“Thanks for the dress,” LizBet said.
“You’re welcome,” Maggie said and turned away, but not before LizBet caught the shine of tears in her sister’s gray eyes.
***
Maggie gave her away, and Zeke was her maid of honor. They didn’t ask her what changes she would make. Neither did Van. They figured, apparently, that she had already made her decision. And she had.
After the ceremony, the entire wedding party shuffled into the minister’s office. The minister spread the marriage certificate on the desk. LizBet used Van’s pen and more than the usual flourish, signed first her mother’s name, Elizabeth, and then her father’s, Hayes. In parenthesis, she added the name given her by the people she loved the most—Beta—not to indicate that she was second in importance, but to indicate that she was who she had always been and no one else.
She watched as Van signed his name. Then they linked fingers—two strong independent people, facing the future, together.
“Name-Calling” by Kristine Grayson was first published as an Amazon Short on Amazon.com in 2005.
Knowing Jack
Kristine Grayson
Roz tugged the darkroom door shut and locked it, slipping the key into the pocket of her long black skirt. The stench dissipated a little, although the studio smelled strongly of chemicals, a scent that never entirely vanished.
She leaned against the door and listened, hearing nothing. Good solid oak blocked the smells and the sound. Fortunately no one had entered the studio while she had been in the dark room. She wasn’t quite ready to handle customers.
The studio was large, given the size of Lattville. The town had decided to rename itself just recently. Most of its signs still read Lateville, so named because many of the miners who had arrived here before the war thought they had missed all the gold.
They hadn’t. The actual name of the town should have been Earlyville, since most of those miners were long gone by the time gold had actually been discovered. Lattville grew, thanks to the discovery and the fact that it was a stop on the main stagecoach route that covered Northern California.
Even so, despite Lattville’s size, a fair number of people had found their way into this studio. Portraits of the latest governor hung on the wall, alongside one of California’s senators, and the former presidential candidate John C. Fremont.
More portraits cluttered the floor behind the main desk, where visitors signed in and paid their bills. A brocade divan sat at one end of the room, a conventional sofa and rocking chair grouping at the other.
The studio was utterly silent and hot. The windows didn’t open, making the place oppressive. She made her way through the clutter to the business desk, stopping to look at the family portrait prominently displayed on the wall behind her.
The portrait had been taken outside and the girls had lined up in age order, getting their pretty white dresses stained with grass. Roz ran her fingers across the white painted date, unable to believe that the portrait was ten years old. The vivid expressions on the faces made it seem newer somehow.
Roz glanced at the full-length mirror nearby. The studio provided it so that clients could check their appearance before getting a portrait taken. She almost didn’t recognize herself. Age had changed her face, making it narrower, lining it. The carefree look she’d had as a girl was gone now.
Too many years of struggle. Too much hardship.
She tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear. The white blouse already showed the wear of the day and the black skirt had flakes of dirt or dust or something on it. She brushed at the skirt and then straightened, putting a hand behind her back. She hated corsets. They always left her short of breath.
But today she had to look presentable.
At that moment, the studio door opened. She turned.
The men standing in the doorway had clearly not come for a portrait. The tall man had piercing blue eyes and a strength to his face. His boots were muddy and left a trail on the runner just inside the door. The second man was shorter, older, and balding. He looked both official and apologetic.
“Mrs. Driscoll?” he asked, then stepped forward, hands out. “I almost didn’t recognize you, my dear. What has it been? Eight years?”
Roz had no idea. She didn’t recognize him at all. “At least that.”
He took her hands and smiled at her. “How is your husband?”
“He’s been busy of late.”
The balding man nodded. Behind him, the tall man cleared his throat.
“I’m afraid this isn’t a social call, m’dear,” the balding man said. “I’m looking for your father.”
Roz was prepared for this. She squeezed the balding man’s hands. “I’m minding the store today.”
“I can see that, but—”
“Let me, sheriff,” the tall man said. “This is a matter of some urgency. Where is Mr. Cooper?”
“Dealing with family matters,” Roz said. “Can I help you?”
“This isn’t a job for a woman,” the tall man said.
Roz gave him a small smile. “I’ve been around photography and portraiture for most of my life. I’m a skilled photographer. If you came here for a portrait, then I can help you.”
The sheriff let go of her hands. Color fused his round cheeks. “This really isn’t a job for a woman, ma’am. We don’t want a portrait of us. We need something else photographed.”
“Oh?” She let her voice grow cold. “I’ve photographed dozens of people. I’ve even photographed corpses, felons, and miners.”
“I never took Peter Driscoll to be a man who would allow his wife to do such things.” The sheriff was frowning, as if he wanted to take her husband to task.
“He can’t prevent something he doesn’t know about,” Roz said, and was pleased to see that both men were shocked.
“When will your father return?” the tall man asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Not today, certainly.”
“We need a photographer this afternoon,” the tall man said.
