KANSAS
1905
We Reach Verna Rolfe’s—Trouble
We took the gravel road past the granary, as instructed. And there it was: a four-square farmhouse bone white under the moon. A single old tree grew next to it, throwing the top floor in shadow. A screened-in porch spanned the front of the house. It was all so neat and tidy, the siding newly painted, the lawn freshly cut, the line of daisies in copper troughs along the fence line.
Not a single light was on. No guard dog barked. The paddocks were empty, though I assumed we’d find horses or mules in the barn at this hour.
“Something doesn’t feel right.” Pip gave a gesture to move to the barn, so we did. She moved to slide the door open, pulling the handle a little bit at a time, then stopped to peer at the house.
“You can’t even hear that bolt,” I whispered. “It’s oiled to an inch of its life.”
We sidled in and she pulled the door shut. Unlike our last accommodations, this barn was water- and wind-tight. Which meant it was dark as Hades. I listened for livestock, and heard the scuff of hoof to floor, then slid my feet forward in increments until I came to a stall. “Over here.”
“I’m already here.”
My heart jumped into my throat. “Don’t do things like that.”
“Sorry.”
I reached out to find her and patted her arm when I did. “Apology accepted. Now what?”
“We wait until morning. Then we knock on the door.”
“Yeah?”
“We wait for her to answer.”
“Okay.”
“Then we know.”
“Couldn’t we do that now?” I asked. “I’d prefer to sleep in a bed and not the floor of this barn.”
“It’s too late.”
“No, it’s not, I think this is an acceptable time for visitors to call. Would you turn me away if I showed up this late? I think you wouldn’t.”
“I might. If I were a heavy sleeper, I certainly would. Besides, there may be a Mister Rolfe.”
“He wouldn’t be called Mr. Rolfe. He’d be Mr. Harrington, or Ludlow, or some such. And he’d be averse to two innocent women out in the dark by themselves. He might even give us a hot rum.”
“Well, I am not ready. So, we’re staying in the barn and getting well rested and prepared.”
She sat, so I did, too, both with our back against the wood. The only noise was the crunch and grind of the horses chewing salt blocks or the end bits of grain.
“Verna thinks you were in cahoots with Frank.”
I let out a laugh. “That’s an upright wrong lie. Does she really think I’d do that?”
“You did take off.”
“Not after him. That’s just rude of her.”
“You do have that nice cigar shop. That takes—”
“You’re on her side? What the hell, then. Maybe you should have run right to her and left me to my shop that I apparently purchased with all that stolen money.”
“Now, Ruby—”
“Don’t ‘Now Ruby’ me.” I jumped up and chewed my lip and thought how I wanted this all over. I drilled my fingers to my thighs, squeezed my eye closed, and flipped through my mind looking for the timetable of the Burdick train. But I had never heard of Burdick before The Black Witch of Imminent Chaos walked in my cigar shop. I blew out some short breaths, allowing my mind to wander over the schedule for the Missouri, Kansas & Texas line. “Fairdale, Muncie, Edwards, Forest Lake.”
“What are you doing?”
“Shh. LaTrape…no. Bonner Springs. No. I think that’s an Atchison Topeka, but maybe they both run through. Wait—Frisbie. Yes.” I made a small circle so as not to run face first into the wall. “I can’t stay here, Pip. She needs a talking to.”
A muffled yelp gave me pause.
“Pip?”
Heavy thumps and a low grunt did not bode well. There was a scuffle of feet, then the barn door yanked open, illuminating the noise and confusion. A heavyset man hurried out into the moonlight. He had Pip slung over his shoulder. Her arms swung around as he spun back to pull the door.
“Boudreaux.” The word caught like a fiery stone on my tongue.
“You’re next.” He slammed the door. There came an unmistakable thunk of a padlock.
* * *
I stood as still as a funerary urn, not able to move a foot, in full shock as to this latest disaster. I blinked furiously, as if that would allow me to see in front of my face, but it didn’t help in the least. I wanted to call for Pip, because she was fast-witted in situations, and a kidnapping would throw her into high gear. Except she had been the one absconded with.
