She couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to. She knew what it felt like when two souls who’d been wounded in the same way came together in communion.
Then, abruptly, Connor pulled away. “What is that?”
She blinked, struggling to rejoin reality. “What’s what?”
He gestured, brow furrowed. “Your dress. There’s something sewn into the lining. Something hidden.”
She angled her arms to pat at the velvet bodice of Irene’s extravagant gown. Something thin and pliable prodded at her back, curved between the boning. She hadn’t even noticed.
Heart leaping, she turned. “What does it feel like?”
His hands explored her spine. “Almost like…a book?”
A thrill of triumph drove her to her feet. Connor stared up, mystified.
From deep within, a smile rose to the surface. “Honey, I think you just found Madam’s journal.”
27. Kendall Blumen’s Diary.
It finally happened. I knew it would, eventually. Still, the reality was far worse than I’d imagined.
Pliskin was clever about it. He waited until I went out, then sent Mother and the girls off with a bit of coin to buy some baubles. They must’ve been shocked at his generosity. Of course, Mother didn’t stop to consider his true motives.
She should have.
On my return, the house greeted me with resonant silence. For a moment, I thrilled at the solitude—no bickering girls, none of Mother’s expectant glances to contend with. But that dissolved soon enough. The moment I heard footsteps, I knew. Even before my bedroom door opened.
I fought. I keep reminding myself—I fought with everything I had. But Pliskin is twice my size and accustomed to roughing us up. And some nauseated part of me suspects he enjoyed it more, that way.
Once it was over, I wrapped my arms around my knees and crouched against the wall, trying to block out the pain. He’d torn my body and split my lip, and I watched my blood drip onto the carpet. Splat, splat.
Pliskin laughed. Told me I never should’ve expected a roof over my head and food in my belly without offering something in return.
I wished for shame to swallow me up then, but mercy refused to find me. What’s worse, a few tears spilled over. Splat, splat. The humiliation defies description.
I threatened to tell Mother. I didn’t know what else to do.
Pliskin just laughed, buttoned his trousers back up. “Kendall,” he said. “Be my guest.”
For a long time afterward, I considered it. But what would change? We have nowhere to go, no other means to make a living. And I have no marketable skills—not after sixteen years growing up in a brothel.
In truth, what more did I expect? What else would the world offer to the bastard child of a whore mother and some faceless john?
A pit opened inside me, then, a wellspring of bottomless rage. But after my lip stopped bleeding and my traitorous tears dried up, I decided something. If life believes me so worthless, I won’t deign to play by its rules.
Instead, I’ll write my own.
I’ll become Pliskin’s worst nightmare.
28. Sophia.
On Saturday morning, Sophia dreamed of the circus.
In the cavernous depths of the big top, empty shadows whispered. In the ring, a single pillar of light lanced down, gleaming on floating dust motes and discarded popcorn kernels.
Sophia’s horse nickered as she led him into the center. Then her slippers floated from the ground and she rode—galloping, cantering, leaping to her feet while the gelding traced steady circles beneath her. She flowed into a handstand. Her muscles sang, the familiar movements unfolding without any input from her mind.
Then a flash of yellow; she righted herself and sank into the stirrups, breathing hard. In the column of light, a woman in a golden dress waited.
Sophia slid to the ground.
Adrian peered down through endless lashes, her russet Dominican skin gleaming. “My love.”
Sophia succumbed to a full-body shiver. She hadn’t heard that basement purr in so long, because—why? She couldn’t remember.
“Ride with me?” Adrian said.
Sophia nodded. But when she turned, her horse vanished, and another about-face erased the tent and the shadows. Somehow, she stood on a wind-tossed hillside overlooking San Francisco. Sunlight winked through chattering oak branches.
Adrian just laughed, tugging at her, and they tumbled into the gilded grass. When their lips met, Sophia’s heart nearly burst.
Pulling back, Adrian gazed down with those singular honeycomb eyes. “I’ve missed you, kitten.”
“And I…wait. What’d you call me?”
