by Devon Monk
“I’ll be back for you soon,” Cedar said. “I give you my word.”
Mae looked him straight in the eye. “That’s what my husband told me, Mr. Hunt. And now he’s dead.”
Cedar took a breath, and let it out slowly. He walked over to the door and opened it wide, letting in the clean promise of daylight. He paused there, one foot in her home, the other out in the afternoon light, his eyes scanning the horizon before he turned back toward her.
“That may be true,” he said gently, “but I am not your husband, Mrs. Lindson.” He moved to close the door.
Mae spoke up. “Take the mule. She’s out back. You can just point her toward my house when you’re done. She, I’m certain of, will find her way home.”
Cedar nodded, just the quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Thank you, Mrs. Lindson, I’ll do just that.” Then he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Rose Small rubbed the soft cloth over the top of the pew, the honey smell of wax filling the still air of the empty church.
Cleaning every scrap of wood in the building wasn’t her idea of a way to spend an evening as nice as this one, the dusk still clinging to the warmth of sunlight before autumn shook the heat and leaves off the land.
But her folks had heard about her walk last night. Likely from Henry Dunken’s gossipy mother. So Rose was here in the church, as she would be every night this week, contemplating her inexcusable behavior beneath God’s watchful eyes. Offering up to Him elbowgrease tithing for her sins.
At least here in the church she was left in peace to think her own thoughts away from her mother’s angry tirades, away from the women who shook their heads in pity at her, and the men who thought she didn’t notice how they looked at her like she was a broken thing they could use if they wanted.
Oh, she’d seen the letters her folks had written up, asking about eligible men in the nearby towns. She’d more than seen them—she’d volunteered to put them in the mail, and thrown them down the privy hole instead.
The thought of tying herself down to this little town and only ever seeing the sun pull up over the same horizon for the rest of her life near about gave her hives.
She wanted to explore the world, wanted to see what amazing gadgets and tickers and inventions chugged along between the high buildings in the old states, or pressed wide, round backs against the sky, steering the winds across the ocean to far-off lands, or harvesting the rare glim. She wanted to touch those things, make those things.
She wanted to fly. And wanted to do so much more.
When Rose was six, she’d insisted she wanted to be a blacksmith and a deviser when she grew up. She’d heard her father make the blacksmith, Mr. Gregor, promise he’d never put a hammer in Rose’s hand.
And he hadn’t. Though he’d let her pump the bellows and mind the coals and fetch his tools, all the while talking to her of what he was doing and why. Rose figured she knew more about metal and the making of it than a whole university of books and thinkers.
She’d done her devising in secret, hidden in her pockets, hidden beneath her bed where no one ever looked. Little trinkets, little tickers. When her mother had discovered the thimble bird Rose had made when she was nine, she’d demanded to know if Rose had been devising, doing the work allowed only to men.
Rose had told her Mr. Gregor made it. Told her it was a gift to the family and that she’d kept it in her room because she liked it so.
She hadn’t counted on her mother marching her by the arm down to the blacksmith’s shop. Hadn’t counted on her demanding the truth of the story from Mr. Gregor.
And she sure enough hadn’t counted on Mr. Gregor telling her mother, without a bat of a lash, that Rose’s story was true and that he had indeed devised the bird and given it as a gift.
But whatever thin warmth she had felt from her mother froze away over the next few years. Rose knew her mother wanted her married off so that she was no longer a problem to hide or to mind.
Some days she thought the only reason she hadn’t left this town was because of Mr. Gregor. Just thinking about poor little Elbert wandered off into the wild made her heart catch.
She hoped that Mr. Hunt—in whatever skin he was wearing—would be able to find the little child.
Her thoughts lingered on Mr. Hunt. She’d heard stories from travelers passing through that there were men who could change into wolves. Native stories of men turning into all sorts of animals.
But she’d never thought to see such a thing here, with her own eyes, in the little town of Hallelujah.
It might be the wolf in him that kept him private. Or at least she assumed.
