He didn't answer, but rode rigidly on. Um...Lillabit?
"Not that I wasn't grateful to see you," I added weakly, reminding myself that whether or not it was fair, I did owe my deliverance to a member of the testosterone brigade.
This member of the testosterone brigade.
"I did notice," he admitted, definitely not looking at me.
Oh. The hug. I wondered how long it had been since anyone had dared hug the Boss. I still couldn't get over how immensely huggable he'd been, too—strong, and solid, and so safe I still felt taken care of, even now that I was remembering I shouldn't have to be taken care of.
Imagine what he would be like if he ever hugged back!
Like that would happen in my lifetime.
Between my lack of sleep and those truly crazy thoughts, I was beginning to feel downright woozy. I didn't look at him either. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you," I said. "I get kind of emotional at times."
"I did notice," he agreed dryly.
I heard something else unusual, this time from behind us, and twisted around to see riders approaching, fast. Soldiers, come to exact revenge? Hardly panicked, Garrison took Boy's bridle and eased us both out of the way while four or five men rode by at full, dusty gallop. Cowboys! But none of ours.
The Boss shook his head at their wild ways before riding on, as if it hadn't even happened, but I'd figured something out.
"We aren't going to the herd, are we?"
"Nope," he said. Right about then we topped another rise and our dirt road merged with a larger dirt road—one that paralleled an honest-to-gosh railroad track. With high poles and telephone—telegraph?—wire strung beside it! Now this was civilization. Sort of. Unfortunately, it was the civilization I'd been warned against.
We were going to Dodge City.
I'd felt disoriented by the lack of doctors, and by drinking out of a stream. I'd been sure something was wrong when I saw the American flag, and how Belle and Dixie dressed. But that woozy sense of double-exposure really overwhelmed me as our dirt road became the dirt main street of Dodge City.
It was hugely wide, easily five or six times as wide as the track from the fort had been. And it had a railroad track running right down the middle of it, as if the town had grown up along the railroad. Which maybe it had.
At first there were small shacks and such, and wagons parked beside the train tracks, and big, piled hills of dark brown. They looked to be extra large heaps of dirt, until we rode closer and I realized they were huge pelts of thick, curly fur.
Just to disorient me further, the Boss not only noticed me staring but offered an explanation. "Hide yard."
"What kind of hides?" Why didn't I want to know? And if I didn't want to know, why did I ask? Morbid curiosity, I guess. Like slowing down to look at an... to look at...
That comparison vanished before I could capture it.
"Buffalo." Garrison pointed out more and larger mountains of white closer to town, though still along the railroad track. These piles seemed to go on for a mile. "Bones."
"Buffalo bones? Where from?"
He slid an exasperated look toward me, and I narrowed my eyes in challenge. "Don't you dare say they're from buffaloes, Boss! I ain't stupid, remember?"
Did I detect a glimmer of humor as he looked away? "Bone pickers find 'em on the prairie where hunters left 'em. Sell 'em for money."
"What good are they?" Obviously I wasn't the only person who found this curious. Three cowboys—again, not ours—stood by the tracks staring up at the long stacks of bones as if they were one of the seven wonders of the world.
"Buttons." He shrugged. "Knife handles."
That struck me as horribly sad, even more than seemed warranted. It also struck me as, well, strange. Not quite real. "Have you ever seen a buffalo? Wild? Around here?"
He nodded.
"We just missed them this time?"
"Southern herd's 'bout hunted out, last year or two."
Considering the size of those mountains of buffalo products, I had to say it. "But that's so sad."
"Progress." But at least he didn't say it happily.
After the buffalo bones came a huge, divided corral, to the south, that seemed to go on forever. It was full of cows—cows going to market, I realized. Several of the people working the pens called to Garrison by name, and he nodded or raised his hand in return greeting, sometimes adding a name: "Ed," or "George." George in particular looked very well-heeled, to be calling a friendly good-day to the Boss.
