his trousers on, and an undershirt. He hasn’t bothered to wash up.
“You heard me, Willie.”
“Bitch.” Willie advances on Ruby.
Ruby feels for her pistol on the dresser top. Steady, Ruby. It’s always loaded, both barrels, like her pop taught her, one to miss, one not to. She knocks over a photograph as she turns around, the pistol aimed at Willie’s chest. Her breathing is ragged.
“You take one more step toward me and I’ll finish you, Willie Fortune. Whupping Sam just now just because he’s hungry, that’s the last straw. Four years old, he is, Willie. Four! If you know what’s best for you, you won’t come near me or the boys or Jericho again.”
Willie glares at Ruby. “You threatening me?”
“The plain truth.” Ruby concentrates, her hand steady as if she were in the arena in front of five hundred paying customers, a glass ball in her sights. See that you don’t miss, Ruby.
“We could get it back, you and me. You know it, Ruby.” Willie slowly raises his hand and reaches toward her.
Ruby doesn’t flinch. “That time has long past, Willie. What you do in Tucson isn’t for delicate ears. And whatever it is you boys do up at that good-for-nothing mine. People talk. And I do your laundry, you know. There are others. There have always been others.”
“Think you know it all, don’t you. You don’t know much. Not even graduated from the eighth grade.”
“And whose fault is that?” Ruby’s breath comes on fast and shallow. She thinks of the thousand times she’s been center stage at the traveling carnival. There is no room for error. Her palm sweats but she retains a solid bead on Willie’s chest, her finger still on the trigger. “I know a heap more than you when it comes to common decency. So I’m asking you to leave. No, I’m telling you to leave. And don’t come back.”
Willie lunges and slaps at the pistol. She is too quick for him and angles the pistol toward the ceiling. A shot goes off. Willie grasps Ruby’s throat and tightens his grip, his eyes bulging as he shoves her up against the bureau.
Ruby gasps for breath, the air sucked out of her, her outstretched arm and derringer still pointed at the ceiling. Dark spots dance in front of her eyes and she feels faint. Willie reaches for the gun with his free hand. In that split second before she blacks out, Ruby swings her arm around and pulls the trigger, point blank. The curtains tremble as the sound echoes off the bedroom walls.
Willie stiffens, his eyes shrunk to cactus thorns. His hands tighten around Ruby’s neck and then go slack. He stumbles back against the edge of their bed, his chest wide open. Blood peppers the white bedspread as Willie slumps against the bedstead.
“Goddamn whore,” he splutters. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be …” His voice trails off as his eyes roll back. He melts off the edge of the bed onto the floor.
Blood pours from the open wound, but Ruby does not go to him. She stares at Willie Fortune as his chest heaves and then goes still as a gravestone.
Ruby looks down at her shaking hand. “If it weren’t for you, Willie, I’d be … free.” A blast of blood fills her chest. Ruby doesn’t kneel, just stands there, catching her tattered breath, until she’s sure Willie’s not feigning it.
Should she be filled with remorse? Horror? Fear? She doesn’t feel anything. Ruby replaces the pistol on the dresser. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her neck is beet red where Willie strangled her. She sweeps her hair behind her ears and turns toward the door.
Sam stands in the doorframe, his face the color of day-old dough.
“Sam!” Ruby reaches for him. He flinches and runs.
“Sam! Wait!” Ruby yells. She runs from the bedroom to the kitchen.
“What the devil?” Fletcher says. He’s eating pie for breakfast. “I heard a …”
“Don’t go in there,” Ruby says. “I shot your pa. He’s dead.”
“What the hell?” Fletcher drops the piecrust and pushes past Ruby.
“I said, don’t go in there, young man.”
Fletcher hovers between kitchen and parlor, as much as between loyalties. “Did you have to kill him?”
“Get the sheriff.”
Ruby runs to the back door and bangs out the kitchen door. “Sam! Sam! Come back!”
Ten minutes later Sheldon Sloane storms in the front door, Fletcher trailing behind. Ruby is in the back yard, wringing her hands. “I can’t find Sam.”
“A boy can’t get too far in this town without someone bringing him home by his ear,” the sheriff says.
Fletcher brushes past Ruby and slams her hip as they meet at the back door.
“See that you find Sam,” Ruby says.
“Why?”
“I mean it, Fletcher. Find him. You and Clayton, both.”
Fletcher scowls.
When did he get to be so surly?
Sheldon ducks into the bedroom and returns to the kitchen minutes later. He sits across from Ruby, hat in hand. “What happened?”
“If you’re asking, I’m not sorry. Even if it means …”
“It means you’re rid of the bastard,” Sheldon says. “I can’t tell you the number of times I wanted to throw that good-for-nothing in the clink for as much as spitting on the sidewalk. Everyone knew how he treated you, Ruby. You can’t hide every bruise.”
“I told him I wanted a divorce.”
“And what next?”
“Had his hands around my neck.” Ruby touches her neck and realizes her hands shake. “I couldn’t breathe. He was choking me, Sheldon. I swear he would have killed me if I hadn’t …”
“You won’t face a day for this, Ruby. It’s an open and shut case of self-defense. Especially since there were no witnesses.”
