by Carol Arens
So far, it seemed that she would have an easier time sneaking inside than she had last time. With so many people mulling about no one paid attention to one more.
Rounding the corner, she found another group of people gathered near the back door to the kitchen.
This time she would not have to crawl under the back porch steps.
She would not have, even at the risk of being noticed. Her fluffy blue gown was far too lovely to become streaked with dirt and mysterious smelly things.
If she returned home smelling ripe, William would know where she had been. She would rather he didn’t find that out since it would only make him worry. If he worried, he might forbid her to do things in the future that she wanted to do.
With any luck, she would confront Hilda Brunne and be home before her husband noticed.
And confront her she must. Hilda had to be made to understand that Agatha was no longer a weakling to be controlled. Until she did that, the demented woman would always be hiding in the shadows, waiting for her chance to make things the way they used to be.
The problem was, could someone in her mental state be convinced of anything?
In the event that she could not be convinced, she would call William. With a badge pinned on his shirt, he could do things she was unable to.
“It’s hot enough to toast bread on my hat,” she heard one man declare as she passed by the kitchen.
“It’s hot enough to wilt a straight flush right out of my fingers.” A sudden gust of wind blew the hat off of the head of the man speaking, tumbled it away into the dark.
It might be a blister outside but entering the rear of the saloon she found the heat even more smothering.
Stepping quietly along the hallway, she listened to muted conversations seeping through the walls.
From what she was hearing, she could tell that some of the rooms had been set up with tables allowing for more gambling space.
Clearly, some remained for the purpose of paid pleasure.
Tonight the private hallway was dimly lit with lanterns set thirty feet apart.
She was forced to maneuver around boxes of whiskey, beer and other alcohol stored in the hallway.
Stopping, she put her ear to a door of a room that had neither gambling nor pleasure sounds coming from it.
“Here there, miss!” A gangly adolescent stepped into the hallway from one of the rooms a few doors down. “Only employees back here.”
“I lost my way.”
The young man stooped, filled a lantern with kerosene then set the container beside the lantern.
“I’d show you the way out,” he offered while lifting a case labeled Bourbon. “But Pete’s got us all busy. Wouldn’t want to be found out dawdling. Just follow the lanterns. You’ll find your way back.”
“Wait!” she called before he closed the door. “I was looking for someone when I became lost—an old woman who sells calming medicine for ladies.”
“She sells it? Pete won’t like it if he doesn’t get some of the money.”
“Will I find her back here? I hate to walk all the way around—have to make my way through those men. They can be rather rough.”
He studied her for a moment, then inclined his head. “Three doors down. Just make sure you leave right away after—and let her know to give Pete his share.”
There was nothing she would like better than to give Pete Lydle his share but couldn’t imagine how to go about it.
On tiptoe she walked to the third door, put her ear to the wood and listened.
Someone was weeping.
“Open your mouth, girl. Mr. Lydle is tired of your prissiness. What’s so special about you that you can’t serve the men like the others do?”
The familiar voice hissed through her, the insistent tone a snake coiling around her chest, squeezing the breath out of her.
“No!” the young voice sobbed. “Don’t make me drink it.”
“Now, now, I know what’s best for you. Mr. Pete wants you to be nice to his gentlemen. Sweet and docile, not bite them, you wicked child. Now open your mouth.”
Docile. Run away and be docile. It was the reasonable thing to do.
But the girl began to weep. There was the slap of a palm on soft skin.
“Spit it out all you want to. I’ve got more.”
Agatha turned the doorknob. It was locked. She banged on the wood, her fist clamped in anger.
“Don’t be so impatient,” Mrs. Brunne’s voice snapped. “If you want Sweet Blossom now you’d better watch out for your wil—”
The door jerked open.
“It’s you!” Hilda Brunne snagged the sleeve of her dress and dragged her inside. Whatever had happened to her, the strength that Agatha remembered her having hadn’t lessened. “I wonder what took you so long. You knew I was here, my arms aching for the want of you, Maggie. You should not have made me wait.”
* * *
The musicians picked up their instruments, began the first piece of music. Poor fellows had to be sweating under their jackets.
William shed his an hour ago, the moment dinner was finished. He’d removed his jacket and put the sheriff’s badge in his pocket.
The last thing he wanted to do was steal away from his reception and go to the saloon.
But he was sheriff, as well as a husband. Hilda Brunne had to be dealt with. Not only for Agatha’s sake, but now for Ivy’s and Clara’s.
If the crazed woman saw her babies in adult women, what might she believe of Clara Rose when she learned of her—which she would.
Brunne might look like a bent and shriveled crone, but the image of vulnerability made her even more dangerous.
Standing on the porch, he scanned the crowd below looking for Agatha. He thought it would be a good idea to dance with her so that when he left, she would assume he was simply out of sight among the guests.
If she suspected he had gone after Brunne, she would insist on going with him. That was something he would not allow. No matter if she called him a bully or worse, she was not getting near the woman who had enslaved her.
