Temperance’s eyes glistened. “Honey, I’m no one special. I can’t fill Madam’s shoes. They’re ten sizes too big.”
“Well, you can’t have it both ways. If you’re gonna boss us around and tell us not to kill ourselves a reverend, you’re gonna have to wear Madam’s shoes. Wear her damn peacock-feather dress, too, while you’re at it. Whatever greases your wagon. Just…don’t sit by. Don’t let the Reverend Gray take our futures from us, before we’ve even lived ‘em.”
Sophia eyed Annie, mildly awestruck. She’d known the Flower of the North had a fiery streak, but she’d never realized Annie cared about anything more than drinking and gambling and gyrating her hips on stage.
She counted herself grateful that they’d somehow ended up on the same side.
“I’ll think about what comes next,” Temperance said, eyeing them both. “Just…give me a few days, will you? Until then, no charging off without consulting anybody. And no threatening clergymen at gunpoint. Not when it might cost us those futures you’re talking about.”
After a long and leaden breath, Sophia nodded. For all that she didn’t like it, Temperance did have a point. So did Annie: the Blossom needed a leader. In Irene’s absence, a sickness seemed to permeate the very walls, as if the vacuum of Madam’s passing had stricken the house with an illness only one of them could cure. “Fine,” she said. “Three days. But if you don’t come up with something by then, I’m treating the Reverend to a front-row view down my gun barrels.”
“Fair enough.” Temperance nodded, then raised a brow. “Oh, and Miss Marigold?”
Annie propped her hands on wide hips. “Why do you look like you’re fixing to scold me? What did I do?”
“You punched me in the face,” Sophia said, “for one.”
“Knocked you right on your skinny ass, too.” Annie grinned. “But were you really gonna shoot me?”
To her surprise, Sophia found herself grinning back. “No.”
Temperance cleared her throat. “No more fighting in the parlor.”
Annie shrugged. “Guess I can take it out back, next time.”
Temperance responded with an arch look.
Uncowed, Annie glared right back. “You agree to be our new Madam, and I’ll agree not to punch the new girl again. But not until then.”
Sophia just chuckled.
Sighing, Temperance surveyed them both. Her brown eyes warmed as dusk slid through the windows. “I haven’t filed Madam’s will at the courthouse yet. I’ve been meaning to, but…” She clasped her hands, her knuckles paling. “…I’ve never been in charge of anything before. I help people. I don’t manage brothels.”
“Could’ve fooled me, Madam Nobody’s-Killing-Any-Fake-Reverends-Today,” Annie said.
“That’s different.”
“No, it ain’t.”
Temperance smoothed her chignon with a slim dark hand. “Three days. I’ll make a decision by then.”
Three days. Sophia had chosen the number, but her stomach turned over, nonetheless. Until Madam’s will went to the courthouse, the house’s future flickered, hazy and uncertain. Keeping that document only made them vulnerable.
But by the time Sophia opened her mouth to say so, Temperance had already gone back upstairs.
15. Temperance.
On the third day, Temperance rode her horse out into the unhurried daybreak. She drove Bea over the fragrant peat, out past the Yukon’s glowing bend, out beyond the place where the mountains grabbed hold of the plains and stepped proudly from the earth. The violet dawn rushed by, stinging her cheeks, and the wind ate her thoughts as quickly as they came.
Yet she could only ignore the whispers for so long. Eventually, they seeped in like water trickling through rock, reaching down deep to rearrange her pieces.
Irene had given her the Blossom.
And what now? Temperance had never thought of herself as a leader. For so long, she’d found her purpose in serving others.
Yet…perhaps becoming Madam was a way to serve. The girls needed someone. Without guidance, they drifted, the bonds of the Blossom’s sisterhood stretched thin.
Still, Temperance was no Irene. In fact, she was nobody special at all.
Tugging on Bea’s reins, she veered into a copse of spruces, then dismounted and reached into her saddlebag. Her fingers closed around her Bible.
