by Hayley Stone
I was right. Almena was marching back and forth between a washed-out sofa and a section of cushioned chairs on the other side of the room, presumably meant for guests. The latter had fared better outside the front window’s long talon of sunlight. Almena swung her hammer next to her thigh to and fro, out of sync with her agitated steps.
Klump ker-klump ker-klump. Several times, she came close to accidentally hitting herself with her hammer swings—not that the injury would last, but still. I was concerned for her safety. And mine, in her agitated state.
Supposing she might not take well to my fretting, but hoping to distract her from whatever worried her, I suggested Almena think about investing in a rug. I noticed the floors were not only bare, but unfinished, the wood bright and raw.
Almena quit her pacing and held up a hand. “Shh.”
I watched as she leaned forward, put all her weight on one foot, listened until the wood groaned. Then she let up. Satisfied with whatever that meant, she kneeled down and knocked on the wood. Meeting a hollow sound, her face relaxed some.
“I take it you found what you were looking for,” I said, leaning over her shoulder to see.
“There’s a room upstairs you can use,” she said, sitting back on her haunches. “It’s got a bed. And you look tired.”
I was, having not slept well at the Cortez’s house the previous night. But then, I hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since Asher. Most evenings, the moment my head hit the pillow, I was out, sure enough, but then there were the dreams. Of Jed kneeling over me. Of Almena’s feet twitching above the scaffold. The bodies laid out at Baxter Springs. And now, of Dempsey, his mouth framed in horror and confusion, gaping at me the way I used to gape at my father.
I sucked in a breath, then let it out slow. I removed my hat to give my hands something to do. “Yep,” I agreed simply. “But this is more important.”
She blew out of the side of her mouth, heaving hair from her face. “I’m pulling up a floorboard. It’s not that important.”
“Almena, c’mon now…”
Instead of acknowledging my desire to stay and help, she informed me the room upstairs came equipped with a washbasin if I was of a mind to clean myself up some. She then threw me a look that instinctively made me rub my face and check my fingers for grit.
“I’d recommend it,” she said.
My fingers came away mostly clean—my ex-wife would’ve said that meant they were still partly dirty. Lilah would sometimes make me wash twice before letting me sit down to a meal. Refused to let me get any kind of nature on her nice tablecloth. I didn’t think Almena worried about tablecloths, what with the sparseness of her home, so it was obviously her way of getting me out of her hair for a bit.
“You can get water from the pump behind the house.” Her stare pushed me toward the door.
If there was anything I’d learned over the years, it was how to choose your battles. I didn’t see much point in fighting this one. If Almena wanted to retrieve her money alone, no skin off my nose. My mind was busy turning over other questions, anyway, like how the Grizzly Queen of the West knew our sixteenth president, for example. And whether she’d taken part in hunting down John Wilkes Booth, as she’d promised Mrs. Lincoln.
Just pondering these unbelievable things filled me with embarrassment. Made me feel a fool for even entertaining the possibility any of it were true. But then, why else keep the letter hidden away, if it were only some kind of joke? I didn’t have an answer for that.
Almena was waiting.
“I’ll be sure and do that,” I finally said, mustering some graciousness to her offer of cleaning up. “Thank you.”
I lingered around the corner for a few moments afterward, listened to her coaxing nails out of the wood, murmuring it’s here, it has to be here, and then I headed out back through a door in the kitchen.
I ducked my head, receiving a splash of cold down my neck. It’d taken some time to prime the pump, the hand lever requiring me to really lean into it. Even once the water started flowing—initially warm from the metal, then cooler—the lever continued to shriek like the wail of a woman who’s just discovered a mouse in her pantry. Eeeeeeek, eeeeeek, eeeek.
Pulling back, I pumped the handle a couple more times. Each time, the water released in a short gush, collecting below in a wooden bucket I’d found on the porch. I cupped my hands and splashed my face, then shook my head to rid the leftover drops. A washbowl was a nice convenience, but not something I needed. Besides, I thought I’d leave Almena to her business for a bit. Figured she needed the alone time to sort herself out. Maybe she wasn’t the only one.