Ruby draws in a shuddering breath. “Sam was there.”
“You mean to say Sam saw …”
“When I turned to the door, he was there.”
“And you didn’t see him?”
“Not until after.”
“Rest easy, Ruby. No judge is going to take the word of a shaver over his momma. Or me.”
Sheldon stands. Ruby follows suit, but Sheldon holds Ruby back with his arm. “I’ll take care of this. You go put on tea. Or maybe pour something stronger. Make it a double.”
Doc Swendsen strides into the house without knocking.
“Just heard the news,” Swendsen says. “Came to help.” He’s mid-height and wiry, with oversized hands and feet. His face is pleasant enough, although he rarely smiles. His bottom teeth are rotten.
“There’s been a dust up, Doc. You might say Ruby has done us all a favor here. Way I see it, Willie Fortune dead is worth more than he was ever worth alive. Give me a hand, will you?”
Ruby can’t help noticing the physician’s surgical kit. He won’t need a bone hammer or Hey saw or tourniquet strap today. Heck, he won’t even need a stethoscope.
Swendsen trips over the corner of a Persian rug as he passes through to the bedroom. He steadies himself on an overstuffed chair. Is he that clumsy? Or drinking already midday? His shirt is untucked in the back, his trousers worn. Ruby has never seen him without a hat and wonders if he’s balding in the back. She’s not all that sure he’s a good doctor, but he’s all Jericho’s got.
“Sheldon?” Ruby asks. She tugs at the sleeve of his long black coat.
Sheldon turns toward her. “Ruby?”
“I need your advice.”
“And?”
Ruby looks toward the bedroom. She lowers her voice. “Would rather not discuss it now with Doc here. Come by after supper?”
“No need to ask twice.”
Fletcher crashes through the back door, Clayton just behind. In his arms, Clay carries Sam, limp as a dishrag. Tearstains run down Sam’s dirty face; his eyes rimmed red as blood. Ruby gathers Sam in her arms and cradles him, whispering and sobbing, tears not for Willie, and certainly not for her, but for all her boys, most of all for him.
“WHERE DO I SIGN?” RUBY asks. She holds her pen tighter than a whip.
“Right here.” Sheldon taps his fingers near a large X at the bottom of the document. “Brilliant, Ruby.”
Ruby nods.
“With Willie’s signature, a quarter of the Silver Tip Mine is yours.”
“Can’t say as I calculated it. But as soon as I saw Willie lying there, I knew I had to come up with something.” Ruby taps the pen on the desk. “But I’m worried sick this won’t seem legal. We weren’t married in the proper sense, in a church or by a judge.”
“In the eyes of the law, you were married as much as the next woman. Common law. Not legal in Arizona Territory, but who’s to know. If you come from Colorado or Texas, common law is legal there and we have to recognize it here.” Sheldon stands over Ruby. She can smell his aftershave. “Where did you and Willie hook up, anyway?”
“Texas. Week after my pop died. But it’s just that …”
“Justice served, plain and simple. We didn’t stay up all night writing this damn document for you to back out now. You took up with Willie Fortune in Texas. Lived with him how many years?”
“Twelve.”
“And bore him four sons.”
“Five.”
“Five sons. And made him a fortune. I’ll bet my last dollar he was nobody before he met you and your pop. You made that man. And he bought the mine with your money, Ruby. Think about that.”
Ruby nods. “Here’s where I really need your help, Sheldon.”
“There’s more?”
“Without a will, I wouldn’t get a nickel. But I can’t bank it. That’s where you come in.”
Ruby dips the pen in the inkwell. Steady, Ruby. She signs with a large, flowery scrawl: Willard G. Fortune, Jr. If she hadn’t signed his name so many times before, she might have stopped halfway, but she finishes with a flourish like it was her own legal signature. “There. Done.” She shoves the will toward Sheldon. “I’ve got my boys to think about.”
Sheldon waits for the ink to dry and holds the document up. “Good and legal now, Mrs. Fortune. I’m happy to bank it for you. Call it an arrangement of sorts.”
“An arrangement?”
“Not what you’re thinking, although the prospect is inviting.”
“And how do I know I can trust you?”
Sheldon sits next to Ruby, their knees almost touching. “You can.” He takes her hand. She doesn’t draw it away.
“I don’t have much choice,” Ruby says. “Except hide it in my bureau drawer. Or under my mattress.”
“You wouldn’t be the first. But then you’re prey to thieves. Or fire. You worked too long and hard for your capital to fall into the wrong hands. Or go up in smoke.”
Ruby stands. She checks the clock on the mantel, 4:35 a.m. on what promises to be another blazing day in Jericho. “You better get moving on, Sheriff. Don’t want anyone seeing you leave my place at this hour. I’ve got enough goddamn trouble heaped up in my soul to add any more to it.”
“Best be wearing black for the next few weeks, Ruby. For appearance sake.”
“I’d rather wear a party dress, and you know it.”
“Don’t make it worse.”
“If you insist. Though I don’t know how I’ll stand it. I won’t mourn that man for a minute.”