Adrian bent again, but a creeping wrongness pulsed from her, now. Instead of a luscious waterfall of raven-dark tresses, her hair shortened, shining like straw. Skin paled, cheeks pinked…
A bolt of panic speared Sophia. “Gray,” she breathed. She tried to scramble back, but he took hold, grinning, and pulled her into the heaving grass.
“Kiss me, kitten.”
She snarled.
The Reverend only chuckled, heavy-lidded. Undaunted, he bent his lips to hers.
This time, her pulse thrashed for an entirely different reason.
***
Sophia woke drenched in sweat.
Her first instinct demanded she scrub her mouth out, so she flung the blankets aside and stumbled to the washbasin. Bending down, she flung cold water against her cheeks like a slap. Even so, her hands shook as she dabbed powder onto her teeth.
Why had she dreamed of him again?
Scouring away the taste of the nightmare, she spat it out the window. Beyond the sill, the sun hung high over crystalline mountaintops. The damn thing never really set anymore, only lingered in a restless pastel twilight between dusk and dawn.
Unnatural, just like her dream.
Just like every other goddamn thought she’d had about the Reverend since he’d kissed her.
Abandoning the window, she tossed on trousers and a shirt, willing the memory away. It crept in anyway, as it had a dozen times already.
How had she described the kiss to Annie? Slimy. With way too much suction.
But that wasn’t true.
In reality, the Reverend had done devastating things with his lips. His touch had detonated her reality, exploding her into a raging maelstrom of hunger and fury. She’d only felt that way once before: spinning dizzying circles as a little girl, unsure of whether to rejoice or throw up. And, God help her, she’d kissed him back—until her veins had caught fire and she’d wrested herself back from the brink of tearing his clothes off.
Whether she’d then intended to fuck him or disembowel him, she couldn’t really say.
Sophia grimaced, hauling herself back to reality. What was she doing? She didn’t even like men—as she’d so boldly announced to Annie, and if for no other reason than to convince herself.
Except that wasn’t true, either. She’d always looked at both—boys and girls. She’d simply loved one woman for so long, she couldn’t remember a time before Adrian anymore.
Now Annie hadn’t spoken to her for six days. Worse, the Reverend arrived today, and seeing him was both the first and last thing she wanted.
Sophia tossed the spent toothbrush into the porcelain washbasin, spattering the glass. In the mirror, heavy circles dragged beneath her eyes, a testament to all the nightmares and lost sleep.
She sneered at her reflection. “You stupid girl. You let him get under your skin.”
***
Downstairs, a bleary-eyed Annie slumped against the bar, tipping a hefty dose of whiskey into her coffee. Riley stretched across the counter, offering his plump belly to anyone interested in the privilege of scratching it.
Sophia hopped up by her waiting mug, hoping the steam curling toward the ceiling might lift her spirits. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Annie croaked.
Sophia snuck a glance. She could hardly bear the cold strangeness tha
t had sprung up between them. It tasted too much like the torment she’d endured after her mother had abandoned her, too much like the frigid sense of unworthiness Adrian had left her with.
“Whiskey?” Annie offered her flask.
Memories scattering, Sophia drained half her coffee. Maybe the liquor was a peace offering. If so… “Don’t mind if I do.”
Annie stretched like a cat, her joints popping. “Christ, I’m about as wore out as a boomtown whore.”
Sophia cocked an eyebrow. “You are a boomtown whore.”
“Guess that explains it, then. How many’d you get through last night?”
Sophia braced for a sip. Liquor-laced coffee raced down her throat like lava. “Five, maybe?”
Annie puffed out her chest. “Six.”
“Showoff.”
Annie grinned. “Ain’t that the truth.” But her smile died before it took hold.
Sophia sighed, retreating into the whiskey’s languid warmth. The past six days had been a blur of bed sheets and gold dust and unwelcome dreams of the Reverend. And she wasn’t even sure they had enough money. But maybe she could patch things up with Annie, then shoot Henry and the Gray the minute they arrived.