Garrison noticed me staring and said, "Buyers." Oh. He'd been a professional trail boss for some time, hadn't he? It was only a fluke that this particular herd was going on to Wyoming, instead of ending up in these very pens.
To the north of the huge main street, across the tracks from the cattle pens, stood a blacksmith shop. Then a surprisingly small, bright green building sporting the friendly word "Depot" stuck into the street, to sit flush against the tracks. And after the depot: pow! Suddenly there were dozens of buildings on both sides of the road, built so close together that most of them shared walls. They were all wooden with what looked like false fronts, painted in different colors as brightly as the depot. They had names written on them, some in fancy lettering, some in block: "Mueller's Boot Shop," or "John Tyler's Tonsorial Parlor," which, FYI, looked to be a barber shop.
There were even smaller streets leading off at right angles—it really was a town! With people! Real people drove wagons, rode horses, walked along the wooden sidewalks. Men wore knee-length coats and boots; women wore long dresses and sunbonnets or perky hats. Some people carried parasols or canes. A few men seemed to be carrying guns.
A quick glance toward Garrison confirmed that he was not.
The battle between my senses, which perceived it all as real, and my dogged suspicion that it wasn't, made me dizzy.
Garrison said, "Ho," and parked his horse at a hitching post that happened to be outside a saddle maker's store. He dismounted, then glanced back at me and belatedly helped guide Valley Boy in off the street as well. While he hitched both animals to the rail, I grasped a handful of Boy's flaxen mane and slid to the ground. Touchdown! Time for another foray into a world that seemed less and less familiar to me.
What now?
I didn't even let go of Boy's mane, I was suddenly so afraid to try assimilating again. All these people...dozens of them...and I not only didn't know them, I wasn't even sure I understood their society! Look how badly I'd done last time.
As if to remind me that I knew at least two people in town, a woman across that vast width of a street—in front of what was labeled the Great Western Hotel—smiled and waved directly at me. Today Belle wore a deep red color that complemented her raven black hair. Symbolic or not, I still wouldn't have guessed what she did for a living if I hadn't already known. Her occupation was something that other people said mattered, but what I most remembered was her talking to me, and holding me while I cried, and now sending a friendly smile, as if honestly glad I'd been sprung. I couldn't stop my own quick smile—yes, it's me, I'm fine now—but somehow, through some jolt of self preservation, I caught back my wave, so that my hand merely twitched.
Only then did I fully feel the disapproval pouring off my escort and realize what a close call I'd just had. Belle's smile of greeting faltered into something more somber, but she nodded with understanding. I felt like complete scum, and ducked my head so I didn't have to see how I'd hurt her feelings. When I peeked back up, she was hurrying off down the street, and the people here were strangers again.
I risked a glance at the Boss and realized it hadn't been merely the brevity of my own greeting that had chased Belle away. He'd gone into full glare mode.
Why did I want to cry? "Don't embarrass her like that."
"Embarrasses herself," he noted in that cold, decisive way of his, still radiating contempt. Only the hurt I still felt from Belle—hurt I'd helped cause, simply by trying to be what Garrison wanted me to be—could have egged me into b
raving that contempt.
Besides, righteous indignation felt better than guilt. "I know you don't approve of what she does, but her values are her own business. She was kind to me. She doesn't deserve rudeness."
Now his contempt did focus on me—but instead of making an accusation, he asked a question. "What are your intentions in this town?"
My...? Then I placed his meaning. "You mean, if nobody knows who I am?" The possibility nauseated me. No memory. No family. No name or place in the world. And the only people who'd been kind to me were either social outcasts or heading to Wyoming.
He nodded, waiting, eyes still narrowed. I clearly hadn't earned points by defending a soiled dove.
What choice would I have? "I suppose I'll have to find a job."
He let out a breath, as if he'd been holding it. "In what position?" he asked, gruff. He probably didn't mean for that to sound kinky.
"I don't know. Anything, really."
He narrowed questioning eyes.
