A Woman of Choice

by Kris Tualla

  Rickard arrived with Betsy. Nicolas left the women to care for Sydney, painfully cleaving himself from her side. He met Rickard downstairs in his study.

  “What the hell happened, Nick?”

  “You know Devin Kilbourne.”

  “The teacher?” Rickard frowned. “What about him?”

  “He was Sydney’s husband, as it turns out.” Nicolas poured them each a generous brandy, gulped his and poured another.

  “Him? Skitt.” Rickard used one of Nick’s favorite words. “Did he come for her?”

  “No.”

  “So how’d you find out?”

  “Sydney remembered, or so it appears.” Nicolas swallowed half of the second brandy. It heated his belly nicely.

  Rickard sat down, hard. “What brought it back?”

  “I don’t know. When I returned from town, she was in the stable holding a hoof-knife on him and the other fellow.” Nicolas finished that brandy and poured a third. The heat of it coursed through his limbs.

  “Other fellow?”

  “This sodomite we met in St. Louis.”

  Rickard lifted his eyebrows and waited.

  “He recognized Sydney and came to the hotel to talk to her.”

  “Did she know him?”

  Nicolas shook his head.

  “But he’s here now?”

  “Yes.” Nicolas set the flask on the desk.

  “Why?”

  Nicolas turned to Rickard. “It looks as though Kilbourne, Sydney’s husband, might be of the same… persuasion.”

  Rickard blanched. His tone carried his disbelief. “Sydney’s husband is a sodomite?”

  Nicolas finished the third brandy. “That seems to be the situation.”

  “Go easy, brother.” Rickard put his hand on the flask. “I don’t need you pissin’ drunk at this time! You’re barely making sense as it is.”

  Nicolas pulled a deep breath, capped the flask and dropped it in the desk drawer with a dull metallic clunk.

  “How did Sydney get hurt?” Rickard asked.

  “He shot her.”

  His mouth caverned. “Why?”

  Nicolas’s head fell forward, his puzzlement clear. “I don’t know. Probably because she was trying to kill him.” Then he slammed the glass down on the desk. “I need you to do something for me.”

  Rickard blinked his open-mouthed shock. Then he nodded. “Name it.”

  “I need you to go to St. Louis and see Nelson Ivarsen.”

  “Your lawyer?”

  “That’s the one. I need him to draw up a divorce decree between our Mr. Devin Kilbourne and Syd—I mean Sho-vahn—Kilbourne. Skitt!”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know her legal name.” Nicolas twisted and glanced around his study, patting his pockets. “You’ll have to visit the root cellar before you go.”

  Rickard’s eyes narrowed. “How many brandies have you had?”

  Nicolas blew an exasperated sigh. “Kilbourne. He’s in the root cellar.”

  “You’re holding him prisoner?”

  “I am. And he’ll stay there until he signs the divorce papers.”

  “So, I’m to go to the root cellar and make a list of everyone’s legal names,” Rickard reiterated as he ticked off the tasks on his fingers. “Then ride to St. Louis and get Ivarsen to draw up the decree. I bring the decree back here and Kilbourne signs it, and then you’ll let him go?”

  “That sums it up fairly well.”

  “What are the grounds?”

  Nicolas looked at Rickard; his disgust burned bitter in his mouth and roiled in his belly.

  “Infidelity. On the husband’s part.”

  Rickard nodded his agreement. “I’ll leave off the reel.”

  A measure of relief melted through Nicolas's tense frame. “Thanks, brother.”

  Rickard headed to the root cellar before riding back home to prepare for his sudden trip to St. Louis. And Nicolas headed to the stable to deal with Rodger, the infidel.

   

  When Nicolas entered the stable, Rodger lay on his back, knees up. His eyes were closed, one by choice. Nicolas approached him and intentionally towered over him.

  “Can you stand?” He gave no pretense of caring.

  Rodger’s uninjured eye opened and swiveled to regard Nicolas. He grunted.

  “That’s not an answer.” Nicolas prodded Rodger’s ribs with his large, heavy boot. “Can you stand or not?”

