Never mind that Aunt Jinx had lied to her. She surely hadn’t cabled her mother with the news of Lilly’s behavior—not with her mother in this condition.
“I should have never gone to Paris. I should have been here, with you.”
Esme smiled. “No, my darling. I wanted you to see Paris. Isn’t the Eiffel Tower glorious? And Notre Dame. Please tell me you saw it at night.”
I saw it from the air. But she couldn’t say that, not with her mother crumpled in this tiny bed, the cotton sheets barely outlining her fragile body.
“It’s beautiful. I walked the Luxembourg Gardens, and Rosie and I took Finn to Jardin des Tuileries so he could sail his boat in the pond.”
“And the Champs-Élysées? You ate at the cafés?”
“Café au lait, every day. So many crepes my mouth would water just at the sight of them.”
Esme smiled. “Your father took me there on our honeymoon.”
“Oliver is not my father.” The words were out, quick and sharp, before she could stop them.
Her mother closed her eyes. Took too long to open them again. “I know. But he’s the only father I can give you, darling. And he’s going to take care of you now.” She looked at Oliver, nodded.
Lilly refused to look at him.
“You two will run the paper together.” Esme had a softness in her expression when she turned back to her. “The newspaper business is in your blood, Lilly. You will be a newspaper baroness and change the world with the pursuit of truth. The Chronicle is my legacy, Lilly. And now I give it to you.”
Lilly’s breath stilled in her chest, but what could she say? Her eyes burned as she nodded. “Yes, of course, Mother.”
A sigh trickled out of Esme.
“But just until you are well.”
A smile edged up Esme’s face. “That’s my girl. Always the feisty one.”
The cough began deep inside, but it rumbled out of her like a train, bending her over, racking her body so that Lilly thought she might fracture every one of her delicate bones. Oliver wound his arm around Esme’s back and pushed her upright, and she bent over double as the nurse ran and shoved the spittle bowl under her chin. Lilly turned away when blood dribbled from her mother’s mouth.
Esme held a rag to herself as she collapsed back into the pillows.
Her eyes had sunken into her head, sweat dotted her forehead. “This isn’t how I’d planned to leave you both.” She looked first at Lilly, then at Oliver. “But long ago I committed my plans to God. I trust Him, you know. And He blessed me with you.”
Oliver pressed his hand to her cheek.
“And you, daughter.”
Lilly’s jaw tightened and she looked away, out the window, at the green lawn, the clear, shiny sky, the glint of sunlight on the lake.
Why trust a God who didn’t show up when you needed Him?
Rennie’s words drifted back to her, latched on.
Her mother’s voice whispered through her, into her thoughts. “Whatever happens, honey, don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget the blessings God has bestowed upon you. Don’t forget your name and where you belong.”
Lilly tore off the mask, then, meeting her mother’s blue eyes, bent and kissed her on the forehead. “I love you, Mother.”
Then she turned and escaped to the porch lest she suffocate.
Her own breath felt traitorous as she sat on the porch steps, listening to her mother cough away her strength, her blood, her lungs, as the sun sank into a crimson and gold puddle beyond Saranac Lake. Fireflies came out, twinkling like stars against the velvety darkness. The trees whispered secrets, and across the grounds, young people called to one another, playing games.
The screen door finally whined and Oliver stepped out onto the porch. He was wiping his hands on a towel as he sat down beside her. She drew up her legs and thought about how just two nights ago she’d stared at the stars with Rosie. How one unlatched from the heavens, plummeting to earth, and how a black hole might suck everything that mattered into it.
“She’s asleep, but she’s so fatigued, they don’t expect her to wake again. She won’t last through the night.”
Lilly sank her chin into her hands, covered her mouth.
“I’m sorry, Lilly.” Oliver’s voice shook. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know.” She longed to go back inside, to climb in bed with her mother, to drape her arm over her body. But she might lose what remained of herself if she gave over to the grief tearing through her. She steeled her voice instead. “I want to bury her at the ranch. It’s where she belongs.”