After rubbing most of the dirt from my face, I sat down, back against the pump, watching the back of the house. My knuckles still ached, the cuts on them scabbed over, but only barely. I resisted the urge to pick at them, a childhood vice I’d never been able to shake.
While I sat there, I had the opportunity to further admire the fine spread of country around the house. We’d passed some wheat fields on the way in, and being that I’d done most of my growing up on decent Carolinian acreage and had some experience with farming, I tried explaining to Almena why she needed to tend to her crop now.
See there? The way the stalks bend and snap? They’d broken in front of our horses’ progress, fragile as an old man’s back in a youngster’s game. Means they’re dry, maybe dead.
I showed her how the heads were starting to nod and recommended she hire someone on to harvest the plants soon before their seeds became worthless or blew away. Another storm like the one that’d passed through Coffeyville would be enough to shatter the field. It’d be a tragedy to lose what looked like an otherwise good crop, and that wasn’t even counting the profits lost or the time wasted planting the field in the first place.
Funny. I never pegged you for a farmer, Apostle.
The badge throws a lot of people off.
She’d even chuckled. As angry at her as I was for Coffeyville, I couldn’t help cracking a smile, too. If I had a weakness, it was a pretty woman laughing at my jokes.
This close to the house, long-haired prairie grass replaced the wheat fields. Near the back porch, a bossy orange milkweed staked its territory. With no one to trim it, the plant had begun a slow conquest of the right half of the deck, thrusting itself through the space between the wooden slats. Eventually, that location would choke its growth, maybe even kill it. But for now, it ruled the roost, the biggest and bawdiest flower in the yard. Beautiful, but ultimately doomed.
There were other, less invasive plants around, too. Owing to summer, the whole area was bursting with wildflowers—an eruption of color, leftover from a late spring bloom. Some like the bee’s balm and sage lorded over the grass in dominant shoots of magenta and blue. Others, like the Black-eyed Susans—which were always Lilah’s favorite—were harder to spot. The small sunflowers clung to the trailside, strangling in a net of thistle. I thought about rescuing a few for Almena’s kitchen table. Maybe it would liven the place up a little. So much of the house felt haunted, its primary resident a woman living inside the corpse of her own pride.
I jammed my hat down onto my head and pushed it forward until it almost touched my nose. After being trapped in the oppressive shadow of the house, being outside was as good as a stiff drink. The sun poured warmth into my skin, relaxed my bones, and left me thinking. Why not rest my eyes for a few minutes? Just a few. No harm in that.
Someone kicked the flat of my boot, waking me with a start. Checking the horizon, I saw the sun had slipped into the dark hills behind the house, glowing red as blood. Twilight. How long had I been asleep? Hours, at least.
Almena stood in front of me. She kicked my boot again.
“I’m up,” I said, covering a yawn, and getting to my feet. I adjusted my leather around my hips, but truth was, I couldn’t feel my backside. “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”
“I didn’t need you sooner,” she said. “I need you now.”
You could write tho
se words down at the top of a list entitled ‘Things I never expected to hear out of Almena Guillory’s mouth.’
I blinked, unable to hide my surprise. “All right.”
She turned, and I followed her wordlessly into the house.
Chapter Eighteen
Almena slammed a glass down in front of me before crashing into a chair on the other side of the table with her own cup. My brows crunched as she shoved the table’s centerpiece—a bowl of rotten fruit—out of the way and set a bottle with no label between us. She pulled her arms into her chest, holding a finger over her lip for a few seconds. Then she pointed, indicating the bottle.
“You know what that is, Marshal?”
I leaned over to inspect the bottle. Turned it this way, then that, searching the bottle with my thumb for some kind of embossing or indication of seller. There was nothing. As I set it back down, the contents sloshed around the empty space in the neck. “I’m no expert, but I’d say what you’ve got here is like to be rotgut.”
