by Roxy Harte
Painted Lady
Roxy Harte
Painted Lady
Copyright © February 2010 by Roxy Harte
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eISBN 978-1-60737-515-9
Editor: Maryam Salim
Cover Artist: Anne Cain
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Chapter One
Overland Route, Utah Territory 1859
Lucy Bowman thrust a shovel into the dirt. I will never get married. Ever! A tear slipped down her face—not because she was particularly fond of Oliver Kraus, but because Emma had loved her husband and Lucy loved Emma. So now Emma's heart was breaking, and her pain had become Lucy's.
“That's deep enough, girl. We can't hold up this train all day.”
She ignored the man's shout and kept digging. She certainly wouldn't leave Ollie half buried, as much as he'd been a man and troublesome as they come. He'd been a good master to her. He'd allowed her to continue her studies from Emma's books; he'd allowed her to sleep in the main house. When he'd first mentioned wanting to emigrate to California, he'd promised her she'd be free there. A year earlier slavery had been outlawed within its boundaries, following miners' fears of slave labor emptying the mines of gold for wealthy landowners.
She'd been born a slave and could imagine no other life.
Freedom seemed an impossible dream, but one Emma had always wanted for her. What would she do? Who would she be? Most days she thought she didn't need to know the answers to those questions.
She and Emma had pretended they were sisters most of their lives. Since Lucy's mother had been the kitchen slave, they'd been together almost from the day Lucy'd been born. Emma was six years older than she was, and from the stories Emma had shared with her, the first few years of her life she'd been Emma's living doll. She'd dress her and feed her and play with her for hours on end. Once Lucy was older, she'd begun to teach her to read and write. The one thing Emma had never done was treat her how she saw other slaves treated, and for that she would always be loyal to Emma. Even if she got her freedom one day, she couldn't imagine life without Emma in it.
The wagon master, Seamus MacFarland, grabbed her shoulder. “I said enough.” His accent was so heavy that she didn't understand the words, but his meaning was clear enough.
She wished suddenly she were a man, a white man for certain, so that when she slammed her fist into his face, there wouldn't be anything he could do to stop her. As it was, she tangled in her long skirts while trying to climb out of the two-foot hole and landed on her face, not even getting in a solid swing. She pushed up on her arms but was so exhausted, she fell back down against the dirt for just a moment's respite. The men ignored her, moving around her to lay out Ollie's body. One of the men, not the wagon master but perhaps one of his scouts, kicked her leg. “Finish it. Soon as he's covered, we pull out.”
She'd learned early into the trip to avoid both the wagon master and his scouts. They were completely without morals. They believed an unattached woman, an unmarried woman had no rights at all, and if they said, Lie back and spread your legs, that better be what you did, or you'd find yourself knocked senseless. She shivered, remembering the first scout she'd crossed paths with. She didn't know his name; she only knew his mouth tasted of whiskey and his body smelled like dead fish. He'd kissed her, sticking his nasty tongue in her mouth. Thank God he hadn't had time to do more than run his filthy hands over her body. Ollie had plucked her out of his grasp and left the man no doubt she belonged with him and that no one else could lay claim to her.
Afterward Ollie had made the claim fact. “If you are mine completely, I'll be able to protect you. Lay still, relax, and be very quiet. I won't hurt you.”
He'd lied; it had hurt, but only the first time.
She'd never told Emma; she couldn't upset her dearest friend in the world by opening her eyes to the true scoundrel her husband was. She'd seen the way he'd been looking at her ever since her breasts had popped out. He'd just never been bold enough to do more before that night. She guessed that seeing her breasts exposed and the dark, soft mat of hair between her legs had brought out his baser side. With a heavy sigh, Lucy picked herself up. She'd learned early on there was no respect for the living or dead crossing the plains. If you could move under your own strength, you kept going; if you couldn't, you were left to die. It didn't matter how much money you had greased the wagon master's pockets with to get you onto the schedule; the trail was a great equalizer.
Lucy picked up the shovel and started scooping dirt on top of the corpse. She shook her head. Damn fool.
She'd thrown only half the dirt over his body when the wagons started moving. “Emma?” She suddenly realized Emma hadn't left the wagon to pay her respects. They couldn't leave without at least a simple graveside service. A few words at least!
Still holding the shovel, she ran toward Emma and Ollie's wagon. She grabbed the tailgate, then lifted herself and hoisted over the side while it was still moving. Lucy didn't know who was driving the oxen. Certainly not Emma—she didn't have a strong enough constitution for that.
“Emma?”
She lay sleeping under a mound of blankets. Lucy shook her, feeling suddenly how hot her skin was to the touch. “No! Oh no. Emma, you cannot be sick too. I won't allow it.” Even as she said the words, she knew there was nothing she could do. The stench of feces filled the tent, an odor so foul and filled with the smell of the sickness attacking Emma's body. Lucy knew Emma only had hours. She hurried to the front of the wagon. “Stop! Stop.”