There was something behind the closed-off pain in his eyes. A way to his words that spoke of knowledge she didn’t have and wished he’d share.
Rose walked across the aisle to polish the next pew. She supposed she should just be grateful that he believed in the Strange, or at least seemed to. When she’d mentioned the bogeyman to him, and Elbert gone missing, she’d seen the recognition in his eyes.
Rose had always known the Strange were real. The land grew thick with them. Something about the gears and metals drew them, she thought. Something about matics and contraptions called to them. It was one of the reasons she combed the shadows at night, looking for castaway bits and gathering them up before the Strange could come find them.
The door to the church opened, letting in the early-evening air and a liquid wave of dying sunlight.
The shush of petticoats and bustles swept in by the slow chattering of voices, gossipy as birds.
Rose didn’t have to glance their way to know it was Mrs. Haverty, Mrs. Dunken, and the others come to go through the church yet again for wedding plans.
So much for her peace and quiet. They’d likely have her fetching them tea and cookies and things down from the attic for the rest of the night.
As soon as they caught sight of her, they fell silent like birds ducking a wing that had just covered the sunlight.
“Rose Small?” Mrs. Haverty, the banker’s wife, had the sort of bearing Rose had always imagined a queen would hold. Never a hair out of place, never a wrinkle in her skirts, she looked like she’d stepped right off the pages of a fancy catalogue. “I did not expect to find you in the church this evening,” she said. “Did your mother send you to lend us a hand with the wedding planning?”
Rose did not stop wiping down the woodwork, but did glance over at the women, eight at least, all clucking about, with plump and pushy Mrs. Dunken giving her a smug look she’d never seen on her face before.
“No, ma’am,” Rose said. “My mother promised the pastor I’d dust down the pews. So everything is ready for service tomorrow.”
Sad-faced Mrs. Bristle spoke up. “Are you saying you don’t care about Mrs. Haverty’s daughter Becky’s impending nuptials? Even a . . . castoff like you should show some respect.”
Rose squared her shoulders and kept the backs of her teeth together so no words could slip out. She was taught to respect her elders, but words would fall through her lips too quickly if she didn’t keep her mind on them. Then they’d all know exactly what this “castoff” thought about them and their judging ways.
“Now, don’t be so cruel to the girl, Mabel,” Mrs. Dunken said. “I’m sure Miss Small will settle down and behave properly soon enough. She just needs a man with a strong hand to rein her in. A man like my boy Henry.”
Rose rolled her eyes and went back to dusting. Henry thought he was the strongest, prettiest man in town because that was what his mama was always telling him. Even though his parents had sent him off to school in New York more to be rid of him than to get him some real learning, he’d come back only a year later, saying he’d decided politics were his future. He’d set his eyes on taking the mayor’s place.
“That’s kind of you to think so,” Rose said to Mrs. Dunken. “But I’m sure Henry has his sights set on a girl of much higher standing than I, what with his p
olitical aspirations and all.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, dear,” Mrs. Haverty said.
Rose stopped dusting out of shock. She’d never heard the banker’s wife say a kind thing to her in all her days.
“You may be of low standing,” Mrs. Haverty continued, “but you do have land to your name. A good parcel of land can make even the most plain of girls pretty enough to marry.”
A slow, creeping dread came along with those words. Mrs. Haverty sounded like she was certain about that. Rose glanced over at Mrs. Dunken. Still the same smug look.
Oh no. They’d done something, made some plans to marry her off.
A shadow crossed the doorway and Rose knew who it was before she even glanced that way. Henry Dunken.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said, striding into the room and taking up too much space. “I understand you need a hand with the wedding preparations?”
Rose tucked the cloth away in one of the pockets of her apron and picked up the tin of wax. She crossed the room to take it back to the storage cupboard, and to get herself out from beneath their notice.
“Henry, yes, I’m so glad you’re here,” Mrs. Haverty said. “You can help Rose fetch down the candleholders from the attic.”