Oliver drew in a breath. “Her life is in New York. We already have a plot in the family cemetery. She’ll be buried next to her father.”
“And what of my father? She loved him too, you know.”
Oliver said nothing, and she traced the pattern of the fireflies as they burned against the darkness. It seemed the golden hour had passed, and they’d begun to fade.
“Of course she did. But she left that life behind when she married me.”
“I didn’t. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to run the Chronicle with you, to be a newspaper baroness—”
“You told your mother—”
“She’s sick. She doesn’t realize…” She turned to Oliver and refused to be shaken by the wretched expression on his face. “I don’t belong in New York City. I belong in Montana, and I’m going back there. I have to go back there.”
Oliver’s mouth fell to a tight, pained line, and for a second he appeared as he had when he’d found her in Spain. Hurt? Furious?
Then, “I’m sorry, Lilly, but your mother instructed me to sell the ranch. She already signed the paperwork giving me power of attorney, and I’ve handed it over to our solicitor. It’s only a matter of time before we find a buyer.”
Lilly stared at him, her breath shuddering, her body shaking, words tumbling over in her head. She couldn’t get a fix on even one. She shook her head.
“It’s for the best, I promise. It’ll be good, you’ll see—”
“No!” She bounced up, away from him, down the steps, onto the cool grass. “I’m not going to let you sell the ranch. I’ll buy it—”
“With what?”
His cool words landed like a slap. She stepped back, reeling, the reality of her life settling like poison into her bones. Her voice dropped, and she let the venom drip from it. “I—I hate you. You did this. If she hadn’t come to New York, hadn’t found you, we would have been back home, and she wouldn’t be sick.”
“Lilly, that’s not true.” He kept his voice soft, like she might be a skittish mare, and she hated him for it. “She’s been sick for years—she’s probably had this since Montana—it’s probably those miners who gave it to her—”
“That’s a lie!”
He stood up, advanced toward her.
“Stay away from me.”
He stopped, held up his hands. “Lilly, I know I’m not your father but—”
“You’ll never be my father! My father was noble and kind and he loved my mother!”
“I loved her long before he did! I’ve loved her since I was six years old. I was her footman, remember? I came first!”
“Then why didn’t you come after her? Why did you let her run away to Montana?”
A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “Because I was a coward.” His eyes had darkened, his hands shaking. “Because I didn’t think she wanted me.”
“She didn’t.”
“She thought I was dead, Lilly—”
“I wish you were.” She let the words land and relished his flinch. Maybe now he’d stop following her, leave her to live her life. “I’m not going back to New York City.”
“Don’t be foolish. You’re still a child, you need someone to take care of you.”
“I’m not a child—”
“You’re only nineteen years old.”
“I’m the same age my mother was when she ran away from New York. From you.”
Again, the
hurt flickered in his eyes. But he held up a hand. “I understand, you’re tired. We’re both tired.” He covered his eyes with his hands, his voice scraped to nothing but a whisper. “Please, Lilly. I can’t bear to lose you too.”
And right then, as she watched him shudder and reach for the porch railing, she felt it—a splinter of compassion, something soft that resembled pity.
Or, affection?
No. Never. She stepped away from him, farther down the path. “I’m going back to the boardinghouse.”
He looked up at her. “Your mother—”
“Call me immediately if she revives.”
He nodded, and she turned, half walking, half running down the path.
The fireflies had vanished, and in their place appeared a smattering of smooth stars. She followed them past the registration hall and out to the town, the “City of the Sick.” The shops had closed; she had only the streetlamps to light her way as she walked in and out of the puddles of light.
Her breath constricted in her chest, her eyes burning.
If only Rennie were here with one of his airplanes.