"Anything respectable," I clarified, annoyed at the assumption. "Look, I could have left the fort last night if I'd been willing to go with Belle and Dixie and some slimeball named Thompson, but I didn't. Apparently whoever I am, I have standards."
The Boss considered that, not quite looking at me, then nodded. "Best dress respectable, then," he said firmly, to a spot a foot or so from my head, and with a hand to the small of my back, he led me down the wooden sidewalk to a store called Morris Collar's Dry Goods, then turned me through its open door.
Bless his anal-retentive, warped sense of duty; the man meant to clothe me. Again.
This, I thought in amazement, should prove interesting.
Chapter 11 – My Dress
Add a visit to Morris Collar's Dry Goods Store to my list of disorienting-for-no-good-reason experiences. I even looked for something out-of-the ordinary, something blatantly Not Right to explain why the place made me dizzy, but nooooo—it was so normal it practically screamed "General Store" at me. Deep and narrow, it had wall shelves to the ceiling, and counters on both sides, and it apparently sold everything from nails to shovels to dishes to linens... and a few things I didn't recognize.
But that could be my probable urban background, right? The neat, hand-lettered sign, one of many, that read Dark Calico, 16-20 yards, $1 had to simply be a mistake. They probably meant a dollar per yard, or $10, or... something.
That raised an important point that helped me forget the wash of unreality. I stopped, several feet inside the doorway, and the pressure of Garrison's hand on my back increased, then lessened as he looked a silent question down at me.
I stood on my toes to better whisper—already the man behind the counter was glancing up at us, as were several shoppers and a woman in the back. "I don't think I have enough money for this."
Garrison seemed surprised, then embarrassed. "We can settle after you're employed," he murmured at the floor. Was he blushing? Before I could get a better look at him in the shadowy warmth of the store, he'd nudged me in the direction of the lady in back. Another hand-lettered sign near her read, "Mrs. A. E. Staunton, Dressmaking and Alterations."
Garrison developed a sudden fascination for shovels.
On my own, huh? I took a deep breath of still air—why did I expect cool air inside, despite the summer weather?—and headed to the back. I wasn't all alone, after all. This time I had someone watching over me.
The woman in back was pretending she didn't see me. Two men, talking with the shopkeeper about rakes, stared more openly. I wasn't the only one with the sense that I didn't fit in, was I? The lady clerk—Mrs. A. E. Staunton, I presume?—wore a dark dress, so brown it was nearly black, with little white Swiss dots on it. It came up to her neck in a neat band fastened by tiny white buttons, and buttons dotted each respectable cuff. The dress fit closely to her waist, where it suddenly fell into sweeping folds gathered back into a bustle, similar to Dixie's. The effect of the bustle was that of a small child hiding under her skirt in back, except that the ruffle of the hem seemed to sweep the floor evenly. She wore her hair pulled back into an oh-so-respectable bun, too, which contradicted the idea of someone who would let kids under her clothes.
Was that what I was supposed to be buying? Halfway there, I glanced nervously back at the Boss, who'd removed his hat to better compare shovel quality. He must've been watching, though, because he nodded his head in the woman's direction. Okay, already.
Mrs. Staunton apparently reconciled herself to the idea of me as a potential customer, and smiled reluctantly. This, of course, was a lady—older, proper, and wedding-ringed. I was a woman who hadn't bathed since yesterday, wearing boy's clothing with no room to hide stray children, with my hair falling out of its loose ponytail. A disgrace, right? Who wouldn't want to change her appearance in such a situation, especially if I was the urban cowgirl Benj seemed to think I was? I may have had a stressful week, culminating in a hell-like night. But if I were a city girl, I should be able to eat small-town dressmakers for breakfast ...even without the watchfulness of a big strong man!
And so I did. And yes, I behaved myself. I walked up to her, almost as if I had every right to be there—she would be earning money because of me, whether it was mine or not. Then I opened my mouth, and....
...and nothing came out. Okay, so her propriety intimidated the hell out of me. City girl, I told myself. City girl. I swallowed and tried again. "Mrs. Staunton?"
She nodded. At least she acknowledged me.