Rose froze halfway across the room. She most certainly would not go into the attic with that man. She’d known him nearly all her life. He was mean when they were young and was meaner now. His smiles and polite manners fit him like a bad suit, and fooled no one, least of all her.
“I’ll have to beg your apologies,” Rose said. “I promised my mother I’d help her close down the shop. And it’s already late.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Haverty said. “I was just at the shop, and your mother said she’s coming this way any minute now. I’m sure the store is already closed.”
Rose’s mind tumbled and spun, looking for a new escape route. “I have chores at home, waiting for me.”
Mrs. Dunken swished her way over and took Rose’s arm. Firmly. She tugged her off toward the stairs to the attic in the back corner of the room. “My old knees just won’t do those stair steps any longer. Be a dear, for us, Miss Small. I’m sure your mother is in full agreement with you minding as you’re told.”
She gave Rose a shove, and Rose took the first two steps, just to keep from falling.
And then Henry Dunken was right behind her, smelling of booze and blocking her retreat. He leaned in far too close for a man who should know his place and his manners in front of his mother and other women of the town.
Rose took another step, just to fit some air between her and him, and the candle he carried in one hand.
“Go on up, Miss Small,” he said quiet and nice. “Won’t take long to bring the women their fancy candles; then I’ll be on my way.”
She didn’t believe him. But unless she wanted to shove him down the stairs and stir the wrath of all the old biddies, it’d be best to get this done and over with.
Rose clomped up the stairs, Henry just a step behind her, breathing hard enough she could smell the alcohol on each exhalation.
The attic was dark, the posts and beams and rafters dancing side to side in the light thrown by Henry’s candle. The window at the end of the attic was dark too, the moon not yet off the horizon.
“If I recall, the candlesticks are back there near the window.” Rose pointed. She had no intention of going into the dark corner with Henry in the room. She was staying at the top of the stairs, where she could retreat, if needed.
“I’ll need a hand gathering them,” he said, still too quiet and still too nice. “I’d be right obliged if you held the candle for me, Miss Small.”
He stepped up close to her, too close, and offered her the candle he held. He smelled of booze and smoke and sweat. She didn’t know where he’d spent his day, but she’d guess it was in the saloon.
Rose took the candleholder, but Henry did not let go. He smiled, and nice Henry, quiet Henry, melted away, leaving that cruel boy she’d known all her life.
“You grew up real pretty, Rose. Got yourself curves that keep a man awake at night. If it weren’t for that smart mouth of yours, and all those wild contraptions you busy yourself with, you’d be married off, softened up, and have six babies tugging at your skirts by now.”
Rose tucked her left hand in her apron pocket, but did not let go of the candle that Henry still held.
“Henry Dunken, if you don’t have the decency to treat me like a lady, I will leave this attic and tell your mother what a hog you are.”
That got a smile out of him. Not a nice smile. “You’re gonna run and tell my mama? That didn’t work when you were ten. That ain’t gonna work today.” He stepped tight up into her. “And there ain’t no Mr. Gregor to run to here.”
Rose got her fingers around the gun she kept in her pocket. She jabbed the barrel of it below Henry’s belt. His eyes went wide.
“You feel that, Mr. Dunken? That’s one of those wild contraptions I busy myself with. It shoots a man clean through. Then the powder and oil I devised eats away at flesh and bone until there’s a hole left behind wide enough to stick two fists through.”
Rose smiled. She reckoned it was not a nice smile either. “You step away from me, Henry Dunken, or I’m going to blow your manhood to kingdom come.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed, and a bead of sweat trickled down his temple to catch in his sideburns and beard. She could tell he didn’t believe her. Maybe didn’t believe she had made such a thing. Maybe didn’t believe she would use such a thing.
But she had. And she would.
Rose cocked the hammer, and the click of gears sounded like knuckles breaking.
Henry Dunken let go of the candle and took a step back. His hands were in fists. Rose remembered how much those fists had hurt when she was nine. She vowed then she’d never let a man hurt her so again.