That was a nice way of calling the liquor ‘shit.’ As a way of stretching their profits, it wasn’t uncommon for some saloons to cut their whiskey with more… questionable ingredients. If you were lucky, the recipe included something harmless, like cow-horn peppers, burnt sugar, or blackberries. But ammonia and turpentine were more typical of a ‘custom drink.’ I’d even heard of a place in Leavenworth that produced a nasty concoction of whiskey and gunpowder, of all things. Wade confirmed it, once sharing the story of how he was sick for three days after downing half a bottle of the stuff over a bad game of faro. Another saloon—this one I’d actually visited in Abilene—boasted a drink colorfully titled Tarantula Juice. Don’t know what they put in it, but with a name like that, it couldn’t have been very tasty.
In any event, this wasn’t the answer Almena was looking for.
“No,” she said, reaching for the bottle. Her fingers turned white around its neck. “This right here is the only thing I have left to my name.”
“What about the money?”
“Gone. All of it. Every dollar. Every bearer bond; every last cent I ever stole. Even the best of the alcohol.” She shut her mouth like she was going to be sick. Then a rich, dark laughter tore from her lips, and she looked away—I think to keep me from seeing her tearful eyes. “He took everything.”
“Bratt,” I guessed.
She nodded, still not facing me. “You were right, Apostle. He was never coming for me.”
“Why’d you go to Asher in the first place, Almena? You could’ve left the state, disappeared altogether. Instead, you decide to hole up in a town no larger than twenty people. I know you’re a big impressive outlaw, and a smart woman, but that—well, you’ll have to forgive me. I can’t think of any other way to say it. That was just plain stupid.”
Her smile sharpened to a point, and she nodded stiffly. “I’ll drink to that.”
Rather than going to the trouble of uncorking the bottle, she smashed the neck against the side of the table, breaking it open. I flinched.
“What in blazes did you do that for?” I cried as she poured herself a shot and set about casually picking the pieces out of her skin. Several shards had flown into her hand, and blood oozed into the lines of her palm.
She sucked on her thumb. Spit red. “Saved time.”
Shaking my head, I got up and went outside, ignoring any objections. I came back with the bucket full of water I’d used earlier. Having been left out in the sun all day, the liquid was lukewarm to the touch, but still clean, apart from a few pieces of grass, and the tiny black bodies of two insects who’d learned the hard way they couldn’t swim. “You have any washrags around here?”
“You don’t have to—”
“Please. Just let me do this, all right? Now, where do you keep the rags?”
She indicated a cupboard in the kitchen. I went and fetched what was needed. Then I took my seat, this time beside her.
“Give me your hand,” I said, holding out my own.
“You know what I can do,” she said in a small voice. “You know I heal.”
“Don’t mean it doesn’t hurt in the meantime. Am I wrong?”
Almena dropped her gaze to the table. For a moment, I thought she might resist, but then she reached out. Settled her hand in mine. Her fingers slid up my wrist, nails dancing lightly over my veins, until my thumb locked between her pinky and ring finger, halting the progress of her touch. I swallowed. Hoped she didn’t notice.
“It used to hurt more,” she said.
I plunged the rag into the water and then squeezed it out over her hand, washing off the blood. “What do you mean?”
“Taking on the injuries of others used to hurt as much as if I’d experienced the trauma myself. But over the years… something’s changing. I’m starting to lose feeling. Nothing hurts anymore. Not for long, anyway.”
“You telling me you can’t feel pain?”
I carefully plucked out a piece of glass embedded between her fingers. A red spot of blood welled in its place. Almena didn’t make any indication she felt it. Her eyes stayed on me.
“I can feel it initially. Then… nothing. Maybe it’s for the best. Or maybe it’s my reward. For the things I’ve done. Or haven’t.” Before she went to pieces in front of me, she looked away again, biting hard on her bottom lip.
“What about right now?” I turned her hand over, smoothing the cloth over her knuckles. “Can you feel that?”