He hadn’t seen Agatha in the house. Couldn’t see her among the guests in the yard, either. She would be impossible to miss, the way she looked like an angel in blue froth skimming over the ground.
If he lived to be an absentminded old man, he would never forget the way she looked tonight.
She wasn’t in the yard, but he hadn’t seen Ivy, either. No doubt they were huddled in a quiet corner, laughing over things that sisters laughed over.
Seeing his mother below, he went down the steps and crossed the grass to where she stood beside the dance floor, watching her guests and tapping her foot.
He kissed her cheek. “This might be your best party yet.”
“Of course. It’s for you and my sweet daughter.”
“If you see Agatha, will you tell her I’m looking for her?”
Only a small lie since he had been looking for her, but it was one that would prevent Agatha from believing he had gone anywhere.
“Tell her yourself, dear. She was on the front porch no more than a quarter of an hour ago.”
Something about that was wrong, but blamed if he knew why. No doubt Agatha and Ivy simply found it a quiet place to visit. It made sense, but the itch in his belly didn’t ease.
“Was she alone?”
“Yes, I believe she was.”
Rushing across the house he burst onto the porch to find it empty.
Where was Agatha? Ivy was nowhere to be found. Something was not right.
They might be together. But where?
The moment that his boot turned to go back inside, he recalled that Agatha had wanted time alone after dinner.
In his gut he knew she was not resting in their bed
room. That had been an excuse to keep him from looking for her.
Hell, he ought to know since he’d also made up a story to cover his absence.
Agatha had gone to face Brunne alone. She had a fifteen-minute head start on him.
Chapter Seventeen
Rushing past Brunne, Agatha knelt beside the girl lying on the bed. And really that was all she was—probably no more than sixteen years old.
“Are you hurt?”
“Some, but...” The girl turned her inner arm toward Agatha. It was bruised above the elbow. “This is what shows.”
“How old are you?” She was too thin. Her shift sagged, revealing a bony shoulder.
“Old enough for my ma to think she could sell me off to Pete.”
Hilda clamped her hand hard on the back of Agatha’s neck, her fingers biting.
Agatha squeezed her wrist, slung the hand away then stood up. She looked down on Brunne. That was not how she remembered it being. As she recalled, her nurse had always glowered down at her.
“Is this how you greet your mother?”
The girl tugged on the back of Agatha’s gown. “Don’t rile her, she’s crazy as a loon.”
“We thought you were dead. How—?” Agatha had so many things to say to the woman but this question pressed forward.
“A tinker man found me and patched me up as best he knew. The fool didn’t know much. You see how he left me bound to this cane. Of course, I blame it all on your sister, the devil take her as I’m sure he did.”
“Whatever happened to you was of your own doing.” Perhaps if Agatha spoke reason, reminded Hilda of the truth, she would be able to convince the woman to leave her alone. “Ivy’s not to blame for any of it. You’re the one who left her to die.”
“I did.” Her smile lifted in a rare show of teeth. One in front was broken. It hadn’t been the last time she had seen her. “Because she took Maggie and Bethy. She was trying to take you, too. Silly girl that you are, you never saw it. I had good reason to trick her into coming out in the storm. I meant to lock her away—probably to die. I’d not have gone back to give her food or water. That would have been foolish of me. Doesn’t matter. She deserved what happened to her. I always knew Bethy would be the evil one of my twins—there’s always an evil one.”
“Ivy is not Bethy.”
“I didn’t mind a bit when she got trampled in the stampede.”
If Hilda thought Ivy was dead, so much the better.
“We minded. We missed her, Mrs. Brunne.”
The woman lifted her cane and struck Agatha on the backside. Layers of fabric prevented the blow from causing pain, but still, the strength of the swing was surprising.
“You will call me Mother.”
Time and adversity had not been a friend to Hilda Brunne. It had only made her more insane.
As much as Agatha wanted to convince her former nurse that she was not the submissive girl she had tried to make her, there was one thing more urgent at the moment.
Getting the young woman cowering on the bed to safety.
Turning, she touched the girl’s hand, picked it up and held it tight. The poor thing was trembling badly.
Kneeling beside her, Agatha whispered in her ear. “The door’s no longer locked. I’ll keep the old woman distracted long enough for you to run.”
She shook her head, tangled black hair shimmying about her face.
“What are you saying to her?” Brunne demanded.
“I’m convincing her to take her medicine, Mother.”
“I can’t go.” The girl yanked her hand away. “I belong to Pete. All us girls do. If I run, he’ll come after me.”
“Trust me. I’ll hide you. My husband is the mayor and the sheriff.”
“Yes, I know who you are. I’ve watched you from my window. Pete’s got a sore spot when it comes to your man. I’ve heard him talking. Mr. English needs to watch out.”
“What’s that?” Hilda’s cane struck the floor.
“It’s for your own good, I promise,” Agatha said in a louder voice. Then back to a whisper, “Run to the mansion. Find Mr. English or his mother. They’ll protect you.”
