TAKEDOWN

by Anna Murray

  Sarah's heart sank. The fiddle, cradled with its bow in a wooden case, had been her father's joy. It was the last she had of him and their sweet musical evenings together. Papa had taught her to play jigs, reels, and waltzes. Inside she was screaming with fury.

  One aching foot slid out from under her.

  Three-Fingers' head flew up.

  "Who's it!"

  Sarah 's heart beat thunderously

  "Thar's someone thar!"

  The scar-necked man drew a pistol from his pants and ran up the hillside, ripping round the rock.

  Sarah groaned. They'd been discovered!

  "Ho! What 'ave we here!"

  Three-fingers ran to join his partner. "Couple o' skirts!"

  "Aye, this one's wee," he observed, his flint-eyes skipping off Emily. Then he grabbed Sarah's arm, hauled her up, and shoved her against the rock.

  "P-please, don't hurt my sister!"

  "Naw, you got mo' fer a man," he spat, and his eyes strayed down to her full breasts, made more prominent by her gaunt frame. Scar-neck twisted her arm, painfully driving her to the ground.

  Sarah felt the wind knocked from her as he slammed his body down upon her. She began to struggle against his weight and sweat. Oh, but he was strong.

  She felt him tugging at her dress, wrenching at the tired fabric until it was twisted above her knees. Oh God. Oh God. The wretched man was ripping at her drawers and digging those awful, dirty fingers into her smooth skin.

  As he reached between them she tried to bring her knee up. She bit hard on his neck. Angered, he drew a knife and slashed her leg, drawing blood. Leaning on one elbow he brought the knife to her face, threatened, grunted and kicked her knee down. Then he fumbled to loose his belt. This task complete, he moved to find the slit in her drawers. Sarah's back and head throbbed, and her body grated against the hard packed trail.

  "Hurry up!" Three-fingers poked a sharp boot toe at Scar-neck's backside.

  Scar-neck ignored his friend.

  "Damn, you hear? Injuns is comin'!"

  But I ain't got in her yet!"

  "Get off!"

  The Indian threat persuaded Scar-neck to draw himself off Sarah. His face and neck were brightly flushed.

  "Next time gal," he panted.

  Sarah's back and thigh hurt, and she was only dimly aware of the bandits hurriedly moving away from their hideous crimes as they swung onto their horses and bolted. Their fleeing hooves echoed a dull and hollow thud.

  Dazed, Sarah quickly brought herself up and reflexively pushed her dress back down.

  Emily was several feet away, rocking back and forth on her knees, biting at her fist and moaning as if she'd been punched in the belly.

  Sarah jumped to her feet. She wobbled, slumped back to the ground, and was sick. After a minute she wiped the back of her hand across her brow.

  "I'm ok. It's ok," she insisted. "Did they hurt you?" She sat up again and met Emily's gaze.

  The younger girl stared at the blood smeared on the back of Sarah's hand. "No. Oh but Sarah, he hurt you."

  Anger rose in Sarah. She'd worked hard to protect her sister's precious childhood after her own had been shattered. No good could come from talking about this assault, she thought. "Em, I'll be all right. I'll be ok." She hiked up her dress to examine the wound on her thigh. It would likely leave a scar. She pressed her hand against it to stop the bleeding.

  "For sure?"

  "Yes," she replied tersely as she twisted her hands across her midsection. "Listen," Sarah breathed low, "forget what you've seen! There's no use in dwelling on it."

  The young girl bit her lip and nodded.

  They heard hoof beats approaching. More trouble was riding straight for them.

  "Indians!" Emily shrieked and pointed.

  They sat erect on their sturdy horses, midnight hair and trappings floating on the breeze. Naked above the waist, their legs hung bare, all long sinewy copper muscle.

  Slack-jawed, Sarah stared at the men. The strange natives appeared as mystical silhouettes against the rolling velvet-prairie backdrop. The pair paused at the scene of the tragedy, and the older one dismounted and walked around the wagon, slowly and quietly surveying the damage. His wary ebony eyes lit upon Uncle Orv and Joey.

  Standing a scant distance away from the carnage Emily trembled and glued herself to Sarah's side.

  The Indians appeared to understand what had happened to the pioneer family. They spoke in low tones, in a strange language.

