Tempest EPB

by Beverly Jenkins

  “Oh, Spring.”

  “For the next few years I rode with him and his hands all over the Territory bringing in wild horses, and he rode me whenever he got the urge. To make myself feel better about being his whore, I drank, caroused in saloons, played poker, got in fights, and swaggered through town like I owned the place. I generally did everything a well-brought-up lady had no business doing. The gossips couldn’t stop talking. Ben was furious. Colt tried to get me to see reason, but when I pushed him away, he eventually threw up his hands. But I saved my money and when I had enough, I bought my place, told Mitch I was done, and have been free ever since.”

  “Does he still live nearby?”

  “No. He died in a rock slide five years ago.”

  Silence followed.

  Regan thought over Spring’s story and better understood why her family and the people in Paradise considered her a pariah, but Regan didn’t think less of her. “My mother, Corinne, was a whore.”

  Spring stiffened and stared at her in the dark.

  “When I was ten and Portia was twelve, Corinne met a man who offered her a chance at a different life. He didn’t want to raise children he hadn’t sired though, so she put us on a train to her sister in Virginia City. We never heard from her again.”

  “Oh my goodness, Regan.”

  “Portia and I survived, and so did you.” She looked over. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m going to enjoy calling you sister.”

  Spring took Regan’s hand in hers and squeezed it gently. “As will I. So, now, answer my question, sister. Are you in love with my brother?”

  Regan laughed softly. “I’d hoped you’d forgotten about that. Okay, I confess. Yes.”

  “Hallelujah!”

  Regan didn’t need light to see Spring’s smile.

  The stench of rotting flesh hit Colt the moment he entered the Meachems’ small cabin. Having encountered the smell of gangrene while training at the Freedmen’s Hospital in Washington, it was something he’d never forgot. “Where is she?”

  “This way.”

  The Meachems were among the poorest in the area. They farmed, but not very successfully. Addy’s husband, Wayne, clerked at Miller’s store, and she swept floors for any business that would hire her.

  Addy led him into the tiny windowless bedroom where the stench was thick as smoke. Her four-year-old daughter was lying on a thin pallet against the wall. Near her stood the tall gangly Wayne, and his parents, Fred and Mirabelle. The entire clan had come to Wyoming three years ago. Wayne offered a terse nod of greeting but Colt noted the hostility in the faces of his parents.

  Mirabelle snapped at Addy, “Is that where you rode off to? I told you Betsy doesn’t need a doctor!”

  Wayne said, “Yes, she does!”

  His father countered, “He ain’t touching that child.”

  Colt knew bigotry when he saw it and the father’s blazing eyes were clear. He ignored it and turned his attention to young Betsy lying deathly still beneath a thin tarp. According to Addy on the ride over, she’d pulled a pot of boiling water down on herself from the stove and her legs and feet were scalded.

  Colt moved closer to the pallet only to have Wayne’s ancient father step in his path.

  Addy screamed through tears, “Get out of the way, old man!”

  Mirabelle declared, “She’ll be fine. We don’t need him.”

  Wayne warned, “Step out of the way, Pa!”

  Probably due to all the shouting, Betsy’s eyes sluggishly opened for a moment then drifted closed again. Wayne stepped between Colt and his father and glared at the older man until he relented and moved aside. Colt knelt beside the pallet. He hesitantly lifted the tarp and the sight and stink of the rotted black flesh roiled his stomach so badly he had to draw in deep breaths to keep from losing his dinner. Gangrene covered the girl’s thin legs from toes to knees. “Bring me a lamp.”

  “No oil,” Addy whispered.

  His lips tightened. Truthfully, he didn’t need additional light to know that the child was at death’s door. He placed a hand on her forehead. She was hot as a stove. He removed his stethoscope from his bag and pressed the cup against her chest. Her breathing was shallow and faint, but her heart was racing like the engine of a runaway train. After putting the scope back into the bag, he silently surveyed the adults: the distraught Addy, the teary-eyed Wayne, the anger on the faces of his parents. “Why’d you wait so long to let me know she’d been burned?” he asked quietly. Addy said the incident had happened ten days ago.