Sheldon’s voice is measured. “You know I’m right on this.”
“Damn you, Sheldon. You’re right on everything. Doesn’t that get tiring?”
Sheldon stuffs a smile beneath his moustache.
“The black bombazine it is,” Ruby says. “And a veil and a hanky. I can play the grieving widow. But why bother? I can hear them already, the wolves, all the old biddies, the preacher, not to mention those good-for-nothings at the mine. The whole town’ll be talking before sunup.” A sneer twists her lip. “You know I’m right on this. We women get the bad end of the stick every time, Sheldon. Every goddamn time.”
That night, Ruby lights an oil lamp and settles on the davenport in the sitting room, a quilt wrapped around her legs and midsection. Divina has the boys overnight next door. Ruby watches shadows play on the ceiling and nurses a tall whiskey.
Sheldon, as promised, guards the porch. Every few minutes, he walks the length of the wooden veranda, a clump clomp clump of his boots on the floorboards. A halo of smoke wafts from his cigarette. He doesn’t sit. A while later, he knocks on the door. “Everything alright?”
“As good as can be, I expect.”
“’Night, Ruby.”
“’Night, Sheldon.”
Ruby changes into her nightclothes in the bedroom she shared with Willie Fortune. As she lifts the nightdress over her head, she tries not to look at the bed, now stripped to the mattress with a huge red stain bleeding down the side. She’ll never sleep in that room again. She drops her clothes in a hamper and returns to the davenport, glad that Sheldon is only steps away. So far, there has not been any ruckus from Willie’s mine partners. The funeral is tomorrow.
Will her plan hold up? Yes. It’s foolproof; Sheldon said so himself. Ruby sips whiskey and her mind meanders.
Bang! Bangbangbang! Ruby wakes in a terror, her eyes wide. Has she nodded off? Where is Sheldon? She darts from the couch and crouches. The night is quiet as death. Her blood freezes. Is Sheldon bleeding out on the porch? And Willie’s friends here for her now? Ruby shimmies along the floor, her stomach grazing the worn carpet. Where is her pistol? Is it still in her room? Or did Sheldon confiscate it? Ruby’s heart booms in her chest. In a whiskey haze, she sees Sheldon still at his post, his back to her, smoking.
Was it a dream, then? Slow, Ruby, slow, breathe. She crawls back to the couch and burrows under the quilt. She reaches for the whiskey. Relax, Ruby. Sip. On the plan. Sip. Stick to it. Sip. Wait a week, maybe two, no more. Borrow a horse. Ride up to the mine. Get your fair share, Willie be damned. Sip. Sip. Sip.
In the meantime, a betting man could lay down his last dollar Ruby won’t attend Willie’s funeral tomorrow, although she’d like to see the bastard lowered into the ground. One can never be too sure.
IN ANY GIVEN WEEK, JERICHO sees dozens of new faces, some on wanted posters, some savvy enough to have eluded the law. This week, town is teeming with new ones, including newspapermen from Tucson, The Honorable John “Judge” Towson, and more than a few grifters who caught tail wind of the scandal. A husband-killer gets press.
Ruby sits on a hard bench in the anteroom of the sheriff’s office while the judge and the sheriff confer inside Sheldon’s office. Outside, a throng of newspapermen clamors for the verdict. Dog Webber, Jericho’s own newshawk, is at the front of the pack.
Sweat drips down the neck of Ruby’s black high-collared mourning dress. She has had too many occasions to wear it and hates it more each time. She looks and feels like an overstuffed fudge cake, frills and all. Why did she ever think those yards of bombazine look fashionable? Or comfortable? On any day of the week, Ruby would rather wear a split skirt, blouse, and vest and get on with it.
Ruby worries her hands over lace trim and shuffles her feet to get air moving under the long hem. It’s been ten minutes and she’s antsy already. A verdict in her favor and she’ll walk free today. A conviction, and she’ll find herself behind bars and who knows when she’ll see her boys again. She fingers her collar.
Jimmy Bugg presses up to the window and Ruby’s stomach hits the floor. Willie’s mine partner is no friend of hers. Bugg sneers at Ruby and she turns her head away. She checks her pocket watch. It’s been fifteen minutes now.
The door of Sheldon’s office creaks open. Ruby has never been so glad to see him. His face reveals the decision and Ruby exhales. Has she been holding her breath all this time?
“No case, Ruby. Inquiry took less time than a man takes to dump.” Sheldon reads from an official paper:
The shot fired by Mrs. Willard Fortune, Jr. was a clear case of self-defense and perfectly justified. She is exonerated from all blame in said matter.
“Signed Hon. John Towson, Jericho, A.T.” Sheldon hands the document to Ruby and strides toward the door. “Wait here while I knock off this mob and then I’ll see you home. Best that I take the porch again tonight. A day or two, this will all die down. Mark my words, a week from now, no one will miss Willie Fortune. It’ll be front-page news of the Courier-Journal, you can be certain of that, but Willie’ll be lucky if he even makes page eight of The Tucson Citizen. He was a nobody, Ruby.”