"I was hoping you could help me buy some clothing? Something...respectable, please? And simple." Translation: Inexpensive. Hey, I could do this! "And off the rack."
But she said, "Excuse me?" For a moment I almost panicked again—I still didn't fit in; I was still confusing people! I had to clench my fist, so that my fingernails dug into my palm, and count to three not to toss a look of sheer panic back at the Boss. And I'm so glad I did, because during that three-count I realized that Mrs. Staunton wasn't looking at me with pity, but simple curiosity. She asked, "Off the rack?"
What we had here was a silly, simple failure to communicate. "I need something immediately," I tried.
Her expression softened when she smiled, perhaps making up palatable excuses for my condition. "Ready-made," she translated, which didn't sound foreign at all. "Of course! Let me show you what we carry."
The selection wasn't particularly good, but we agreed to try a piece she called a "wrapper," a soft goldenrod-colored calico with a white print. It sounded like a robe, but she assured me it really was a "day dress." We found a pair of brown shoes she thought would fit, with high ankles and tiny buttons. She talked me into a "reticule"—a little purse—and I barely managed to resist her efforts to sell me a bonnet as well. I did resist, though, because this wasn't my money. If I had to, I would wash the dress every night and pray it was dry by morning, but Garrison had done so much for me already, this was all I felt comfortable accepting.
"Do you have a dressing room?" I asked, and Mrs. Staunton's eyes brightened, as if she liked the sound of such a thing.
"Mr. Collar allows me to use the back room for my customers' fittings," she explained proudly. The direction of her gaze told me that the shopkeeper who ran Morris Collar's Dry Goods—the one currently talking to Garrison at the front of the store—was, in fact, Morris Collar. Why did that strike me as odd? "It's not fancy, but there's a basin for washing that you're welcome to use, after your...long trip?"
She was fishing to find out how I'd ended up in Dodge City without woman's clothes. That she assumed I deserved said clothes encouraged me. But since I couldn't answer her questions without answering my own—still no go, there—I simply said, "I'm sure it will be fine," and turned toward the back.
Her hand on my arm stopped me. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
I waited, and she lowered her voice, inclined her head so that I had to lean in to hear her. "Unmentionables?" she asked delicately.
Did she mean underwear?
Her sincerity is
what sold me. I knew from her earnest tone that to insist I could make do with what I had on—in a dress as long as this, did it matter?—I would blow her misconception that I was a visiting gal who'd simply, oh, lost her luggage, instead of a lost soul who didn't belong here.
But I also really wanted out of those long johns!
Mrs. Staunton silently opened more drawers and withdrew brown paper packages, which she then discreetly opened, carefully tilted away from the rest of the store, so that I could choose an appropriate set. To keep up my pretense of normalcy, I didn't mention bras but silently wondered why she didn't offer, and felt thankful I wasn't chestier. I recognized the chemise, and in fact came close to drooling over its lace and pretty yellow ribbons. Lacy drawers I could also handle.
Stockings—check, though the garters looked odd. Petticoats—check, though her assumption that I would want five surprised me; I talked her down to three, which seemed the minimum number required. She bought my story that a bustle would be impractical, though she then swapped out my top petticoat for one with a small pillow on its ass.
But then, just as I'd almost convinced both of us that I knew what I was doing, she stumped me with a frilly, stiff, bustier-looking thing more complicated than the mule harness for Schmidty's wagon!
I must have looked as stupid as I felt, because she blinked astonishment before prompting, "Corset?"
Ah. A corset. Figuring I'd handle it like the bustle, I said, "No, thank you."
"But it's standard," she insisted, a sudden tightness to her smile hinting that Mrs. A. E. Staunton's confidence in me was faltering.
I didn't want her to lose confidence. I liked finding something I could do well, even if it was only clothes shopping. But I took another look at the mule harness, tried to feel out inaccessible memories about corsets from a distance, at least, and knew I definitely didn't like them. "Why?"
OverTime 1 - Searching (Time Travel) Page 16