By Barnabé Boudreaux. Who I had mostly forgotten about once we were out of Osawatomie, save for his gift of the Bibles and the address list that led us here to Verna.
My chest constricted and my breathing became a high wheeze. I bent over, put my hands to my bare knees, and sucked in air. I coughed it and the hay dust right out.
Boudreaux had kidnapped my friend. I needed to do something.
“Oh hell,” I said. I swallowed a scream of panic and dropped to a crawl. The barn had more than the main door; every stall let out to a paddock. This I had seen when we approached it. I crawled along, reaching out to find a wall with my hand and not my head. One of the horses snuffled, so I zigged my way in its direction.
“Good horse,” I whispered.
My shoulder slammed the corner of something. I winced and bit my lip to keep in the curse. I clasped the object’s edge, determined it was a trunk, and ran my fingers along it as I neared the sniffly horse. The hay and grit on the floorboards transitioned to sawdust. I spread my hand to the wall and caught the corner of the stall door frame, then the door itself. Stood and slid the bar open. I slipped in, keeping my back to the stall and facing the horse.
“You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine.”
It snorted and swung its head, the hot breath like ants crawling along my arms.
I sidestepped, dragging my back along the wall, my hip setting the empty hay bag swaying. A loud kick reverberated in the space. I shuddered and scrambled for the back half door, my fingers reaching and clutching the bar, giving a tug.
It held fast. Boudreaux had locked it from the outside.
He knew we were coming.
“Not good,” I muttered. “Not not good.”
The horse pawed the floor, hoof scraping on the wood.
I made a dash for the inner door, scrambled over the top, and landed in a heap. I shook all over, as if my blood was poisoned and leeching its way out, taking my courage with it. I envisioned Pip outside somewhere and maybe already dead.
I could not help. Just like before. If I stayed, I would be next. Boudreaux said it and I believed it.
A feather fluttered against my cheek, spinning to my lips. I spit it away and sat up. I twisted around and crawled to the stall across. Stood and opened the bar. “I hope you’re a good old horse.” I waited until it walked over, its knees cracking as it moved close and nestled its muzzle against my collar bone.
Boudreaux would be back. I had one opportunity to escape.
I let go a long breath and ran a hand down its neck, tugging a bit on the mane and then rubbing the whorl of hair on its forehead.
“I knew a horse once named Big Henry. Now I don’t need you to have the talents he did, as I surely do not have the talents of Pip Quinn, but if you could do me one small favor, horse, I will be ever grateful.”
It pushed its head in for more attention and shifted a foot. I twisted a hank of mane near its ears and turned us both out of the stall, as if it were another day with the plow or saddle. I searched around for the trough, climbed on the edge then slung a leg over the horse. Its withers gave a little shiver, then it stood there awaiting my word.
I grabbed hold of the mane with both hands. “I thank you now in case there isn’t another opportunity.”
My ears rang, my attention fully on the big barn door. I walked the horse, who I named Fred for his equanimity, in a circle or two. The other horse kicked its stall again and whinnied. Fred ignored it, giving a small huff of annoyance.
Fred slowed. Raised his head.
The barn door slid open and with it came a sliver of moonlight. “Now, Fred.” I lay myself low and gave a kick.
The horse barreled forward, aiming straight for Boudreaux, whose arms did cartwheels as he tried to stay upright. He grabbed my ankle as we sped past but couldn’t hold on. I looked back as he fell face first in the dirt.
Fred was off. I gripped tight, slipping sideways when he took a sharp turn at the house and headed for the drive. The wind whipped my hair, stinging my eye. It was familiar: my heels in the horse’s ribs, his breath rough, neck stretched out for the run, my panic tindering his own.
His hooves dug into gravel, sending it flying out around us. I squinted into the night. The white rails flew by, then we tore around the granary and onto the main thoroughfare.
A train whistled. I sat up, pulling at Fred’s mane to slow him to a trot. A long plume of smoke lay on the horizon. The train headed into Burdick.
Pip and I had passed the one room depot on our way to the farm. I did not know how long the train would layover. Perhaps long enough for Fred and me to hurry behind it and I could hop in a boxcar as it pulled away. Leaving one place, going to another. Staying would be suicide.
That train was my way out.