  Sarah was focused keenly on the older warrior. While his body and face were stone, she saw something akin to sympathy flash in his eyes. The younger Indian advanced, prodded the bodies, and retreated back onto his horse when the older one waved him away. Then the elder looked into Sarah's face, saw the blood on her hands, and he pointed to a grass-overgrown spur path.

  "To your people. Not far." He gestured toward the north and swiftly stepped onto his mount. The Indians dug their heels into the horses and rode off, leaving the dazed sisters clutching each other and staring.

  The wind howled a lonesome refrain while Sarah moved slowly and deliberately to clean up the camp. A rush of emotions flowed through her, and suddenly she felt limp.

  And yet, they'd survived. She ripped a strip from a clean rag, tied it around her wound, and collected the remnants of their clothing and personal items, shoving them into a satchel. As afterthought, she picked up Orv's battered portable writing desk -- a simple wooden box that held his letters.

  Drawing what strength they could muster from each other, Sarah and Emily linked arms and walked briskly up the path toward the town.

  Chapter 1

  July 1868

  Wounded Colt

  Montana Territory

  Miss Lola Brackle could scarcely believe her good luck.

  At last the ill winds of her fate had shifted, and sweet destiny had driven a beautiful drifter straight through her whiskey-stained front door.

  Oh yes, she'd do nicely. Lola's mortared face transformed from an aging granite fortress to softness stirred with sweet emotion. Paint and powder couldn't conceal the anticipation shining deep in her pigeon-gray eyes.

  Leaning stiffly against the doorjamb Lola sized up the lovely-but-destitute young woman who sat fidgeting on Lola's best shipped-all-the-way-from-New-York parlor sofa -- a cherished piece that had escaped tobacco spittle, beer tipples, and assorted other fluids common to her business.

  It was always something, Lola thought.

  The madame drew a deep breath, and on the exhale she felt a curry brush dragging up her throat, riding on the burning aftertaste of the previous evening's brandy. Oh yes, always something.

  Grimacing, Lola turned her attention to another something, making a quick assessment of the damage left in the wake of the previous night's gale. The relentless crashing of bone-jarring gusts had finally eased to a gentle ripple, and now smooth waves rolled calmly across the prairie grasses. Slanting her gray eyes upward, Lola's gaze slid across her five fancy windows. Only one had suffered a slight crazing down the right-most pane.

  Then her gaze lit again upon that best something,the fine young filly, trimmed with silky chestnut hair, comely green eyes, and a cameo-ivory face. After a cleaning and brief initiation to the business, thought Lola, this little something, slender but sturdy, would truly be grand.

  Madame Lola gleefully folded her hands together. The girl's youthful body would yield a mother lode, certainly more than enough to escape the rising debt she owed her loan-vulture landlord, Mr. Jack Dullen.

  Lola scowled at the thought of Dullen; the man had gone and raised the rent, just as she was getting ahead. Her stomach roiled as she recalled his demands to be her partner, and in more ways than one.

  Yet, Lola had found success in a town where a woman needed the brawn of two men, the brain of three, and the body of a harlot. She'd abandoned girlish fantasies of fairy-tale bliss, and now middle age notched her steadily downward, crushing dreams into dry, harsh tumbleweed prairie, until
she settled on nurturing a small flame -- a fleeting wishful thought of setting aside enough to retire and live out her remaining years securely back east.

  Suddenly the new something raised a trembling hand to her throat and coughed. Startled, Lola broke from sweet reverie and raked her fingers through her orange hair. Surely, she told herself, any slight illness could be quickly brought to heel or, God help her, staved off with medicines. She prayed it wasn't consumption.

  The young woman coughed again. Lola felt urgency bite at the pit of her belly. She wasn't a heartless woman; she'd thought to give the new girl a day to rest, to get situated, eat a few good meals, and feel safe. Now Lola released all good intentions, and, unyoked from her conscience, she steered a new course.

  This time the prize won't slip through my grasp, she promised. A pink flush rose in her ruddy cheeks, and she resolutely locked plump hands together. After all, business was business. This dove was as pretty as any decent woman in town. Prettier, damn it. The girl would look downright stunning wearing a fancy frock instead of that coarse old work dress.

