Badlands

by Melissa Lenhardt

  “Yes. I saw the scene on the platform. How did you hear about it?”

  “Gabe went shooting his mouth off down at the Jug. Don’t take long for news to travel in Grand Island. To answer your first question, I don’t know. You’d think so, but she is ugly as a mud fence. ’Course, not many a man around here’ll want to take her, being as Gabe rejected her.” She gazed off in the middle distance, and her mouth turned down. “Those who will would give her a hard life.” She shook her thoughts away, smiled thinly, and said, “Well.” She bundled my clothes beneath one arm and went to the door. “These’ll be ready in the morning.”

  “Thank you. Would you do me a favor?” Martha’s eyes narrowed, as if afraid I was about to take advantage of her. “Would you take the laudanum away?” I nodded at the laudanum sitting on the dresser.

  “Don’t you need it?”

  I want it, desperately. I inhaled sharply and ignored the throbbing in my head, the thrumming beneath my skin, the alternating hot and cold sweats. But the pain in my abdomen was thankfully gone. “No. I’m feeling much better.”

  “Suit yourself.” She picked up the bottle and closed the door behind her.

  I leaned my head back against the edge of the tub, closed my eyes, and thought of my father, Matthew Bennett. My dear sweet father whose last months had been spent in an opiate haze, trying and failing to rid himself of the chronic pain that was a result of his injury in the war. How my patience had run thin with his addiction until, with the hubris of youth and inexperience, I finally told him precisely what I thought of his weakness. He’d died not long after, without my ever having the opportunity to apologize, to tell him how much I admired him, how I wanted to become a doctor to be like him, that my anger and shame was born of the loss of my dream of working in a practice together. I’d refused to give him any quarter and now here I was, seven years later, beset by the cravings that tortured him and finally killed him.

  “Forgive me, Papa.” I took a shaky breath. “Help me.”

  The quiet room taunted me. There was no one to help me. I was alone.

  As best as I could figure it had been three days, at most, since Kindle had been arrested on the steamboat and Rosemond “saved” me from John Lyman. Between the concussion the boatman had given me on the Mississippi and the pain-fueled opiate haze, the ensuing days were a blur of impressions instead of memories.

  I held out my hand and stared at the thin silver ring on my left hand. My wedding ring, the only thing Kindle had left of his beloved mother. I closed my eyes against the memory of my recent conversation with Rosemond. It was only natural my dream would go to my profession first. I’d spent many more years becoming a doctor and practicing as a doctor than I’d known Kindle. Of course he was part of my ideal future. Who was to say I couldn’t have a family and a profession? I opened my eyes. Society, for one. Most assuredly, the Wanted poster that followed me. Possibly Kindle.

  Where was he? What was he doing? Had he been tried and convicted or found not guilty and released? I had no idea how slow the gears of military justice worked. Kindle could be forgotten in a damp cell for months for all I knew. Or he could be on his way to find me this moment, and find me he would.

  He could have been convicted, shot, and buried by now as well.

  No. I couldn’t think it. Wouldn’t think it. He must have friends in the Army who could help him, testify for him. He was well respected by his superiors, his peers, and his men. He would not be executed.

  I shook the thoughts from my mind, sat up, and lathered the thin rag Martha had given me. It would feel good to be clean again, though how clean I would get was difficult to determine. The water in the tub was dingy with dirt and blood from my unwashed body. Disgusted with the idea of sitting in my own filth, I stood and accidentally caught sight of myself in the mirror across the room. The soap and rag slipped from my hand. The benefits of a healthy diet and exercise from six months at the orphanage had evaporated. My hair was lank and dirty, my skin pallid, a yellowing bruise on my forehead and purple halfmoons beneath my sunken eyes. I looked like a corpse. I felt like one, too.

  Martha Mason walked in. “These is fro—” She stopped when she saw me. I didn’t move, too entranced by the vision of the living corpse standing in front of me. Martha closed the door softly behind her, placed the clothes she held on the dresser, and came over to me. “Sit.”

  I obeyed. I pulled my knees to my chest and hugged them. Martha got the pitcher from the dresser, thankfully filled with fresh water, and poured a portion over my head. She lathered my hair and gently massaged my scalp. I pressed my eyes into my knees and tried to keep from crying. Since the fateful night James Kline found me on the snowy streets of New York City and told me I was accused of murdering one of my patients, my life had been out of my control. Whenever I’d tried to wrest control back from fate, something befell me. The snatches of happiness with Kindle were always short-lived, and followed with worse challenges, physically and mentally. Was this what my life was going to be? Lurching from tragedy to tragedy, the moments of happiness being subsumed by heartbreak and misfortune? What happiness would I find if Kindle wasn’t with me?