  Rodger rolled to his side and managed to get on his hands and knees. He pulled one foot, then the other, under him. Using the wall of the stall for support, Rodger eased himself to vertical. He turned an angry eye to Nicolas.

  “Here’s how it is.” Nicolas’s low tone spoke the threat very clearly. “You’ll leave my property now. Alone. And you’ll never return.”

  “Alone? What about Devin?”

  It required every whit of self-control Nicolas could muster to keep from pummeling Rodger again. His gut begged him to do it anyway; his hands fisted on their own and his jaw clenched.

  “I’m detaining Mr. Kilbourne for a bit.”

  “Wh—why?” There was a flicker of fear as Rodger’s open eye dropped to the drying blood on Nicolas’s shirt.

  “That’s no concern of yours.”

  Rodger glanced around the stable for a reason, a clue, a leg to stand on.

  “Go.” Nicolas indicated the stable door with a jerk of his head. “Before I do more damage.”

  “But is he alright?”

  “He?” Nicolas frowned and looked down at his shirtfront. “The blood is hers.”

  “Oh!” Rodger let out his breath. “Thank God.”

  Nicolas froze for a heartbeat, disbelieving his ears.

  “Helvetet med det!” He drove his fist so deep into Rodger’s middle that he later swore he felt the man’s backbone against his knuckles. Rodger folded in half and crashed to the ground. His attempts to breathe filled the stable with squeaking gasps.

  “John!” Nicolas bellowed out the stable door. “Come harness the wagon!” Then he turned back and spat on the floor. “I need you to drive this garbage to town.”

   

  Opium causes vivid dreams. While her nurses kept her sedated, Sydney dreamt constantly.

  In some dreams, she was a little girl back in Kentucky, riding horses with her father. She felt the wind on her face as she galloped through golden fields. She felt the thrill of fear as her steed took a high fence. She threw her arms out and she knew she was flying. She saw the farm below her.

  Sometimes she was a new bride helping to build a house in the wilderness. She smelled the pinesap as she struggled to lift logs into place and felt the burn of her overworked muscles; she tasted the salt of sweat that dripped into her mouth. Her eyes burned with the sting of wood smoke.

  At other times she dreamt of her two dead baby boys, each one pushed from her body far too soon. She felt the pains of labor tear at her core. She cried out and begged God to make it stop. She curled into a ball and screamed at her husband to leave her alone!

  And yet they emerged from her. Tiny, perfectly formed humans covered in vernix and smeared with her blood. She sobbed and held them and tried to make them breathe. When they wouldn’t, she washed them; fragile, translucent, porcelain dolls. They made her put them in boxes in the ground. She dreamt she dug them up with her hands. Bloody fingers, broken nails, rotten wood, tiny skulls.

  She screamed again.

  She dreamt of drowning. And cold. And the terror of not being able to draw a breath. She dreamt about pain. She dreamt about abandonment and confusion and being completely and utterly alone. She dreamt about black. Empty, echoing, endless black.

  July 2, 1819

  Rickard returned three days later from St. Louis, his mission complete. He said once Nelson Ivarsen understood the situation and its urgency, he meticulously drew up the decree, assuring it would be legal from all aspects.

  “It must go back to a judge after Sydney, or Siobhan, and the Kilbourn
e fellow sign it. Then it becomes final.” Rickard laid his hand on Nick’s shoulder. “I can take it back if you’d like me to.”

  “Thanks, Rick. I appreciate it. Let’s go to the root cellar and get it signed.”

  Nicolas grabbed a quill and ink in his study, and then went outside to the cellar. Rickard held the writing tools while Nicolas unlocked the door and pulled it open. The stench of the chamber pot assaulted them.

  After three days, Devin was not his previous cocky, well-put-together self. For those three days he lived in damp darkness, surrounded by barrels of flour, hanging onions and smoked meat. Once a day, John lowered him a sack of food and a jug of water. He didn’t bother to empty the chamber pot. For those three days, no one talked to him. For those three days, Devin was in the hell Nicolas created for him.

  “Come out, Kilbourne.”

  Squinting in the bright light of day, Devin climbed out of the dark cellar and wavered, blinded and disoriented. His clothes were filthy and reeked of sweat.