  In her mind Lola sorted through the house wardrobe. Her eyes darted fiercely to and fro as she pondered each dress, assessing the color, cut, and fit. An inexplicable motherly pride gripped her as she chewed on details of jewelry and makeup. She thought about how fortunes could rapidly change in a one-horse mining town.

  Lola grunted, awkwardly dragged herself into the parlour, and settled with a graceless thud on the sofa next to the girl.

  "You ever entertain men?"

  Lola's tone was easy, as if she were commenting on the weather or a new cake recipe. She plopped her hands onto massive thighs and sat back heavily, jarring tendrils of bright hair loose and sending them burning down the sides of her puffy cheeks.

  The girl's smooth expression drew into a frown, and she studied the smoke-soiled paintings sprawled across the uneven ceiling.

  Lola sat patiently, drumming her fingers, recalling how she'd commissioned the work from a Denver saloon painter. The man had barely finished the job when he'd succumbed to a disease born of debauchery.

  * * *

  Sarah Anders cringed. The graceless woman had pitched her bulk against the sofa like a bale of hay being tossed onto an overloaded wagon.

  She wondered how long she'd need to stay at this place.

  Her jade eyes surveyed the grandeur of the room. Sarah's experience was deep but narrow. She'd never met a body like Miss Lola in her life. The woman was bold, like the ladies who sat in the front row at church on Sundays -- even when their families were behind on the pew rent.

  But bold didn't begin to describe the bright painted lips and fire-red hair, and Miss Lola's scarlet dress was cut overly tight and stretched far too brazenly across her ample bosom.

  Sarah nervously fingered her own faded lindsey-blue skirt, threadbare and covered with trail dust. Miss Lola's personal tastes ran to overbearing and eccentric, but who was she to judge? This woman was her only friend, or at least a sympathetic soul -- she'd responded kindly when Sarah had desperately knocked at her door.

  Besides, Sheriff Aiken had guaranteed Sarah there'd be work in Lola's kitchen. He'd said it was a good job, a good wage, with meals, and a bed.

  But what the woman now proposed was entirely different.

  Entertain men? Miss Lola's query echoed off the high plaster ceiling. Stunned the conversation had taken this direction, Sarah's slate went blank. It was another grave disappointment. She stared mindlessly over Lola's shoulder at a gilt-framed painting: a Cupid loading an arrow into his tiny bow.

  Suddenly the fancy parlor turned cheap arcade; it smelled too much of penny perfume, sour whiskey and stale tobacco smoke. The stench cast a pall, from the heavy draperies and flowered wool carpet to the mahogany leather upholstery.

  Dueling urges battled within Sarah. She wanted to flee, but there was no place to go. She had nothing. They were hungry and penniless. She glanced at her sister seated across the room.

  "Entertain men? Well, yes . . . if you mean singing and playing music," Sarah challenged, thrusting her chin upward. Her green eyes burned, roamed across Lola's shoulders and up to the round smiling face.

  Memories knifed through Sarah, thoughts of the many joyful evenings she spent singing with her papa. She bit down on her lower lip. She thought hard about her father's last words. Keep your head up. Always. My spirit will protect you.

  She'd been a practical, orderly daughter, and her skill at managing the homestead, especially after Mama died birthing Emily, was a source of pride to her father. But not a year had passed after Mama was gone, and he'd also passed on. Sarah missed him deeply.

  Orphaned, Sarah and Emily were promptly packed up and dispatched to live with Uncle Orv, a widower.

  Forcing her thoughts back to the present, Sarah twisted and scanned the room to look at ten-year-old Emily, who knelt on a wobbly straight-backed wooden chair, dangling over a checkerboard. Sweat-dampened blond hair hung in limp curls around her small face.

  "Emily, be careful! You'll tip!" Sarah felt a familiar surge of maternal concern.

  "Huh?" Emily turned, and the chair legs shook precariously as she held up a speckled white pawn.

  "Look Sarah! Fancy pieces! They're made of pretty stones!"

  Sarah waved a hand frantically. "Yes, Emily, very pretty . . . be careful! Don't drop them!

  Emily's small hands caught the edge of the table, and the back chair legs settled safely onto the floor. Sarah slapped one hand to her brow and groaned.

  Wrenching her neck back around, she resettled on the sofa. Miss Lola was still waiting. Sarah cleared her throat. Her voice emerged in a whisper.