Hugging the book to her chest, she left Bea and threaded toward the grove’s center. In the shifting amethyst dawn, the trees gleamed earthen blue. Overhead, the sky announced its majesty with a waterfall of newly minted sunbeams.
In a dawn-lit glade ringed by evergreens, Temperance planted her knees in the peat and set the Bible down. Dew seeped through her skirts, bathing her skin in cold.
She lowered her eyelids and lifted her hands.
“Lord, I ask that you bless my sister, Peony. Tell her I love her, and that I’m sorry. May you also bless Madam Irene, who now dwells in your care.”
She paused amid the morning’s crisp silence. “Father, I’m at a crossroads. I don’t know which way to go. I only know I can’t lose our home. Please, send me a sign. Light my way.”
Temperance waited. The burgeoning melody of birdsong sweetened the air, but nothing else stirred. Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into a half-hour. Still, she lingered.
In the quiet, memories crowded her mind. Some tasted sweet—fearless Madam wielding a cool cloth against her burning brow, back when the typhoid fever had roared through town. Annie, riding hard across the valley, whooping for joy and returning with windblown wildflowers in her flaming hair.
Others loomed like dark specters—Sophia’s furious eyes as she’d spoken of Madam’s death. Irene’s cold grave.
And, long before either of those things, the night Peony had died.
Temperance breathed deep, leaning in to the thoughts of her sister. Peony, with her laughing eyes and ready smile, had been ever secluded behind locked doors, and she’d relied on Temperance for everything. After all, Temperance had known her sister better than anybody. Only she had recognized the glassy stare that heralded a shaking spell. She’d learned how to slip a spoon handle between Peony’s gnashing teeth, how to turn her on her side so she wouldn’t choke on her own tongue.
Except, in her youth, Temperance had been selfish. She’d resented belonging so thoroughly to someone else, and had instead wanted to wade into the wide world and forge her own stories.
She’d wanted to fall in love.
So she had—with the baker’s daughter, three houses down. She’d even left Peony alone one day, trusting her sister to survive until she returned.
The price of that mistake had nearly broken her.
“Who were you with?” her father had demanded, when she’d stepped into the house and caught sight of Peony’s blackened, bloated face. “Who was worth leaving her alone for?”
Shattered and trembling, Temperance hadn’t thought to lie. “Anna Lancaster.”
Her father hadn’t been able to look at her again.
“Take this,” he’d said, tossing the family Bible. “And get out. May the Good Book guide you better than I have.”
After leaving Salt Spring Island, Temperance had pored over those pages for months. Somehow, word by holy word, she’d dragged herself back toward the light—because instead of finding judgment, she’d found forgiveness and compassion and the commandment to help others.
Just as she hadn’t helped Peony, in the end.
Shaken, Temperance opened her eyes. Beyond the towering halo of spruces, the sky gleamed the color of bright brass. As she watched, a single blossom floated from the infinite expanse, spiraling earthward, falling like a fluttering star. With a whisper, it touched down on her Bible.
Warmth bloomed in her bones, driving away the chill of the dew. Was this her answer? Trembling, she picked up the bud. Fireweed. Tucking the bloom into her chignon, she opened the book and set her finger down.
Do all things without grumbling or dispute, that you may be a c
hild of God in the midst of a crooked generation, among whom you shine as a light in the world.
“Philippians,” she murmured.
She couldn’t get back to Bea fast enough. The moment she landed in the saddle, she turned the mare toward home.
***
Upstairs, the purple boudoir loomed silent, lifeless as a crypt—except for Madam’s last will and testament, which crouched on the desk, precisely where Temperance had left it.
She picked it up.
“Madam’s gone,” she said to the empty room. “Now there’s me.”
***
In the parlor, Annie perched at the bar, plaiting her hair while Palmer served his ever-punctual eleven o’clock coffee. Riley lounged atop the counter, trying to catch someone’s attention.
Temperance paused on the landing above, letting the coziness of the scene flood into her. For a moment, she was back in Salt Spring Island, stirring warm milk over a dancing hearth. Back before everything had gone so horrifically wrong.
