by Ann Parker
She rolled her head until her nose was facedown in the pile. It smelled of earth, wet, mold, mud, and things unmentionable. Zelda slowly pushed herself to sitting, and threw up on Flo’s carpet—a gush of liquid and not much else.
It was only when she raised a hand to wipe her mouth that she saw, and felt, the dark, sticky sheen that covered it. At first, not entirely clear in her brain, she thought it was printer’s ink from the work at The Independent that somehow got smeared all over her hands, the front of her dress, the rug.
Her hand brushed her lips.
It wasn’t ink.
It was blood.
Zelda threw up a second time, more gag than anything else.
She shakily got to her hands and knees and saw, at eye level, a pale hand hanging over the edge of Flo’s bed.
She gripped the overturned chair, pulled her tangled skirts away from her knees, and stood.
“Oh,” she said aloud. “Oh. No.”
Lizzie lay covered and surrounded by a blackness that soaked the sheets, the coverlet, and the pillow. Her eyes protruded, devoid of sensibility. A dark gash gaped at her throat—a second mouth, laughing up at Zelda.
Zelda stepped back, and her foot trod on something hard, unforeseen. She looked down and saw a knife, equally dark.
The import of her situation struck with the force of a slashing cut across her consciousness.
She whirled around, looking for someone hiding in the shadows, someone who would have placed her in this predicament: covered with Lizzie’s blood, alone with the knife that killed her, in a room locked from the outside.
Am I dreaming? Shivering, she grabbed the shawl crumpled in a soiled puddle on the rug. As she pulled it tight around her, something clicked, a rattle of wood.
Her hand ran mechanically over the fuzzy white wool and closed on a string of beads. She pulled. The object tore free of the grasping fibers. It was a small, white necklace—a few large beads separated at regular intervals by smaller ones. A small white cross dangled from the loop, little shiny figure of Jesus spread upon it. The image of death almost made her drop it. Instead, she gripped harder. It wasn’t a dream! Someone was here.
Tucking the object in her pocket, she moved more confidently to the window. The latch was still in place, the glass intact.
Next, she tried the doorknob. Still locked from the outside, and she with no key. Only now, when she released her grip, the knob was covered with her own handprint, etched in blood. She roughly scrubbed at her hand with the hem of the shawl and cast frantically about the room, ever avoiding the grizzly spectacle of Lizzie’s dead and mutilated body on the bed.
It wasn’t a ghost! It was someone real, but how…?
She tried to remember the moments before her assailant pinned her to the chair and forced the cloth over her face, and darkness descended. She remembered the bed jolting away above her. Nothing unusual there. The creaking of the settling house. Creaking. Like footsteps tiptoeing across the floor.
It had been behind her, she was pretty sure. She moved to the far wall and tentatively touched the gold striped wallpaper then traced its length with her shaking finger. A painting. A chest of drawers. Another high-backed chair. Flo’s washstand. A big old clothespress.
Zelda stopped, then slowly backtracked and narrowed her eyes at the wall between the washstand and the armoire. She touched the thin, vertical line, the small bump of a break in the march of gold striped up and down, from ceiling to floor.
Was it a wallpaper seam, or the thin, almost invisible line of a hidden panel in the wall?
Miss Flo, in cahoots with a panel thief?
A confusion of voices outside the room interrupted her discovery; the turn of the key in the lock was like the rattle of a snake.
Zelda spun around just as the door flew open.
Molly stood, lantern in hand, with Doc Cramer beside her, his stovepipe hat a dead giveaway.
The lantern light threw a ghostly yellow cast over the blood-splashed bed and floor. Molly gasped. The light swung wildly. “Jesus!”
A muffled exclamation from Doc, who moved swiftly to the bed. “What have we here?”
Zelda stood, pinned by the light to the wall. “I didn’t do it!” Her voice sounded shaky and unconvincing, even to her. “Someone came into the room. Put a cloth on my face, knocked me out.”