  "Well . . . I used to sing with my pa."

  The madame leaned forward and arched one eyebrow, and she wondered how much of the young woman was real toughness and how much was bluff. The territory had a way of eliminating the weak, and it was certainly less forgiving of women than men. Lola's mouth opened a crack but she paused. Her chest rose slightly.

  "Er, that's dandy experience," she finally blurted, as she poked nervously at a hairpin near the nape of her neck. "Other girls here take a shine to singing. Honey, you'll fit right in." She reached out and grabbed Sarah's hand. "Darlin', you'll earn enough here to tend to yourself and your sister. My, it looks like she could use a new dress and shoes too."

  * * * *

  Miss Lola's kindly gray eyes turned to business steel, and she threw herself into the task of making her new asset a part of the family.

  Meanwhile Sarah considered her present situation. She was orphaned again and doing her best to care for her young sister. Lola had treated them well so far. She'd surely find a way out of this predicament.

  We are still alive, she told herself.

  Sarah briskly confided the day's horrors to Lola. After all, nobody's life and death turned out the way they expected . . . not Mama's or Papas or Uncle Orv's. And not mine.

  Living on the wagon train had taught Sarah important lessons, and the first was that endings were always lurking at the edges, ready to rise up to grab the most coveted dreams. Wild death rode on a moonless night, claiming an infant just four days old. It left a mother shattered, her child hastily buried beneath a crude marker alongside the trail. Another time it claimed a vivacious young boy who expired after a night of labored wheezing.

  And then came a still evening when Sarah lay under the blazing blanket. In the days that followed her weakened body stumbled through a thick fog, and dreams slipped away back in that deep Dakota-crossing haze.

  Since then, and especially today, it was blessing enough to be alive, to cling to the thin hope of a better life for Emily. It was Sarah's last duty, and when all was accounted for, duty rose above all else. Thousands of men had done their duty during the war, and at much greater personal sacrifice. Some said nearly a million died.

  Sarah frowned and narrowed her eyes. Starting over was something she knew how to do. She'd heard places existed in these territories where
a soul forgot the past, and other folks didn't ask about it -- places where a soul would be accepted at face value. Uncle Orv had mouthed those words on the trail, over and over, day after day. It had been his mantra, and now Sarah wanted to believe it too.

  "When do I . . . begin?" Her voice felt hollow, strange.

  Lola bent her massive body forward and closed the breach between them, as if she were about to share a secret. Her two-bit scent hung heavy as a log wall between them.

  "Honey, you can get started right today." A warm glow crept up her face. Impulsively she laid a meaty hand on Sarah's knee.

  Sarah stared past Lola's shoulder, and she felt herself standing in the corner of that dank, gilded room.

  For the second time that day she felt bile rising in her throat.

  Chapter 2

  The lone wind gust pushed at something deep inside him. It grazed Cal Easton's brow, gently lifting his hat. He'd saved the Stetson with his free hand, but hell, it had come from nowhere, seemingly aimed for him alone.

  This is how I mark my thirtieth year, he thought.

  Cal had started the trip to town well past full sunup, but now -- except for the one odd blow -- the big sky covered clear and blue and the heat was stifling. His dark eyes scoured the horizon from his perch atop the supply wagon.

  "Dang. No relief," he muttered to Roy, the impetuous and foolhardy younger brother seated alongside.

  "Yup. She's a scorcher."

  Cal hadn't mentioned the significance of the day. Not that birthdays mattered much, since, in Montana Territory, each day was an endurance-test that simply followed heel-to-toe to another.

  Lanky Roy, a thorn-in-the-side boy stuck inside a grown man's body, had forgotten the occasion. Good, thought Cal. He'd happily skip Roy's usual prank, always hatched with Bailey, the ranch foreman.

  So, it was nothing special, this turning-thirty-day. He considered birthdays were for children, the giddy tots who looked forward to growing older as they rode youthful dreams.

  These days the man honed by adversity didn't feel young. Cal couldn't make a wish beyond pleasant weather and good grass for his stock. When did that happen? He supposed it was when Papa died. Or maybe it had been Grace. He swallowed hard. Heck, he told himself, folks got older one day at a time, not in one big leap, once a year. And "whys" and "what if's" were wasted exertions.