“Harold,” the sheriff said. “Perhaps we can skip it this one time.”
Harold. Could she be so lucky? There was only one Harold who insisted on photographs. Roz had never met Harold Adams, but she had heard of him. She hadn’t realized that Harold Adams himself would be the security on that coach. If she had known, she would have had more faith in her plan.
Roz threaded her fingers together, pressing them so hard that her knuckles were turning white.
“You’ve never worked with Wells Fargo before, have you? We need a photographer. A real one.” Harold nodded to her. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.”
“Please,” she said. “Let me do the work.”
Harold shook his head. “No matter what your husband thinks, this job is not appropriate for a woman.”
The sheriff gave her an apologetic—if confused—glance and started out. She took a step after them.
“If you need photographs today,” she said, her voice shaking, “I’m all you have.”
Harold stopped just outside the door, blocking the light. He glared at the sheriff, who shrugged.
“This is true, then?” Harold asked.
“Look around,” the sheriff said. “Did you see another portrait studio?”
“Surely someone else takes photographs here.”
“Nope.” The sheriff looked apologetic. “But I don’t think it matters. They can photograph him in Sacramento—”
“We’ve waited before,” Harold said. “The photograph never gets taken, or they take a photograph of a corpse wearing a white cloth over his face to respect the dead. That does not satisfy my boss.”
The sheriff sighed. “You’d think your boss would be satisfied that we caught the bastard.”
Harold glanced at Roz, apparently trying to see if the language had offended her. “Ma’am, we have in Lattville’s little jail, the man who tried to rob the Wells Fargo stage coach this morning.”
Roz�
�s cheeks flushed. She willed the reaction to vanish. She hoped the men would think that she was nervous, not that she already knew about the robbery. Of course, the entire town probably knew about the robbery by now.
“We need him photographed,” Harold was saying. “The Wells Fargo Bank in San Francisco keeps photographs of all the robbers who have been foiled trying to rob Wells Fargo trains and stage coaches. It’s quite a collection, and it is to the point that if we miss even one of these bandits, we—those of us who work security for the company—could get fired.”
Roz was breathing shallowly.
“It should be enough that we caught the son of a bitch.” The sheriff shook his head slightly as if he thought this was all foolishness. Then he realized what he said and in front of whom, and tipped an imaginary hat to her. “No offense meant, ma’am.”
“None taken,” she said, even though she was even more uncomfortable than she’d been when they walked in. She had to show them she was up to this task.
“Are you still willing to take the job, ma’am?” the tall man asked. “Wells Fargo pays handsomely for its portraits.”
She made herself swallow, a difficult task against her dry throat. “Then by all means,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Let’s go.”
***
Even though the jail was three blocks away, it took her nearly a half hour to arrive. She had to load the photographer’s wagon, its canvas side emblazoned with M.C. Cooper and Family, Photographers. The equipment was heavier than what she was used to, and there wasn’t a lot of room in the wagon. It was filled with boxes and had obviously not been used for photography for a long time.
The entire town would probably think she was crazy to take the wagon three blocks, but she needed it.
The mule wasn’t used to her, and tried to kick her as she hooked it up to the wagon. She managed, somehow, leaving her skirt muddy and her white blouse heavy with sweat. Damned corset cut into her ribs and she would have given anything for a deep, sweet breath of air.
Then she had to make the drive, which was harder than she had expected. Twice in three blocks, she nearly got stuck in the mud. No one in his right mind would try to rob a stagecoach with the roads as foul as these. Anything carrying weight would get stuck and, the stagecoach driver, knowing that, would probably have extra security or take additional precautions of some sort.
Harold Adams was waiting outside the jail for her when she arrived. He offered to take her equipment in for her, but she stopped him.
“I’d like to see what I’ll be photographing first,” she said.
“All right.” He held open the door for her and she stepped inside.
The main room was small and crowded. The low ceiling made it seem even smaller and the pot-bellied stove in the far corner took up much of the room. A rickety desk stood nearby along with two chairs.
The sheriff sat on one of them, holding a ring of keys. In place of the wall directly behind him were rows of iron bars. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim interior before she saw a slight door framed in the metal.
Sweat ran down her spine, pooling at the bottom of her corset, making it stick to her.
“Nervous, Mrs. Driscoll?” Harold asked. “I thought you’d said you’d done this before.”
“Not here,” she said. “I’m only visiting Lattville. The jails I’ve been in have all been larger.”
Harold frowned, but said nothing. The sheriff stood. “Where’s your equipment?”
“Outside,” she said. “I want to see what I’m photographing first.”
“Your father will have my hide,” he said as he unlocked the main door.
“He just might,” she said following the sheriff into the small hallway that opened onto the two tiny cells, “but by then, the deed’ll be done.”
The first cell was empty. In the second, a man sat on the cot, his handcuffed hands hanging between his knees. Roz’s breath caught.
“Ma’am?” the sheriff asked.