“You little bitch!” Molly’s lamp swung wildly as she moved into the room. “You always had it in for Lizzie. She was alive when I left her with you. The door was locked. You killed her!”
Zelda, propelled by fear, went to Molly. “I didn’t! Someone got into the room, they put something over my face, knocked me out. Then, I woke up. Lizzie was dead!”
Molly stepped back, Zelda’s fear reflected on her own face. Zelda realized how crazy that all sounded, with her standing there, covered in Lizzie’s blood, the knife on the floor behind her.
“Molly! I’d not kill anyone, ever!”
Molly retreated even further into the hallway. Zelda followed her out, intent on making her listen.
Her arm was grasped from behind, and she heard Doc’s voice, usually calm and jovial, now serious and without humor. “Young lady, you best wait with me. Miss Molly, we need to involve an officer of the law and determine what happened here. I will humbly offer my services to the coroner. Perhaps while I detain this young lady, you can—”
The front door opened down the hallway. Zelda felt a puff of cold air on her cheek. Then, she heard the gruff voice of The Hatchet.
Terror tore through her. She had a sudden vision of herself behind bars, her father on the other side, shock, disappointment, disbelief crushing his features.
Zelda violently twisted away with a strength she didn’t know she had. The shawl was left behind, dangling in Doc’s grasp, shed like an unwanted skin. She shoved at Molly, knocking her against the wall with a crash that rattled the statue of Aphrodite facing Flo’s bedroom door.
Zelda gathered handfuls of skirts in both hands and sprinted to the back of the brothel. She hesitated at the back door, knobless and braced with nails pounded into the fire-weakened exterior walls. Using hands and a shoulder, she shoved the door hard. The nails and boards holding the door to the charred exterior had been meant to keep intruders from getting in, not a desperate soul from getting out. The door smashed open, bits of wood spraying.
Zelda raced out through the ruined mudroom and into the pre-dawn alley.
Chapter Twenty-five
Zelda stopped on the threshold of her family’s cabin, panting. She pushed on her side, trying to stop the painful stitch pounding beneath the corset and ignore her screaming toes in the too-tight boots. Watching her breath form and melt in the almost freezing air, she tried to bring her disorganized thoughts into some kind of order.
Molly or someone is sure to tell Flo I kilt Lizzie. And Flo’ll kill me if’n the police don’t get to me first. Why does Flo care so much about her? She’s nothing but a whore. It’s not like they’re kin or anything.
A sinking in the pit of her stomach told her that she was missing something. That for some reason or purpose she couldn’t fathom, the whole of God’s wrath was going to be visited on her for something she didn’t even do. But it didn’t matter the whys and wherefores. Zelda knew that she had to find a way out of town. Or, given that it was inching onto daylight, a place to hide for a while until she could figure how to sneak out.
Reuben’s always at me about runnin’ away and gettin’ married. But I don’t want to leave Pa here. It’d just be him and the idiot twins.
The thought of her father being at the mercy of her two brothers twisted her guts more painfully than the stitch in her side.
She opened the reluctant door as quietly as she could. The overpowering smell of rotgut liquor hit hard. She tiptoed in and paused by the two snoring, farting lumps by the stove, trying to decide which twin to trust.
She finally settled on Zeke, as he had always been the one, m
ore so than Zed, to being tractable to taking orders and who tended to show more dutiful obedience to their pa.
Zelda leaned down, whispered “Zeke!” and put a quick hand over his mouth. A muffled snort and a quick thrash were her reply. She avoided the swinging arm and whispered, more urgently, “Zeke. It’s Zelpha. I’m in big trouble. Now don’t you yell none, I’m gonna take my hand away.”
The thrashing stilled. She could just make out the gleam of his open eyes in the pre-dawn light. She tentatively removed her hand, and he sat up, whispering, “Zel! What’s goin’ on?”
She waved away the powerful fumes emanating from him. “One of Flo’s girls, Lizzie, got kilt. And they think I did it.”