  “Sign this.”

  Rickard handed Devin the quill and indicated the spot.

  “What’s this?” Devin fumbled for the document.

  “A divorce decree.”

  Devin shot a nervous look at Nicolas. “On what grounds?”

  “Today it only says that you are guilty of infidelity. Don’t tempt me to change it.”

  Devin’s hand shook, but he signed his name where Rickard indicated. Nicolas checked it, then handed Rickard the signed document. Then with both hands he pulled Devin up by the front of his shirt. He pressed his face close to Devin’s. The man stank.

  “I’m asking you to leave the Territory and never come back.” Nicolas’s voice cut like steel. “If you do come back, I’ll bring you up on charges of sodomy. Do you understand me?”

  Devin jerked his head in agreement. Pungent yellow liquid pooled in the dirt beneath him.

  Nicolas twisted his hands and tightened his grip on Devin’s shirt. His eyes narrowed.

  “And if that woman upstairs dies as a result of what happened here, I’ll hunt you down and kill you both, no matter where you’ve gone to.” He let go of Devin’s shirt with a push that sent him sprawling backwards on the ground.

  “Now get out of here before I decide to stop being so nice.”

  Devin scrambled to his feet and stumbled toward the road without looking back.

  When he passed out of sight, Rickard patted Nicolas on the shoulder. His attention reclaimed, Nicolas faced his friend and allowed himself a moment of weakness.

  “Rick!” he gasped.

  “She’s strong, Nick. And she’s feisty.” His face was pale, and his normally affable personality, subdued. “I’m counting on it.”

  The men took the document upstairs to Sydney’s room and Nicolas approached the bedside.

  “Sydney? Sho-vahn?” Nicolas didn’t know which name to call her.

  “Siobhan’s dead,” she muttered without opening her eyes.

  “I’ve a document for you to sign,” Nicolas said gently. “But you have to sign it as ‘Siobhan Bell Kilbourne,’ can you do that?” Addie helped him prop her up. She whimpered in pain as her shoulder changed position.

  “Stop…please,” she whimpered. “I’ll be good.”

  Rickard put his hand on Nicolas shoulder. “If she makes any mark at all, then you and I could witness it as her signature. Will that do?”

  “With two witnesses who aren’t related to her it would be legal. Good thinking, Rick.”

  Nicolas put the quill in Sydney’s hand and held it to the parchment in the right spot. “Sign your name and Siobhan can go away. You can be Sydney.”

  That seemed to make sense to the injured woman. She blinked her eyes open and focused, squinting, on the paper. Nicolas supported her arm and she scribbled, Siobhan B. Kilbourne.

  It was barely legible.

  But it was completely legal.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  July 4, 1819

  It was past midnight on the fifth night. Nicolas sat by Sydney’s bed to watch her sleep, and assure himself that her chest continued to rise and fall. She perspired and that was good. Fevered since she was shot, her three nurses forced her to swallow cooled tea or water whenever they could.

  Nicolas’s head jerked. He rubbed his stubbled face hard with both hands and combed his fingers through his hair. He stood and stretched, reaching toward the high ceiling. When he sat down again he was startled to see Sydney’s open eyes. He peered at her to determine if she was in her right mind.

  “Thirsty…” It was barely a whisper. She winced as he lifted her, but she drank the cooled tea. Nicolas lowered her back onto the mattress. Sydney frowned at him.

  “I signed a paper?” she croaked.

  “It was your divorce decree.”

  “How?”

  “Rickard rode to St. Louis and had Nelson Ivarsen draw it up for me. For you, I mean.”

  “Devin?”

  “I kept him here until Rickard came back. It took a couple of days. He signed it willingly enough.”

  Sydney lifted her left hand a few inches off the mattress. “Couple days?”

  “Tonight is the fifth night since…” Nicolas’s voice trailed off.

  Sydney dropped her hand and closed her eyes. Nicolas thought she slept again, but her eyes opened.

  “Devin. Where?”

  “I told him to leave the Territory and never come back or I’ll have him charged with sodomy.” Nicolas thought it best not to reveal the accompanying duel death threat.