“Does he have to be trussed up like that inside his cell?”
“He’s a dangerous criminal, ma’am. Wanted in five states. Thought we should take some precautions.”
She nodded. She had known that about the prisoner. In fact, she knew more about him than the men beside her did. Her gaze met his and a familiar flash of longing shot through her. Despite the mud streaking his too-thin face, the mats in his long brown hair, and the anger that flashed through his dark brown eyes, her husband was still the handsomest man she had ever seen.
“You want me to photograph him in here?” she asked.
“Where else would you do it?” the sheriff asked.
“Well, you see,” she said, “we have a problem. There’re no windows back here and the light is faint. We will not get a good photograph in these conditions.”
Harold stood in the iron doorway. “What do you suggest?”
“We could put a half dozen lanterns in the cell and hope for the best.”
“This jail’s made of wood,” Harold said. “That would be highly impractical.”
She turned toward him. He shrugged.
“One kick,” he said, “and the prisoner might start a fire and escape in the confusion.”
Fires were useful in wooden jails. Roz knew that from experience. She tried not to smile at the memory. It was important that she stay in character.
“You’re the one who wanted the photograph,” she said. “How have you done this in the past?”
He sighed. “Usually we have a window or a better light source. Or a brick jail.”
The sheriff glared at Harold.
“So what do you suggest?” she asked.
“You go set up on the sidewalk. We’ll bring him outside for just one moment.”
She nodded, then looked at Jack who hadn’t moved off the cot. His face was red with fury.
“You say he robbed a stagecoach?” she asked.
“I say he attempted to.” Harold sounded satisfied.
“But he’s wanted in—what? four states?”
“Five,” the sheriff said.
“We finally caught him,” Harold said.
“You’ve been waiting for him?” Her voice rose ever so slightly.
Harold nodded. “We knew he’d slip up once. We just didn’t expect the slip-up to be literal.”
“Literal?” she asked.
“He fell as he tried to unhook the strongbox.”
She couldn’t resist. She looked at the cell. Jack’s nostrils were flaring, his hands clenched with the effort he made to keep silent.
“Honestly, ma’am, I don’t think we’d’ve caught him otherwise. He snuck up on us quiet as a cat and had the guards knocked down and the box nearly off before we even knew what happened.”
“My arrest had nothing to do with you people,” Jack said. Roz willed him to keep silent. “I’d’ve been long gone if the coach hadn’t got stuck at that moment, and threw me off balance.”
“See?” Harold said. “He even admits it.”
“Well, do you expect him to do otherwise?” Roz asked. “You caught him red-handed.”
She directed that last toward Jack, with just enough of an I-told-you-so in her voice so that he—and he alone—could catch it.
He looked away.
“Let’s get this done before the light fades outside.” Harold was showing his familiarity with photography. Having him here had been a stroke of luck. He’d overseen the photographing of nearly a dozen criminals for the San Francisco bank since the war ended.
“All right.” She swished her way toward the iron doors, praying that Jack would help her work this scam. He was angry enough at her that he might not participate. They had fought about this robbery and he had done it against her advice.
It had taken all her strength to plan his rescue. She’d started before he’d even gotten caught. In fact, she had told him that was what she would do.
The fact that she had been right made him furious. She could tell. But fury o
r no, he had to cooperate with her or he might get sent away. They certainly had enough evidence against him this time.
“She’s going to take my photograph?” Jack asked, and Roz had to use all her acting skills not to sigh with relief. “This is even stupider than it sounded when you first mentioned it.”
“You don’t get an opinion,” the sheriff said.
Roz stepped through the iron doors, nodded at Harold, and paused when she reached the main door. “You think the sidewalk just out front will work or should I set up in the street? I’m muddy enough that it doesn’t matter.”
Harold walked to the door with her and peered at the sky. The thin winter sun was halfway down the horizon. He had been right; the light would be gone soon. Her struggle with the mule had taken longer than she thought.
“Guess we’d better use the street.”
She nodded and walked to the wagon. She climbed in, grabbed her pistols out of one of the boxes she had put in there that morning, and slipped them into the pockets of her skirt. One of them clanged against the key.
She had forgotten about it. She certainly didn’t need it any longer. She fished it out of her pocket and tossed it outside the wagon, hearing the key plunk into the mud.
Now watch the sheriff try to get old man Cooper and his two pruney daughters out of that dark room. Someone would have to knock the door down—once they realized the three of them were inside.
It had been Roz’s second stroke of luck that the oldest daughter had come home for the first time in years—and an even greater stroke of luck that the real Mrs. Driscoll was a shrew. The moment she’d seen Roz’s gun, she’d started screaming at her father about this backwater town and how she’d hated it and that this was precisely why she had stayed away for so long and never brought her children here. Her father had merely looked at Roz as if wishing she would shoot him then and there.
Geek Romance: Stories of Love Amidst the Oddballs Page 8