  Mirabelle sneered. “Because any fool knows how to treat a scalding. If I keep putting potato shavings and yeast on her legs for a couple more days, she’ll be good as new.”

  Rage filled Colt. It was not the first time he’d encountered folk remedies that did more harm than good. Had he been summoned the day she was burned, more than likely Betsy would already be good as new. Instead . . . he stood. The weight of what he had to tell her parents felt like a ton of boulders crushing his chest. “Addy and Wayne, I need to speak with you outside.”

  Addy began to sob audibly, and even in the shadows, the plea in her eyes was plain. “Please, Dr. Lee, do something! I don’t want to bury my baby. Please!”

  Wayne draped his arm across her shoulders, hugged her close, and kissed her forehead. “Come on,” he told her, voice thick with tears. “Let’s go outside.”

  Mirabelle and Fred stood silent.

  Colt rode home with Addy’s screams of “No!” puncturing his heart. There was nothing a doctor could do to save Betsy’s life short of amputation, and even if her parents had the funds to make the trip to Cheyenne to find a surgeon, she wasn’t strong enough to survive the journey. He was left sad and angry. Sad because a child would be buried soon, and angry because bigotry and ignorance were contributing factors. Addy’s screams of pain would resonate inside himself for a long time.

  Finally home, he unsaddled his horse, bedded him down in the barn, and walked slowly to the house. The light shining from the parlor was like a small beacon and he silently thanked Regan for its glow. He assumed she and Anna were asleep but when he entered, she was seated at the dining room table writing.

  She looked up. “How’s the child?”

  He shook his head, set his bag on the table, and sat.

  His pain must’ve been visible because she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” He told her about the scalding. “Had I known earlier, they wouldn’t be planning her funeral. Her grandmother treated the burns with potato shavings and yeast.”

  “I’ve never heard of that. It doesn’t work, does it?”

  “No, and neither does flour or bandages soaked in turpentine or any of the other concoctions people sometimes swear by. They usually do more harm than good. Some are comical though. I once had a man come to my office wearing a pair of his wife’s underpants around his neck.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “It was supposed to cure his stiff neck. When the stiffness didn’t go away he came to ask me if he’d tied them wrong.”

  She laughed out loud and hearing it brightened his terrible evening. “What are you doing?” he asked, indicating the stationery and ink.

  “Writing to my sister. I miss her. I feel as if I owe her a dozen letters. I want to let her know how I’m doing.”

  “And how are you doing?”

  “Better.”

  He knew she was talking about their marriage. “Good. Did Spring stay long?”

  “She did. We’re going to be good sisters.”

  “I like that you two get along.”

  “We do, too.” She studied him for a moment and asked, “Are you hungry? There’s pie left.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m going to bed shortly. I’m tired, and the court hearing is tomorrow.”

  “I know. We’ll see if I’m allowed to testify. I’m sorry again about the child.”

  “Addy and her husband, Wayne, are good people but I doubt they have the money to bury
her.”

  “If I go to the undertaker and offer to pay for the casket, do you think they’ll accept it?”

  The question caught him by surprise.

  She continued, “My Uncle Rhine used to tell us, those who have a lot should help those who only have a little. I know it won’t ease their pain but they’ll be able to bury her with dignity. They don’t have to know it came from us.”

  He noted she said us and that made his heart swell. “You’re an amazing woman, Regan Lee.”

  “I can’t cure anyone the way you do, but I can help in other ways.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “We’ll see what the undertaker says tomorrow after court.”

  “Okay. You go on to bed. I’m going to finish this. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He wanted to hold her in his arms for the solace he knew it would bring him, but he didn’t know how to ask, so he said simply, “Good night.”