By the time she reached the boardinghouse, she had her hand pressed to her mouth. She barely found her voice as the landlord directed her to her room. Inside she found her trunks and cases, but she ignored them and lay on the double bed, pushing her face into the eyelet pillowcase, letting the night—cicadas, the rush of the wind—scream into her room.
The Chronicle is my legacy, Lilly. And now I give it to you. You will be a newspaper baroness.
She let those words thunder inside her as she pressed the pillow to her mouth.
No. She didn’t want this life.
Especially without her mother.
I’m not going back to New York City.
She let those words fortify her as she drew up her legs and curled into a ball.
The change of sounds, from night to the chirrup of birds, awakened her. She’d slept hard, her eyes swollen and heavy. Early sun, tinged with orange and gold, filtered into her room, along the wooden floor, across the coverlet on her bed. She lay there for a moment, getting her bearings.
The boardinghouse. In Lake Saracan.
Her mother. Lilly sat up, put her bare feet on the cool wooden floor. Her second-story room overlooked the backyard garden, an oasis meant possibly for the heartsick relatives of the infirm. A pathway edged in stones meandered around the yard, lavender and crimson pansies, pale orange begonias, pink impatiens, all caressed by the wind in raised beds. The wide embrace of a maple hovered over a bench in the center of the garden.
On it, his back to her, sat a man, his wide shoulders hunched into himself, his hands pressed to his face, his black hair unkempt. He wore his white shirt untucked, his sleeves rolled up at the elbows.
She watched his grief as recognition rolled over her.
Oliver.
Pressing her hand to the windowsill, she let the sight of him move her, the fact that he’d returned to the boardinghouse seep realization into her.
Mother.
She let out a breath, and it became more of a moan. Without thinking, she fled downstairs, through the kitchen, and out to the back.
The door slammed behind her, and Oliver jerked. She stopped right there in the wash of golden sunlight, her eyes watering with the glare. “Tell me.”
He looked wrecked, his eyes red, dark whiskers brutal upon his face. “She’s gone,” he said, his voice hitching. “It’s just you and me now.”
A whimper escaped and she folded her arms over her chest, holding herself tight. Another whimper—
“Lilly, it’s going to be okay. I’ll take care of you.” He stood and came toward her, his arms open, but she backed away from him, her breaths fast, hard.
Then, she turned and scrambled back to the house, her world breaking apart before her. She swept through the parlor, opening the drawers in the desk until she retrieved what she’d been searching for.
Gone.
Just you and me.
I’ll take care of you.
She was shaking as she reached her room. Shutting the door behind her, she pressed the palm of her hand on it, steadying herself. She drew in a breath. Let it out. Another.
Then she locked the door.
She knew exactly what she wanted, but since Jinx had packed her cases, it took a moment to find it.
The pearls still lay in the black velvet case, untouched since her birthday last year. Pearls make a girl into a lady, Jinx had said as Lilly opened them. Oliver had stood behind Esme, beaming.
That was also the first time her mother had called Oliver her father. As if her affections could be purchased.
She hadn’t wanted to pack them for Paris, but Esme insisted.
She hadn’t changed from her trip, still wearing her traveling clothes, her white suede traveling shoes. But she didn’t bother with it now. Grabbing a satchel, she shoved inside an extra shirtwaist, her necessaries, a skirt, and her nightgown. Then she retrieved her wallet and counted the last of her allowance. Enough to buy her a ticket west, maybe not all the way back to Montana, but far enough. She’d figure out the rest. Just like her mother had.
She picked up the velvet case and considered the pearls. Her mother had brought her choker strand of pearls to Montana to purchase her new life. Certainly she wouldn’t begrudge her daughter the same freedom? She shoved the case into the top of the satchel and closed it, then stared, finally, into the mirror. Go home. Your adventure is over.
No. It had just begun. And if she wanted an adventure, she’d have to be someone…different. Someone bold and daring. Someone she didn’t recognize. Taking a breath, she picked up the scissors she’d retrieved from the parlor.