Leaning back, she visualized it. Boom, boom. All her problems solved.
When she opened her eyes, something beige snagged her attention—an oblong paleness amid the tin ceiling tiles, as if…
She straightened. “Professor?”
Behind the bar, Palmer rearranged bottles. “Yes?”
“Is that Henry’s—”
“Good morning, ladies.”
Sophia twisted toward the melodic voice, and words evaporated.
Temperance descended the stairs, wearing a flowing white nightgown that set her skin aglow like a dark jewel. Her hair tumbled loose, exploding around her face in a glorious riot of obsidian corkscrew curls.
“Holy buckets,” Annie said.
Holy buckets, indeed. Sophia gaped, uncomfortably aware of the way her chest hollowed. A keen ache rose in the emptiness, like fog rolling in off the ocean.
Temperance always looked beautiful, of course. But she’d never come down to coffee without taming her hair, and she’d never looked like this—wild and wicked and far too much like Adrian.
Sophia stared for a heartbeat too long, then another.
Temperance paused on the bottom step. “Is the hair too much?”
Annie snorted. “Madam Hyacinth, you mean to tell me you’ve been packing that kinda iron all this time, and you kept it in the holster? Christ. If you ever force your hair into that chignon again, we’re gonna have words.”
Sophia tore her eyes away and scrutinized her coffee. Considering Temperance had stayed out late with Corporal O’Cahill—then come back crowing about finding the lost diary—she couldn’t have slept much. But she still radiated a queenly splendor. “It’s breathtaking,” Sophia said, almost by accident.
Silence. Cheeks heating, she mentally kicked herself. From the corner of her eye, she felt the weight of Annie’s probing stare.
The whiskey loosened my tongue. That’s all. Splashing more liquor into her mug, she occupied herself with Riley’s belly. “Um. Madam Hyacinth. Did you read Irene’s journal?”
Thankfully, Temperance took the bait. She glided to the bar and claimed a seat. “I did. Madam’s story made my heart grieve.”
“How come?”
“Well, her real name was Kendall. Kendall Blumen. She grew up in a brothel in Oregon, and her mother’s pimp raped her when she was sixteen.”
Sophia’s stomach performed an unpleasant somersault. Irene, who’d treated her with such kindness, had risen from…that? Somehow, the knowledge made her respect Madam more.
“After that, her life darkened. She changed. She drifted away from her mother, who she blamed for what happened, and started robbing her mother’s patrons. Robbing anyone within reach, really. All that time, she nursed her rage, until…” Temperance swallowed. “She killed her rapist.”
Sophia recoiled. Silence permeated the parlor, interrupted only by Palmer’s clinking bottles.
“Well, that sure took a turn.” Annie’s brows knitted. “What in Sam hell does the Reverend want with such a godawful story? Don’t make no sense.”
Temperance sighed. “The last swindle in the diary targeted a British gentleman. Lord William Gray.”
“Christ.” Annie swigged from the flask, bypassing her coffee completely. “The Reverend’s an English lord? No wonder he talks like a Jane Austen novel gone wrong.”
Raw shock weakened Sophia’s voice. “Madam robbed the Reverend?”
Temperance shook her head. “No, the timeline’s wrong. Irene was too young. Lord William must’ve been Gray’s father. But I’m guessing Irene cheated the Reverend out of his inheritance, then used the money to build this place. That must be why Gray wants the journal—to prove Irene was a murderess, and that the Blossom should belong to him.”
Stunned, Sophia pulled at her shirt collar, stricken by the sickening sense of the Reverend’s fist closing around them. “Can he do that?”
Temperance looked solemn. “I can’t help but think that, if he gets hold of the diary, he’ll be able to, during the court hearing. Which means we have to keep it from him until then.”
“And after?”
“We won’t be safe until he either leaves town,” Temperance said, “or decides he doesn’t want the Blossom.”
Sophia nearly laughed, except nothing was funny. “What’re the chances of that?”
Temperance said nothing, just peered into her tea as if she might escape into it.