  Before going to his room, he quietly opened Anna’s door and looked in. There she was, sleeping in the pale glow of the moonlight streaming through her window. He couldn’t imagine having to bury her. He knew some parents chose not to attach themselves to their children because so many died early in life from diseases like tuberculosis and yellow fever. But he cherished his Anna, and if his love was the deciding factor in how long she lived, she’d outlive time. He closed the door softly and went to bed.

  The next morning, Colt and Regan dropped Anna off at school and headed to town. Instead of her usual attire of denims, Regan was dressed in a fashionable gray walking suit topped by a matching pert little feather-tipped hat. She’d be representing her family, and in the eyes of some, her race, and so wanted to present herself properly. “Will you point out Dun Bailey to me when he arrives?”

  “I will.”

  The proceedings were to be held inside the bank. Regan hadn’t seen banker Arnold Cale nor his wife, Glenda, since the Paradise Ladies Society meeting but his condescending manner remained fresh in her mind. She still had a good amount of unspent gold so doing business with him wasn’t necessary yet.

  In town, Main Street was packed with vehicles. On the walks, groups of well-dressed men and women hurried in the direction of the bank.

  “Are all these people in town for the hearing?”

  Colt eased the wagon into a spot near his office. “Yes. Court day is like a visit from the circus.”

  Regan remembered the crowd she’d drawn simply by shopping. She supposed a court case offered even more excitement. She waited for Colt to come around and hand her down.

  “You look very nice, Mrs. Lee.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Lee.”

  He extended his arm, she placed her hand on it, and let him escort her towards the bank. On the way, she thought about Spring’s startling revelation. Was Colt really in love? She’d lain awake for quite some time last night thinking about it. She had her doubts but again reminded herself that Spring knew him much better than she did. Even so, she had no plans to ask him. They’d renewed their pact and she didn’t want to be the one responsible for making it go up in flames by quizzing him over something he might not be ready to express.

  To her surprise, the area around the bank was filled with vendors hawking everything from popped corn and flavored shaved ices, to meat pies, funnel cakes, and small hand pies filled with stewed fruit. A Chinese man in traditional clothing wandered through the crowd selling fans. No one seemed interested however. A few even glared at his passing. Regan was accustomed to seeing people of his race at home and in San Francisco but hadn’t seen any Chinese in Paradise. All over the country his people were being targeted by violence. She hoped he’d be allowed to sell his wares in peace. A few feet from the bank’s door, a young man sawed away on a fiddle, filling the air with a lively tune. At his feet was a tin cup for contributions. Regan thought the Paradise Ladies Society might have missed a golden opportunity to raise funds for the lending library.

  “This reminds me of a fair,’” she said, taking in all the activity. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like this. Not for a court hearing.”

  “Folks here take their fun wherever they can find it.”

  “Will it be warm inside the bank?”

  “More than likely.”

  “Then I need to purchase a fan.” She found the man, purchased two fans, and after receiving his smiling thanks, went inside.

  The interior was hot and noisy. There were two tables set up at the front of the space and facing the tables were a large number of chairs set up in rows. Although the proceedings weren’t scheduled to begin for another hour, most of the seats were taken. She and Colt greeted and nodded their way through the throng. Happening upon two empty chairs towards the back, they sat and settled in to wait.

  A short while later, Whit entered with the cuffed prisoners and the outlaws were met with a torrent of boos and catcalls from the crowd. Walking with them and the sheriff was a short man in an ill-fitting green-and-gray checkerboard suit. His pomaded hair and waxed mustache made him resemble a circus barker. She leaned over and asked Colt, “Do you know who he is?”

  “Tolson Veen. Lawyer from Cheyenne. He takes a lot of outlaw cases. Loses a lot of them, too.”

  “Then why hire him?”

  “Because he’s cheap and there’s always a chance he may win.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a smart strategy.”

  “If outlaws were smart, they wouldn’t be outlaws.”

  She chuckled softly. His smile peeped out.