  “I’m alone.”

  Nicolas didn’t know how to answer her, so he just stroked the back of her hand. For a long time she focused on something not in the room.

  Then Sydney reached toward Nicolas. Her fingertips brushed his shirtfront and she grasped at it.

  “Tell me… about Lara.”

  “No, Sydney. Not now.” That was the last thing he wanted to think about.

  She struggled to swallow. Nicolas lifted the cup of tea to her lips. After she drank, Sydney tightened her grip.

  “Need to know.” Her eyes glittered with fever and desperation. “Please.”

  “Sydney, this isn’t the time. Perchance when you’re better?”

  “No!” Tears welled and she held onto his shirt. “Tell me. How it was.”

  Nicolas acquiesced, in spite of his oppressive misgivings. “As long as you’re awake, I’ll talk. But if you fall asleep I’ll not wake you. Is that clear?”

  Sydney let go of Nicolas’s shirt. He understood that to mean she agreed. He ran both hands through his hair. “Where should I start?”

  “Married.”

  “I loved her, of course. When I asked for her hand in marriage, it was expected. We were married about three months later. Is this what you wanted to hear?”

  Sydney’s half-opened eyes stayed focused on his. She moved her hand to his arm. “Tell me about after.”

  “After?”

  “The babies.”

  “Å min Gud.” The recollection was imbedded, undiminished, in his core. “I couldn’t believe it. I was in shock.”

  “Yes…”

  “I kept thinking it must be a mistake.” Denial and realization had taken turns tormenting him during those surreal days. “I wanted to turn back time and have things come out differently.”

  “Yes…”

  “When I sat in the room with her body, I saw all of my expectations just disappear.” As he spoke, Nicolas held up one hand, fingers cupped. He turned it over as though everything he held, including his very existence, was poured out.

  “Yes…” Tears dripped down Sydney’s cheeks.

  Nicolas stared at Sydney’s hand on his arm, but he didn’t see it. His jaw relaxed, his breathing slowed. He stilled. “It seemed that my own life was taken from me.”

  Silence. Then a whispered, “Yes.”

  “I had no future, no life to live.”

  “Yes.”

  With a shock that jolted him back to
the present, he realized why Sydney responded ‘yes’ to all that he said. He defined how she felt right now.

  “Oh, Sydney.”

  Her eyes were dark and her pupils dilated with fever. Her only movement was the slow rise and fall of her chest. She closed her eyes.

  Nicolas lifted her hand from his arm and kissed it. Her skin was hot and her palm calloused from tack leather, but he felt her steady pulse. He thought she fell back to sleep.

  Then she opened her eyes and pegged him with a look so intense that he held his breath. His soul collided with hers. “What do you choose?” she whispered.

  “Choose?”

  “Life or death.”

  Nicolas shook his head, honestly confused. “What you are asking?”

  “Which one?”

  Nicolas felt like he should know, but he didn’t. “I don’t understand, Sydney.”

  “Yes, you do.” Sydney stopped to catch her breath before she continued. “Since Lara died, you haven’t chosen.”

  Nicolas frowned. Comprehension clambered up his spine and dug into his skull. His heart screamed at her to stop.

  “Choose now.” Sydney’s challenge was almost too soft to hear. But he did hear her. And she was right.

  “Do you still love me?” he hedged.

  “I don’t matter.”

  The possibility that she might no longer love him, now that she knew herself, her history and her husband, offset Nicolas’s center. How could he step through that door without knowing?

  “But, Sydney—”

  “Choose.”

  She cornered him. He needed to make a decision and it had to be his own. Not for anyone else, and not because of anyone else.

  Strained by days of worry and physically exhausted, Nicolas lost the ability to corral his emotions. He dropped his head on the bed and succumbed to his pain. Face pushed into the mattress, he muffled his sobs.

  Nicolas had no idea how much time passed before his grief was emptied, but he felt it pouring out. Black and jagged, it ripped him, bled him, drained him. But it could not kill him. A thick fog lifted. Light moved in, faint at first. Gray, lavender, pink. A sunrise in his soul.