Annie looked up, tying off her braid. “You were up early. Where’d you get off to?”
Temperance fingered the flower tucked into her chignon. “The wild.” She floated down the stairs, each step lightening the burden of her grief. Now that she’d come to a decision, a sense of movement filled her, instead of the pain of standing still. Beyond the span of her heartache, a light beckoned—far away, maybe, but there. And she’d come back from darkness before, Lord knew. She could do it again.
Annie glanced down. “What’s that?”
“Madam’s will. I’m going to the courthouse to file it.”
A joyful light kindled in Annie’s eyes. “Does this mean we can call you Madam Hyacinth?”
Temperance nodded.
The force of Annie’s answering grin nearly blinded her. Behind the bar, even Palmer smiled a little.
“Where’s Sophia? I’d like to say something.”
Annie nodded toward two long-barreled revolvers on the bar. “Went out back for a spell.”
Temperance took a seat. “I’ll wait, then.”
Wordlessly, Palmer deposited a cup of tea before her. No milk, no sugar. Exactly the way she liked it. Wrapping a hand around the delicious heat, she lifted the cup, letting the sunrise smell brim in her nostrils. Somewhere deep, a knot that had been bound for days began to come undone.
Let the Reverend try his best. Once she handed Irene’s will to the court, the Blossom would become legally hers, and when he came for it, he’d find a house united against him.
When the front door creaked open behind her, Temperance didn’t bother to look. “We’re closed,” she said. But Riley sprang up, hackles at attention, an ominous growl in his throat.
With a frown, Temperance turned.
All the feeling left her fingers. Her teacup hit the carpet and shattered, flinging shards of porcelain in every direction.
“Good morning, child,” Reverend Gray said.
16. Sophia.
On her way back from the outhouse, Sophia paused by the paddock’s split-rail fence. Bea stood in the mud within, her piebald hide lathered and glistening.
So Temperance had returned. And she’d ridden Bea hard. Had she finally come to a decision?
Sophia stood in the sunshine and hoped so. Though she didn’t relish the idea of bowing to Temperance’s wishes, without a Madam, the fractured house would fall to the Reverend. And Gray would come for it. Soon. She could feel it.
Shuddering, she watched the horses pick among scattered stalks of hay. For the hundredth time, she wondered how Irene had chosen hers. Though smaller than the others, the blue-eyed paint was flawlessly formed and balanced—worth more than any other two combined.
Had Madam somehow known how much she loved the damn things?
As if he’d heard her thoughts, the paint raised his head. He trotted over, poking his nose through the rails. Blue eyes, nestled like sapphires amid the black mask of his face, blinked down.
Hesitant, Sophia reached for his silken muzzle. Steaming breath blasted her palm.
As her hands warmed, something deep and aching rose within. Memories grasped at her, as they always did when she saw a horse.
Would she ever forget Adrian? Forget the sound of her own heart snapping into jagged pieces? Even here, a world away from the shards she’d left behind, she still caught fleeting glimpses of laughing eyes and sepia skin, and her breath caught every time.
Shaking her head, she gave the horse one last pat. “I’ll take you for a ride, someday. Maybe even give you a name. I just need to forget someone, first.”
The horse chuffed. Sophia took it to mean he’d be waiting.
***
In the parlor, Annie perched at the bar, exactly where Sophia had left her. But something was wrong—Temperance stood there, too, stricken. She clutched a folded sheet of paper. A puddle of tea and broken pottery steamed at her feet.
“Hello, kitten.”
Sophia’s stomach dropped like a sinking stone. Her gaze vaulted to the front door.
The Reverend stood silhouetted against the windows, as immaculate as ever. The gash on his cheek had healed, now just a faint pink line. Behind him loomed a ruddy-faced giant with a double-barreled shotgun.
“What’re you doing here?” she hissed. As if she didn’t know already. As if she could forget that Temperance hadn’t filed the will, that the Blossom didn’t belong to them yet.
Nausea gripped her.
Gray stepped forward. “You wound me. Must I provide a reason to pay such lovely creatures a visit?”