  Mr. Denby and his seamstress daughter-in-law, Dovie, came in and took the two empty seats in front of Regan and Colt. The four of them were chatting when a sudden hush descended over the crowd. Regan craned around the Denbys to find the cause.

  “Dun Bailey,” Colt said.

  Regan watched as the thin-faced Bailey spoke with the lawyer, Veen, then turned his attention to the crowd. He scanned faces as if searching for someone. When his eyes settled on her and stopped, she knew she was the someone. He looked her over with an iciness so chilling she unconsciously drew back and that apparently pleased him. Giving her a mocking smile, he walked over to the wall and stood next to the large window to wait for the hearing to begin.

  “If he’s trying to scare me, he did a good job,” she admitted to Colt.

  “Ignore him. He knows I’ll shoot him where he stands if he does anything other than look.”

  Surprised, she realized he was deadly serious. It was a side of him he’d never shown. She remembered him saying he’d never taken a life, not that he wouldn’t.

  The crowd continued to grow and now that all the seats were occupied, the latecomers lined the walls. Colleen Enright looked put out that she didn’t have a place to sit, but Lucretia Watson’s husband, Matt, stood and offered her his. Lucretia didn’t appear pleased. The widow, dressed in green again, gave him a sweet smile, stood for a moment as if to make sure she was seen, then sat. Dovie turned to Regan, gave her an eye roll, and Regan chuckled. The temperature inside had risen, too. Regan unfolded the fan she purchased and used it to move the air.

  “Is the judge here yet?”

  “Yes, that’s him talking to Whit.”

  Judge Jinks was a heavyset man with white hair and a tired face. His wrinkled black suit and vest matched his weary features.

  “Is he a fair judge?”

  “Yes. He’s curt, sarcastic, and doesn’t suffer fools. He and Veen don’t get along.”

  “You’ve seen them in cases before?”

  “Yes. It’s one of the reasons so many people are here. The judge can be very entertaining, Veen’s no match.”

  “Is he fair to our people, too?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him handle a case with our people.”

  While the judge and Whit continued their conversation, banker Arnold Cale entered along with three men dressed in expensive suits. His hovering and the concern on his face gave the impression that they were men of importance, so much so he made three
people in the front row give up their seats so the men could have them.

  “Stage line bigwigs, I assume,” Colt speculated.

  Mr. Denby turned around and said, “Yep.”

  Regan hazarded a glance over at Dun Bailey and found his cold eyes waiting. Having gotten over her initial fright, she refused to be intimidated and met his gaze without flinching, then smoothly turned away.

  Whit left the table and made his way back to where Regan and Colt were seated. He didn’t look pleased. “Regan, the judge wants to speak with you.”

  Regan thought she might know why. Every eye in the building watched her walk to the table where the judge sat waiting. The three stage line bosses were at the table as well, along with the outlaws’ lawyer.

  The judge said, “You’re Mrs. Lee?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re not going to be allowed to testify here today.”

  She nodded grimly.

  One of the stage line bosses seethed in a quiet voice, “She’s our only eyewitness. She has to testify.”

  “I understand that, but if this goes to trial, more than likely, her testimony will be thrown out because of her race.”

  “This is ridiculous,” another one of the bosses said angrily.

  “Yes, it is,” the judge agreed. “But such is the state of our country. My hands are tied. Sorry, gentlemen.”

  Regan waited.

  “Sorry to have taken up your time, Mrs. Lee.”

  She didn’t say she didn’t mind, because she did. Being denied something as simple as telling the truth in a court of law due to the color of her skin was infuriating and humiliating. She took in the faces of the stage line representatives. They were visibly upset, too, but she wondered how they felt about her people when it didn’t directly impact their profits. “Good luck with your case, gentlemen.”

  All eyes again turned her way as Colt joined her and they exited the bank.

  Outside, she said, “I still want to see the undertaker about the casket, unless the country takes issue with that, too.”

  He draped an arm across her shoulders, gave her a supportive squeeze, and placed a solemn kiss on her brow.