“Only a little.” Her mouth lifted into a timid smile. “Feels nice.”
Looking on her now, her features relaxed with pleasure, felt like I was seeing her for the first time. Not the Grizzly Queen, but Almena herself. Prey to as much fear and loneliness as the rest of us mere mortals. As she let me hold her hand, I was reminded that she, too, was flesh and blood.
“You still didn’t answer my question.”
“About Asher, you mean?” I nodded. She hesitated, then leaned toward me, speaking in a confidential tone. “What would you say if I told you I was in Asher looking for a dead man?”
“I’d say you found plenty of them along the way.”
“Right.” That was the wrong answer. All friendliness retreated from her eyes, and she sat back, taking her glass with her free hand, and downing the whole draught in one impressive shot. Then she reached for the bottle. “If we’re going to do this, I’m going to need to be a whole lot drunker than I am right now.” Rather than topping herself off again, she started to pour the liquor into the glass meant for me. “I hope you’re a whiskey man.”
“Actually, I don’t drink.”
“Bullshit. You live in Kansas.”
I smiled thinly. “I manage all right.”
She let her eyes go to the ceiling. “I don’t have many rules I live by…”
“You don’t say.”
“But of my rules, there is one I abide by and have never broken. I don’t drink alone.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because it’s pathetic. And because I don’t trust a man who doesn’t drink. In most cases, it’s because he’s waiting. Planning on getting the drop on me in my inebriated state. Wanting to shoot me in the back or shoot something else between my thighs. Either way…”
She slid my glass back in front of me.
I shook my head. “I’d never take advantage of you like that. But I’m sorry, I don’t partake.”
“I can’t drink if you don’t drink. And I need a drink.” She took her hand back, then said the magic words: “Please, Apostle.”
If she’d tried to coerce me, like on the Cortez’s farm, or threaten me, as she’d done in Asher, I wouldn’t have budged. I’d been bullied by bigger men than her, teased by Prough the Rough, and still come out sober as temperance. But this asking nicely thing…
Damn it.
I scrunched my face up, feeling my will cracking. She began to smile, knowing she’d won even before I answered. “I’m not gonna to get two words out of you until I say yes, am I? Fine. If it�
�ll make you feel better, I’ll have a drink. One. In return, you’ll answer all my questions. About Asher and… any other thing I want to know about. Agreed?”
“Whatever makes you happy, Marshal.” Almena gestured to my glass with her long, slender fingers. “After you.”
I gave her a decidedly unhappy look, and brought the glass to my lips.
As I did, I caught sight of my knuckles—pink and tender, but otherwise completely healed. Almena. She must’ve done it earlier when our hands were touching. I didn’t even notice. I pretended not to notice now, too, allowing her to cherish her secret act of charity. Even a bad guy needs to feel like a good guy once in a while.
Soon as the alcohol hit my tongue, I stopped thinking about my knuckles or Almena’s reckless moral compass, and started thinking about what horse piss mixed with seep oil must taste like. This had to be mighty close, if not surpassing in its vileness. Knocking it back quick—truly, that was the only way to stomach its foulness—brought tears to my eyes. It was like gargling with kerosene. Burned all the way down.
“Lord!” I made a face. “That’s awful!”
Almena smirked. “That’s whiskey.”
Come to find out, Almena couldn’t get drunk—least, not for long. Something having to do with the same reason she could stomach bullets and tolerate the violent vandalizing of her skin like it was nothing more than a temporary inconvenience. Of course, I didn’t realize this until around the third glass.
Also came to find out, when she said that bottle was the last thing she had to her name, she was being a touch dramatic. Bratt had left her at least six bottles of the stuff—real champion fellow, that Bratt—and Almena was determined to drink every one of them dry. Pressured to keep up with her, and already having broken my golden rule, I figured I might as well keep going. See what all the fuss of drinking was about.
I also feared stopping up, lest Almena put an end to her stories. Seemed like the more I drank, the more she had to say. I was learning a lot about her. Valuable, important things…