She gripped her first braid, set the scissors right below her ear. “I’m not going back to New York City,” she said out loud as she snipped them hard and fast against the hair. The braid slumped in her grip.
She put the scissors to the other ear. “My mother was my age when she ran away to Montana.” The braid fell into her hand.
She laid both braids on the bureau then tugged on her hat, the one with the wide brim and rosette in front.
Glancing at the window, she saw Oliver, again seated on the bench in the garden, staring into the day as if he had no idea what to do with it. She heard his stricken voice. It’s just you and me now.
“No,” she said as she picked up her satchel. “It’s just me.”
Then she closed the bedroom door behind her, crept down the stairs, and let herself out the front door to freedom.
THE SUICIDE LOOP
SOUTH DAKOTA. 1923
Chapter 7
Lilly had hoped to make it farther than Mobridge, South Dakota. Worse, it seemed as if she might not be escaping this dustbowl cow town anytime soon. But she refused to turn around and go home.
Not that New York had ever been home. But even less now. Especially since she hadn’t shown up for her mother’s funeral. Somewhere near Chicago, the regrets had awakened her, and she’d disembarked at Union Station just to check the schedules back to New York. But she’d traveled too far to return—the Chicago Chronicle captured the funeral on their front page. Apparently her mother had made the arrangements long ago.
No, she couldn’t turn around. Not with the taste of shame in her mouth. But, obviously, she couldn’t go forward, either.
“It can’t possibly be two more weeks?”
“Sorry, Miss Hoyt.” This from the Milwaukee Road Railroad representative, an immigrant from Germany with large hands and kind blue eyes. “They’re waiting on supplies from Minneapolis.”
Lilly managed a smile, digging it out from behind her frustration, and wandered back down the wide, dirty main street with the greening cottonwoods, the dented Ford trucks along with lazy horses parked outside the hardware store, the café, the feed and seed, the soda fountain. Dust sank into her pores like crème, layering her skin with grime, turning her hair to glue. She’d traveled back in time when her train chugged to a ha
lt here, the last stop before the rails trekked over the Missouri River bridge and out to the great frontier.
A bridge inconveniently washed out by the spring flooding.
It seemed that Mobridge, South Dakota, had one foot in the frontier, the other edging toward civilization, with everything from a saloon-turned-tavern to a Sears Roebuck outlet. Surrounded by ranches and the Standing Rock Indian reservation, it hosted a railroad hub that ferried in goods and workers, but precious little in the way of escape. Mrs. Garrett’s tiny boardinghouse had electricity, a small luxury she gave thanks for when she discovered that the privy was outside the back door and down three steps. A navigation that, in the middle of the night, had turned her ankle and caused her to lounge for a week on the front porch, reading every book she had within reach while she mended.
Now, after three weeks, Lilly was running out of money, patience, and time. However, she had come to know the fair citizens of Mobridge.
“Howdy, Miss Hoyt.” Curtiss Latham tipped his hat to her as she entered the soda fountain, the bell over the door jangling. He wore a layer of prairie around his mouth, embedded in his blond whiskers, and he’d been there at Lang’s every afternoon for the past two weeks, his booted feet hung over the lower rungs of a counter stool, ready to inquire about her day.
“Curtiss,” she said. He looked about twenty, his cheeks reddened with too much sun, his forearms tanned and strong. He bore the look of the land on him, something honest and rough, and for that, she liked him enough.
Even if she refused his suggestions that she might find other pastimes than reading a book on the porch of her boardinghouse.
Maybe she should have turned around three weeks ago when they shut the line down, but returning to Minneapolis to be rerouted only seemed opposite her goal of heading west. And, despite her moaning, they hadn’t sent a train to fetch her. Her money had only bought a one-way ticket, and even if she scraped together enough funds to hire a car, carriage, or pony to take her west, no one seemed to be headed that direction.
“A vanilla phosphate,” she said, and pulled out a nickel from her reticule.
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