“I’m happy to throw you out, whether you’ve got one or not.”
He laughed. “How charitable.”
Aching for the familiar weight of the revolvers, Sophia edged toward the bar. Why had she set her guns down, even for a moment?
“Where ya goin’, little lady?” Gray’s goon stepped forward, his shotgun raised.
She froze. Ten feet away, on the counter, Riley paced back and forth over the Colts, his teeth bared.
“I’d strongly advise against any rash decisions, kitten.”
“Enough,” Temperance said. “What do you want?”
Gray’s blue stare wandered through the parlor. His expression changed—his eyes softened while his brows drew upward.
For a moment, Sophia glimpsed the kind-hearted rescuer from that day on the street, and fresh unease skittered down her neck. Seeing the Reverend’s metamorphosis from gloating intimidator to pure-hearted savior was eerie, like watching him step from one skin and into another. He could change at will, but none of the faces he wore were real—except for the one she’d seen after Irene had fallen.
He glided toward Temperance, broken china exploding beneath his polished boots. “Dare I ask why you glare, my child?”
“Sophia told us what happened. About your role in Madam’s death.”
He looked her up and down, frowning. “I did nothing but step aside when Irene attempted to strike me. Any man might’ve done the same. That her savagery brought her to such a tragic end grieves me, I assure you.”
Stillborn laughter lodged in Sophia’s throat, dead before it found the air. Gray didn’t care one whit. What ridiculous mockery, after he’d threatened Madam right in front of her.
“Leave us be,” Temperance said. “There’s nothing for you here.”
“Are you in a position to make demands? I think not.”
The goon cocked both shotgun hammers. The sound echoed, commanding the same attention as a stick of lit dynamite.
Sophia’s insides knotted. If the shotgun went off, they’d be nothing but vapor. Red mist.
“Ladies, this is Henry, my associate.”
Henry. She frowned as the name dredged her mind, dislodging a memory. Two men had given Gray’s false alibi to Corporal O’Cahill—and Henry Burnham had been one.
Red-cheeked, his hair hidden by a low cap, Henry towered over everyone, bigger than a cow and even more vacuous-looking. Dim blue eyes blinked, vacant and slow. Fo
r a moment, Sophia almost pitied him—he couldn’t possibly have decided to lie to the police on his own. But when she noted the way he brandished the shotgun, her sympathy vanished.
“Your Madam possessed a book.” Gray waved an airy hand. “A mere diary, nothing of consequence to you. I’ve come to retrieve it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Temperance said.
“You won’t mind if I search her room?”
“I mind a great deal.”
“Need I remind you of your position?”
While they faced off, Sophia glanced toward the bar. Annie sat frozen, watching. Palmer stood stiff and unyielding, but behind the counter, his hand inched upward.
Holy hell. He’s going for my guns.
Awareness narrowed to a single lightning calculation. Sophia judged the distance to the Colts, the crook of Henry’s trigger finger, the likelihood of the Professor getting himself killed.
No help for it, then.
She launched. A single handspring brought her to the bar, where momentum vaulted her upward. Riley leapt sideways as she landed on the counter.
When her fingers closed around the Colts, she felt like she’d come home. In one smooth motion, she straightened and aimed down on Henry from above.
He swung the shotgun toward her, already squeezing the trigger, but she still had enough time to decide which finger to take.
BOOM.
The Colt bucked in her hand, singing a thunderclap to her bones. The part of herself that had threatened the Scotsman roared to life. She embraced it like an old and familiar friend.
Henry’s middle finger exploded in a spatter of blood and bone. He staggered, howling, as his shotgun spun away.
Sophia gauged the weapon’s trajectory—straight toward the Reverend. Of course.
She took a flying leap.
Holy hell, but he was fast. By the time she rolled through her landing and straightened, Gray had the pistol from his boot in one hand and Henry’s shotgun in the other. The double-barreled stared her in the face, while the pistol threatened Annie.
In the silence, the mantel clock ticked a dire warning. Then the Professor stepped in front of Annie, glaring the Reverend down.
The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World Page 9