She was glad to see one of the other women, known to her only as Alice, driving the prairie schooner. “Missus is sick. We must stop.”
“Emma too? I thought she was only exhausted by grief.” Alice looked stricken and nervous. Lucy didn't think she'd have been driving the wagon if she'd known Emma was ill.
“She would want to be buried beside her husband.”
Alice shook her head, her eyes holding fear. “We're so behind, Lucy. The wagon master will never allow another stop. Especially to wait for someone to die.”
Lucy took the reins from her and slowed the oxen. “Then go to your own wagon, and after I bury Miss Emma, I'll do what I can to catch up.”
Alice craned her neck and looked around the wagon directly in
front of them. “My husband's got our team just ahead. If I walk quickly, I'll be able to catch up, but are you certain?”
“I have to do right by them. They've been so good to me.”
“I'll try to get Samuel to lag a bit behind as well; hopefully no one will notice for a while if you stop.” She grasped her shoulders. “Don't give them an excuse to hurt you.”
Lucy let out a shuddering sigh. “Oh they'll notice, but I'll face whatever consequences I must to see Miss Emma buried by her husband.” She hoped her bravery got her through what she must do.
Alice climbed from the front of the wagon and disappeared into the cloud of dust made by the wagons leading the way. The blue gingham dress she was wearing was no longer bright and cheerful, but rather a dingy gray. Lucy looked down at her own dress. Once it had been bright yellow; now, after wading muddy creeks and hours of treading prairie dust, she wasn't sure what color it was, but it certainly wasn't yellow. God, she missed color—yellow and blue, red most of all—if she escaped the prairie alive, she was going to find a way to earn a dark scarlet dress.
Lucy wiped her sweaty hands on her knees, leaving more streaks. She irritated herself when her mind wandered to things of so little importance.
She slowed the team, then turned them and drove slowly back to the spot in the road where she'd just laid Ollie to rest. She didn't want to face the horror she knew she would in the back of the wagon. Taking a deep breath for bravery, Lucy parted the curtain and climbed in. She'd seen death come often enough to know the look of it. Emma wasn't long for this world. It made her sad, but there wasn't a thing she could do about it.
“Emma! Wake up, darlin' girl. I've got Ollie laid out real nice. You want to show your respect, don't you?”
Emma weakly rolled her head, her eyeballs showed mostly white as she tried her best to look toward Lucy. She whispered, “My husband's dead.”
“Yes. Now come on. We need to get you to the graveside so you can say your good-byes.”
“I'm dying, Lucy. I know it's true.”
Lucy's heart lurched in her chest. She didn't want to believe it. Lucy wanted to hold on to the hope she'd rally around. “Emma, I don't want to hear that kind of talk.”
“We need to face facts, child.” Emma's voice rasped, her mouth so dry that it was hard for Lucy to make out her words. “I won't be able to protect you.”
Lucy's lip quivered.
“You have to survive. No. Matter. What. I know it will be hard. No one ever promised being a woman would be easy, and a Negro woman alone? I can't even begin to imagine the hardships you'll face.” Her gaze locked on Lucy's as she demanded, “Just survive.”
A tear slid down Lucy's cheek as she helped Emma sit up. “Sh-h, save your strength.”
“What's mine is yours now, Lucy. Everything. It's the least I can do for you.”
The entire back side of Emma's dress was wet through where she'd been lying in her own filth. “I'm going to help you. I want you to say good-bye to your husband, and then we are going to California together.”
Lucy kept her arm looped around her waist, dropped the gate, and eased her to the side, where she laid her down gently. Climbing out of the wagon, she saw riders heading toward her in a cloud of dust. Damn it. “Help me, Emma.” She rolled her over so her legs hung over the side, then caught her under her arms and hauled her out. Emma's weight fell against her, taking them both down hard against the ground. The air left her lungs in a whoosh. “Oh God, Emma, help me.”
Miraculously Emma rolled off her chest, allowing her to stand. Lucy dragged Emma to the grave site and, once there, decided what a horrible idea this had been. The man was only half covered with dirt. His left foot and right hand clearly stuck out of the grave.
If Emma noticed, she didn't say. Lucy looked at her and saw her eyes were closed. She was blindly reaching for Ollie's grave. She found his hand, grabbed onto it, and held it tightly. “I'm coming to join you, darling. I'm coming.”
Three horses rode in hard, spraying dirt across Lucy and Emma when they reined in. Lucy covered her face with her arm, trying to breathe and not choke on the dust.
“Damnation, what were you thinking?” MacFarland reached down, grabbed her by her hair, and pulled her to her feet.
“Emma needed to be buried with her husband.” She tried to escape his grasp.
“She's alive, ain't she?”
“Yes, but barely. I'll stay here with her. We'll be no further trouble to you.”