“You don’t convince! You ought to know that. You just pour it down the harlot’s throat.”
Brunne nudged Agatha aside with a whack of her cane.
The old witch must have big pockets filled with laudanum bottles because she seemed to produce one from nowhere.
“Let me, Mother Brunne. I know how.” She took the vial of poison, hating the way the blue glass felt so smooth and seductive in her fingers—so feared, so hated.
“Run. Now!”
In one move, Agatha turned, shoved the old woman backward and threw the bottle against the wall.
Glass shattered, tinkled on the floor. The door slammed against the bed in the wake of the girl’s flight.
Agatha’s heart sank. The girl ran toward the casino, not toward the back hallway and freedom.
“You did that.” Brunne shrugged from her place on the floor. “I tried to help her but you—you’ve insured her a good beating. Someone will pay Pete extra for the pleasure of bringing that willful child to heel.”
If only she had run to the mansion! Agatha should have gone with her, made sure she made it to safety.
She could not have gone, though. She was not finished here. Ivy and Clara’s safety depended upon convincing Hilda Brunne to go away for good.
“You naughty, naughty girl!” Brunne launched to her feet quicker than her crippled-looking body would account for.
Pure wickedness must be what powered her.
“What will I do with you?”
Slap, slap, slap went her cane across the floor. Clearly the sharp sound was meant to intimidate Agatha.
“Not a single thing.” The truth was, she did feel intimidated. A bigger truth was, she did not feel like running.
“As willful as you always were, I see.”
Clearly, Hilda Brunne did not perceive reality. Agatha had never been willful. Not until Ivy came home and freed her.
“Sit on the bed, you ungrateful wretch. I’ll give you your medicine. Everything will be as it was.”
“You need to understand that you no longer have the power to make me do anything.”
“And take off that dress. It’s far too cheerful. It doesn’t suit a girl like you.”
“This dress is exactly who I am. Happy—and fluffy—fun! I’ve changed since you knew me. I will not allow you to drug me again.”
“I blame it on that man. You thought he was your prince and all the while he wanted to marry your sister. I’ve told you over and over he is worthless. I thought your silly brain understood. You are not good enough for him—not for any man.” Brunne tapped her cane on the floor, slowly—no more than a light click. “But no mind, he doesn’t matter.”
“He’s my husband. He will always matter.”
“A man will always betray you in the end. Trust your mother, Agatha. There is no one else you can trust.” The cane tapped harder, faster.
“The fact is, I can trust everyone but you!”
“He’s filled your head with lies. I knew he would.”
“He loves me—Ivy love—loved me.”
“Oh, my, you have grown willful. I’ll have to punish you.”
Brunne swung the cane at her head. Agatha ducked, felt a whoosh of air skim across the top of her hair.
Before she could straighten, Brunne landed a heavy blow on her back. The air rushed out of her lungs. She struggled to catch a breath.
“Who is going to protect you, now? Your husband?”
“I am.”
The scent of kerosene lanterns drifted in the open door along with Ivy, her yellow skirt settling about her in a swirl
of outrage.
“Put down the cane, you low-down, mad dog.”
“Bethy? I thought I killed you. I never meant to—” Brunne blinked, stared, then her eyes flew wide open. “Ivy Magee! I did mean to kill you.”
“Gull-durned lunatic.”
“Ivy!” Agatha rushed forward, took her sister’s elbow and tried to steer her back out the door. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Here I am, though.” And clearly here she would stay.
“I knew you were up to something, sister. Nearly smelt it.” Ivy reached for Brunne’s cane but got smacked on the hand. “So I followed you.”
“Stop talking to my girl, luring her away from me again.”
“I’m not your girl. Look at me!” Lunacy blazing in her eyes, Hilda struck out at her, the same way she had at Ivy. Agatha caught the tip of the cane, held tight to it. “Your girl was weak-hearted and frightened of you. Is that who you see now?”
“You were a sweet baby, Maggie. I’d have drowned Bethy if I knew she would turn you on me.”
“Must be why your husband took your babies away,” Ivy spat.
Suddenly enraged, Brunne yanked the cane from Agatha’s grasp. She slammed it against Ivy’s chest.
Grasping her breasts, her sister went down on her knees.
“That little thump shouldn’t have hurt so much—unless? You’re feeding. I wonder...”
Agatha leapt for Brunne’s back, but Brunne turned. Taking the brunt of the fall on her shoulder, Agatha sat up, the pain sharp as a hot blade.
Brunne’s lips peeled back from her teeth. “You’ve taken my Maggie to your own breast!”
“My teats are as dry as yours, you old hag.”
“Where have you taken my baby?” Brunne screeched.
She dropped the cane, curled her fingers into claws, raking at Ivy with long, pointed fingernails.
Agatha stooped to pick up the cane but Hilda stomped on her hand.
Momentarily, she focused her attention on Agatha. “You are no longer my child. I disown you.”
In that instant, Ivy lunged for Brunne’s skirt and yanked it in an attempt to knock her off balance.