“Well.” Annie tipped her flask up again. “Our little lordling’ll be here in less than an hour. The way I see it, we don’t got a choice. We ain’t giving him the journal, so we gotta pay. And again next week. At least until the hearing’s over. We’ll figure out what comes next once the Blossom’s lawfully ours.”
Temperance drained her tea, her knuckles paling as she clutched her empty cup. “I hope we have enough. Palmer, would you count it up?”
The Professor pulled three bins from beneath the bar, labeled with their names. He emptied them, sending gold dust cascading onto the scale.
Heart hammering, Sophia leaned in. If the money was short…well, she refused to think about the marriage proposal the Reverend had offered—the one she hadn’t mentioned to the others, since it didn’t bear consideration.
The money couldn’t be short. It just couldn’t. “Tell me there’s enough. Please.”
The jangling waterfall quieted.
Palmer arranged the weights. “Two hundred ninety-five and one-quarter ounces,” he announced. His gaze slid left. “Four thousand, four hundred twenty-eight dollars and six bits.”
Annie let out a joyous whoop. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit! Three hundred dollars to spare!”
Warm relief cascaded in as Sophia smoothed a hand against Riley’s belly in celebration. No marrying that snake today.
A moment later, though, reality hit her like a physical blow. They couldn’t earn ten thousand dollars a week, not for long. Not even in Caribou Crossing. And running Gray out of town would be tricky. Confidence man or not, the miners might protect him, considering the adoration she’d seen in church.
Which meant that, eventually, she’d have to decide whether to sacrifice her future by marrying a man she hated.
The knowledge turned Sophia’s reawakened heart to lead. She hopped down from her stool, desperate to flee the unbearable weight in her chest. But even as she escaped into the kitchen, a grim awareness pursued her.
Despite Annie’s distance, despite Temperance’s likeness to Adrian, despite even Palmer’s reclusive mysteriousness, when the time came, Sophia might just do whatever needed to keep them all safe.
She would’ve laughed, if only tears hadn’t pooled in her eyes.
There she went, caring again, even when it didn’t do her a speck of good.
29. Annie.
&nb
sp; Annie found the ice queen out in the sunshine.
Sophia stood on the lowest rung of the paddock’s split-rail fence, her brows pulled low over stormy eyes as she offered a carrot to her black-and-white paint horse. “Hey,” she said.
A dagger of guilt stabbed at Annie. Somehow, she’d gotten so mucked up that she’d neglected her friend for nearly a week. Now she meant to make it right, whatever that took.
Ignoring the mud, she squelched over to the paddock. The world wobbled from all the whiskey, but she latched on to the rail and offered her flask.
Sophia eyed it, then drank. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Remorse burrowed deeper. “Sure haven’t.” But…she had, hadn’t she? She’d needed time to think, to figure out if Sophia’s declaration changed the nature of their friendship.
She tried again. “Naw. You’re right. You told me you were one of them Sapphic types, and I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say nothing. I’m a rotten friend, turns out.”
Sophia just shrugged, silent.
Taking back the flask, Annie poured fire down her gullet until liquor lubricated her thoughts. “Look, it’s like this. I shouldn’t’ve gone quiet. What’s more, I don’t rightly care if you like girls or boys or sheep or even nobody at all.” She paused, whiskey crowing in her blood. “Well, maybe sheep. That’d be a doozy. But point is, I’m your friend, and nothing’s different, and I’m sorry.”
Sophia’s shadowed eyes lightened. “We’re…friends?”
“’Course. And look at me—I fell in love with a greedy scoundrel, once. Even married him. I don’t got no right to judge who you love.”
The ghost of a smile hovered on Sophia’s lips. “And here I thought I’d have to ask you to punch me in the face again.”
“If that’d make it up to you, I’d be happy to oblige.”
Sophia raised a hand to her jaw. “I think I can live without another of your haymakers.”
“Guess I’ll save it for Henry, then. Your loss.” Annie tried to grin, but the weight of the Reverend’s impending visit dragged her lips back down.
The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World Page 15