“Hell you will. I'll see a pretty penny for your hide.” He pushed her toward one of the scouts. “Don't let her out of your sight.”
The man chuckled and hoisted her onto his saddle. He laughed, pulling her close, but then pushed her away. “She's covered with shit.”
Lucy fell onto her hands and knees but immediately pushed herself up.
Still straddling his horse, MacFarland pushed a riding crop under her chin, forcing her face up to look at him. “That your shit, girl?”
“No.” She gasped.
“Better safe than sorry. Burn her clothes and the wagon.”
Lucy's eyes went wide. Everything Emma and Ollie owned was in that wagon. “No! You can't do that.”
The wagon master jumped down and dropped beside Emma. He held a mirror in front of Emma's nose, announcing, “She's dead.”
He stood and walked over to Lucy. “According to my contract with them, any goods that was theirs is now mine. That includes you.”
Grabbing the neckline of her dress, he ripped the cloth straight down, tearing the soiled fabric from her body. The men weren't wasting any time; flames jumped from the wagon. The trail master threw her dress into the fire.
Oh God. What now? Lucy's knees buckled. She was alone, naked. She watched the wagon burn while the two scouts buried Emma with Ollie. She couldn't think. She didn't know what to do. Emma's words burned in her ears as loudly as if she were still standing next to her. “Survive.”
* * *
Daniel Hatch saw the stalled wagon train first. What in the hell were those idiots doing? Didn't they know the Indians in this part of the country were in a real lather? The last train that had used this pass had barely made it through with any survivors at all, and he knew word had been telegraphed east; he'd seen to it himself. Damn overlanders didn't want to take the extra week to drive farther north and then loop down, even if it was safer, and the wagon masters only cared about the bottom line. How much per head, how fast? It was a dangerous combination.
His best friend, Flint, pointed to the ridge. They were Indians sure enough, looked like at least nine from this distance, maybe a few more, maybe a few less. Even from the valley floor he could see the bright feathers and paint signifying they were all dressed up for battle. Strange they hadn't rushed the wagon that was several hundred yards east of the rest. It might not seem that far, but he'd seen wagons singled out in less distance.
“You want me to talk to them?” Flint asked, indicating the war party on the ridge. He sucked his lip in before he spit tobacco in the dust.
“Nope. Let's just leave 'em alone until we see what they're up to,” he answered. “Want me to cover you while you go check on that wagon?”
“Sure. You don't want us all to go?”
He shook his head, keeping his eye on the men and horses on the ridge. He knew them, and the last time they'd crossed paths, there'd been no trouble. He ran with a ragtag crew, nine of them altogether, known as the Sidewinder Gang: six vaqueros; two white men, Flint and Sid, outlaws wanted in a dozen states for rustling; and himself, a black cowboy born and raised in Texas, who stayed mostly on the side of the law but strayed now and again. He spoke French, Spanish, and Apache fluently; the trouble was that the war party on the hill spoke none of those. The last time they'd met up, they'd traded goods with an odd mix of hand signals. Still, he trusted their reaction to his riding party more than he trusted the wagon train's. He sure didn't want to get shot at because of the color of his skin.
Flint didn't take l
ong; he was down and back in minutes. “Let's get out of here.”
“What's going on?”
“Death. I smelled it before I even got close enough to inquire.”
“Do they need help?”
“If they do, they're hiding it good. Got a naked Negro woman down there. Men are shooting dice to see who gets to keep her. Seems it's her owner they just buried—”
Without letting Flint finish, Daniel whistled, rounding up the vaqueros, and rode in, guns firing into the sky. Sure enough there was a young woman huddled against a rock, hiding as much of her nakedness as she could. Daniel pressed the barrel of his shotgun into the chest of man who seemed to be in charge. “What's going on here?”
“Nothing that's your concern.”
“I say it is my concern,” Daniel insisted. A shout went up behind him, and he knew exactly what was happening.
The three men who had been shooting dice drew weapons as they stood, but they weren't aiming at Flint or his men; they were more worried about the war party riding in hard. Daniel used the distraction to ride close to the girl, intent on rescuing her, but as soon as he dismounted, she started running, terrified.
It wasn't hard to tackle her, but it was a struggle restraining her. “Hellfire, woman. I'm trying to save you.”
She bit him, hard, but he didn't let go. Instead he grabbed his rope off his belt, tied her arms down to her sides, and threw her over the side of his horse. After mounting behind her, they were riding away from the chaos before white man or Sioux even noted their struggle.
Daniel rode south hard. His men knew where to find him if they ever separated, and the last thing on his mind was their safety. He knew they would hold their own. On the other hand, the beauty slung over his horse had his undivided attention. Sure, she was covered in filth from head to toe, but dirt wasn't enough to hide the perfection of her ebony skin, and when he'd looked into her eyes, he'd seen fire, intelligence, and a little cunning. He wouldn't be turning his back on this one anytime soon.