“Hol-y fuck-in’—”
“Shhhh! Lissen, I need somewheres to hide. And I need you t’ keep quiet about this. I hope no one comes up here, but please, if they do, don’t let ’em question Pa. It’d break his heart if he learnt about me at Flo’s.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll do what I can. What about your lover-boy?”
She thought about Reuben. “I gotta tell him. Jeez, maybe he oughta go with me. If the law comes up here and sees him…”
“Hey, they’s gonna be innerested in you, not him.”
She bit her lip, not convinced. “Maybe.”
“Asides, without you workin’, we’re gonna need ev’ry cent—his and our’n—to keep us in grits,” pointed out Zeke. “Shit! Who’s gonna make the grits?”
“Don’t worry ’bout that now. Just…where kin I hide?”
“I got the place. The closed-down shaft over yonder. Y’know, the one we’re diggin’ through. You kin use that rickety ladder, and you got two ways in or out. Here in the shack, or through the shaft.”
Zelda frowned. The thought of going underground made her skin crawl. “I don’t like closed-in places, Zeke. Asides, how do I get out through the hole in the shack floor if someone comes down the ladder? The entrance is under my trunk, and I’d have t’ pound and holler.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll fix it. I’ll move your trunk and set a board an’ that rug there instead so’s you can move it easy. Asides, it’s only for a couple days. I’ll betcha no one’s gonna care ’bout what’s-her-name. Liz? I’ll go into town and keep an ear out. If I don’t hear any business about it, you kin clear town. Mebbe set up a crib in Denver and you kin send us money?” he sounded hopeful.
“That’s a ways down the road, Zeke. Just help me hide for now. I don’t want Zed knowing about this.” She stepped over Zed’s unconscious form to reach the tin box that served as their pie safe. Taking a rag from the meager pile of clean cloths, she stifled the small voice of conscience—who’ll do the wash whilst I’m gone?—wrapped up a few hard-as-rocks biscuits, some cheese and jerked meat, and grabbed the long kitchen knife.
Zeke stopped her. “Here.” He thrust his bowie knife into her hand, sheath straps dangling. “Take this pig sticker. You kin use it for the biscuits or if’n there are rats.”
She recoiled.
“Naw, just kiddin’, Zel. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of ya.” There was a new note of authority in Zeke’s whisper, a brotherly tenderness Zelda couldn’t recall having heard before.
“Lookee here.” Warm wool, redolent of Zeke, settled on her shoulders. “Take my coat. It ain’t so cold for me. I’ll bring more clothes later. And here’s my canteen.” He handed her a leather flask. The material felt damp and sticky at the same time to her fingers.
“Let’s go, afore the cock crows,” he added.
He opened the door. A slice of dawn slid in through the crack.
Hugging food and water to her chest, praying that she’d done the right thing in trusting this brother and that no harm would come to her family as a result of her bad luck, Zelda slipped out the door and followed Zeke.
Chapter Twenty-six
Inez rolled over in bed, yawning, and placed her hands over her eyes, pressing down on the lids. She willed herself to slide back down into slumber. It’s too early. Beside her, Reverend Sands stirred and flung one arm across her, pulling her close. She allowed herself to snuggle against his shoulder, nose to warm skin. If only this moment could last forever.
But of course, it could not.
Sands stirred again. His arm slid away. She heard the hiss of sheets as he slid out from underneath them and the creak of floorboards as he moved about the room, gathering his clothes from the bedpost, the chair, the washbasin. A few minutes later, he sat on the edge of her bed, already dressed in drawers and trousers.
“What’s the hurry, Reverend?” Inez reached over to trail one finger down his spine.
“No sermon to deliver, but one to prepare before joining the Grants and their party for this Saturday’s tours.” He pulled his undervest on. Inez’s hand crept beneath the hem. She rested her hand on his back, feeling the muscles stretch and flex as he bent to draw up stockings, pick up a shoe.