“You’re a hell-spawn woman. Made of the devil’s rib. No wonder your mama squatted you out in the dirt on the Smalls’ doorstep. You’re nothing but evil.”
Rose nodded. “So it appears I am, Mr. Dunken. And now that we agree to my nature, I’d say it’s best to your advantage to gather up those candlesticks and carry them down these stairs.”
“Man doesn’t turn his back on a rattlesnake,” he said.
“Might be he should, if the snake’s pointing a gun.” Just to make sure he believed her, Rose took the gun out of her apron pocket. Plenty enough candlelight to show the bulky weapon—not the little derringer she carried. This was a modified Remington revolver. Warmed her heart to see the shock in his eyes.
“Candlesticks,” she said.
Henry got busy piling up the carved, polished candlesticks like rough kindling into his arms. When he walked across the room again, he glared at her. “I’ll be mayor of this town, Rose Small. And I will make your life more miserable than even your mad mind can imagine. If you live that long. After all, I know where you walk at night. And where you sleep.”
He stormed down the stairs, bootheels hard and heavy with his anger.
Rose stayed at the top of the stairs for a few moments. Her heart was beating so hard, she could feel it in her throat, hear it in her ears. That man meant to kill her for his bruised pride. And if he caught her alone again, he’d do just that.
She tucked the gun back in her apron, but kept one hand on it. She didn’t want to shoot a man in front of his mother, but if he tried to hurt her, she wasn’t above it either.
Rose was halfway down the stairs when the steam clock whistled. Three short blasts and one long. There was an emergency. Something was wrong. That whistle would call all the townsfolk from miles around to the church, to find out what the trouble was and what they needed to do about it.
Rose stayed on the stairs a minute or so more, waiting to see where, exactly, Henry Dunken would position himself in this emergency.
He dropped the fancy candlesticks in a pile along the wall and rushed outside, the women aflutter behind him. If Rose wanted to leave the bu
ilding, now was her chance, out the back door. Easy to slip out unnoticed when an emergency was rising. Course she might just run off into the very emergency the town was rallying against if she wasn’t careful. But if choosing between an unknown danger and Henry Dunken, she’d take the unknown.
She blew out the candle, ready to leave
Then it struck her. Maybe it was little Elbert. Maybe Mr. Hunt had found the child alive and brought him home. Maybe he had discovered the bogeyman that took him and all the town was being gathered up to go hunt it down.
Rose moved up the steps just enough the shadows from the attic hid her from a casual glance. She wanted to know what the trouble was, but didn’t want to be volunteered just yet in the fixing of it.
“Bring him in here, Mr. LeFel.” Sheriff Wilke’s voice filled the hall. “Mr. and Mrs. Gregor will be here any minute now.”
Sheriff Wilke strode into the room; then Mr. Shard LeFel, resplendent in his velvet long coat and silk ruffles, strolled in behind him. He held an unconscious child in his arms. Little Elbert Gregor.
The rest of the people, and there was a crowd of them gathered behind him, stayed well back from Mr. LeFel and his man Mr. Shunt, who followed, as he always did, on Mr. LeFel’s heels. Mr. LeFel walked across that floor like a king, his head high, his eyes filled with a sorrow Rose did not believe. He placed the child gently upon a pew at the front of the room, and Doc Hatcher went to one knee, his hands on the child’s stomach, chest, then face, where he gently drew back the child’s eyelids.
The sheriff had taken the stage behind the pulpit. Mr. LeFel and Mr. Shunt stood to the sides and behind him.
“Come in and have a seat, everyone,” Sheriff Wilke called out. The whole town, and then some, seemed to be trying to wedge themselves into the building.
“Mr. LeFel has some information we all should know,” he continued. “First, though, I’ll tell you the Gregor boy is breathing.” He looked over at the doctor.
“He’s in bad shape,” Doc Hatcher said, and if Rose hadn’t been looking right at his face, she wouldn’t have heard him over the chatter of the crowd. “He needs rest.”