“Command performance with the Grants?” she inquired. “And I’d assume that includes Governor Pitkin, the Routts, the Wesleys, the Tabors, and so on? You move in high circles, Reverend. Please pass along my salutations. I’ll stand the gentlemen to drinks on the house should any care to amble into the Silver Queen at some time during their visit. Goodness knows, Doc insisted I buy great quantities of Old Crow in honor of the general’s visit. I’ll even erect a plaque to commemorate the spot where they stand at the bar.” She pulled herself closer to him, curling around him. Her hand circled around and crept down to the front of his trousers. “Speaking of standing erect…”
She heard an intake of breath, held for a moment in deliberation, then released in surrender.
She smiled to herself as a shoe thumped on the rug.
“And there goes my carefully constructed schedule for the morning.” He twisted around to face her in the dark. “The spirit moves me to consider delivering an extemporaneous sermon on Sunday. Perhaps you might help me pick a verse to build a homily upon, since this change of plans can be laid directly at your door.”
He bent down and kissed her as she put both hands to work undoing the buttons on his dress trousers.
“Hmmm.” Inez lifted her throat as his mouth left hers and proceeded along the line of her neck. “I’m not as quick with the Bible as you are, but I’ve always found the Song of Solomon particularly moving.” She slid his trousers off, hooking her fingers to remove his long underwear as well.
“You could start with, ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth,’” she said.
He complied, pulling Inez up and resting her back against the brass rails of the bedstead. The thin, intervening quilt that separated them slithered down to her lap. “‘For thy love is better than wine.’” He whispered the words into her ear.
A convulsive shiver raced over her skin.
He continued, hand tracing the contours of one breast. “‘We will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will remember thy love more than wine.’”
“You skipped some,” she said, near breathless.
“I’m focusing on my favorite parts.”
“Ah. Well. In that case. ‘Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon.’ And speaking of flocks, lambs and so on, have you…?”
He reached over to the spindle-legged table that served as a bed stand. She heard the crinkle of waxed paper as he extracted a French envelope from its wrappings. She draped her arms around him, pressed herself to his back. It was as if their skin had melded, leaving no boundaries between her flesh and his.
Inez sighed in satisfaction and anticipation as he finished his preparations.
Breaking from her grasp, he turned and gently lay her back down on the featherbed, saying “‘O thou fairest among women, go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock.’”
He settled above her and whispered in her ear: “‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair.’”
At this point, she could no longe
r bring to mind much of anything about the Bible, much less the Song.
Finally: “‘I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go.’”
He answered, “‘Thou hast ravished my heart.’”
After that, there were no more words.
***
“I have a favor to ask of you, my love.”
Inez opened one eye. The early morning light pierced her sight like a dagger. She closed it again and rolled to face the opposite direction, the direction of the reverend’s voice.
“You mean a favor besides the one I have granted you in letting you keep an extra set of clothes here, and allowing you to leave your evening wear here, so that the good folk of Leadville don’t see you strolling home at this hour still dressed for last night’s reception?”
“Yes, Inez. A favor in addition to that one.” Reverend Sands sounded amused.
She opened her eyes. Once again, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his shoes.
“And what favor is that, pray tell, minister of my heart?”
Sands stood, moved to the washstand, poured water from the pitcher into the washbowl. “In addition to preparing my sermon this morning, my plans had included running an errand of mercy.”
“Well, you asked for my help with the sermon. I trust that my suggestions and offerings were acceptable?”
He turned and smiled at her. “Very.”
It was amazing how that smile could make her feel like the only woman on earth. Eve to his Adam. Until, of course, he smiled at other women. Jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.
“Pardon? Did you say something?” He paused from splashing water on his face and turned toward her quizzically.
“Just thinking aloud, coming up with a closing line for your sermon: ‘For love is strong as death.’ There you go. Homily completed. So, what is this errand of mercy you’d like me to run?”
He unhooked a towel to dry his face. “I was planning to drop by the jail, give Flo a copy of the Good Book, and deliver some kind words and encouragement. I thought I’d also find out who she’s left in charge at her house, see if there’s anything the women need after the fire, and encourage them to attend services tomorrow.”