  “This isn’t me.”

  Martha poured water over my head and didn’t reply. She toweled my hair somewhat roughly and draped it over my shoulders. She lifted my left arm, studied the burn scars. Her eyes drifted to my right hand, slightly deformed despite having almost full range of motion back. “The West ain’t for the faint of heart, and that’s a fact. You faint of heart?”

  “I never thought so.”

  “You look it.” She stood and went to the chest where my new clothes lay. “Miss High and Mighty says she’s your sister. That true?”

  I thought of Rosemond’s threat of abandonment and destitution. What would Martha do if I told the truth? Would she give me money to return to Saint Louis? What would Rosemond do if confronted about kidnapping me? Would she reveal who I was? Have me sent back to New York City?

  Martha narrowed her eyes. Was this a test? I wouldn’t put it past Rosemond to pay Martha to test my loyalty. Somehow I knew if I was found wanting, being sent back to New York City would be the best option, and therefore the one Rosemond would be least likely to choose.

  “Yes, she’s my sister. How did you come to be in Grand Island, Nebraska, Martha?” I asked, eager to divert her attention.

  “I was a catalog woman myself. Thought I was getting a grand hotelier. Came out in sixty-seven and discovered it was a dirty tent, but we made it work. ’Course, I did the work and Ed takes the credit and the money. Built this in sixty-eight when the traffic got steady.”

  “You’ve been here five years?”

  “Feels like ten.” Martha sighed.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Would you like living in this godforsaken place?”

  “Probably not.”

  “There you go. Here’re your clothes. Come on down for dinner.”

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  Martha nodded, shrugged, and left.

  I dressed in the scratchy, cheap mourning attire—Rosemond’s idea of a joke, no doubt—and ran my fingers through my hair as best I could. I opened the drawer to see if there was a forgotten comb or brush and saw something more useful.

  For the first time since being separated from Kindle, I smiled.

  CHAPTER

  3

  I stood at the top of the stairs and surveyed the Grand Island Hotel, remembering almost a year earlier when I’d stood at the top of similar stairs and caught sight of Kindle in full dress uniform, handsome and dashing. The admiration in Kindle’s eyes when he took in my blue silk gown.

  You look ravishing.

  I shook my head to clear the memory. I patted my hair and looked down at my current dress, which hung on me like a forgotten coat on a hall tree. No one would call me ravishing now. Rosemond would be put together exquisitely, like high-priced whores are wont to do, and I would look the dependent relative I pretended to
be. I straightened my shoulders, trying to stop my body from trembling from opiate withdrawals. I pressed my hand into my stomach against the nausea. After my bath I tried to eat one of the sandwiches Rosemond had purchased, but my stomach rebelled and I vomited it up. It would take enormous willpower to not do the same at the dinner table. The paper stuffed inside my sleeve crinkled. I pushed it farther up my arm and held the edge of the sleeve closed in my palm. The last thing I needed was for Rosemond to find my letter.

  Cora walked through the hotel front door and looked around. I waved and caught her eye, and motioned for her to come up the stairs. I went back down the hall, out of sight of the entryway, and waited.

  Cora’s shoulders and hat were wet from rain, and she smelled of mildew. “Laura?” She untied the ribbon holding her bonnet on and removed it, splattering water onto the floor.

  I peeked down into the entryway. “Did you see Rosemond in the dining room?”

  “I didn’t look.” She smoothed her red wiry hair, without success in taming it.

  I pulled the letter from my sleeve and held it out to Cora. “Will you mail this for me?”

  Cora’s brows furrowed. “Why not ask your sister?” Her emphasis on the last word made me know she wasn’t buying our story for a second. Still, I continued with the lie.

  “It’s to my husband’s family. Rosemond would refuse.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter? Just know she won’t do it for me. She likes having me completely under her thumb. Please?” I hated her a little for making me beg.

  Cora reluctantly took the letter and put it in her bag.

  “Thank you.” I glanced down the stairs and saw Rosemond come around the corner. I leaned into Cora. “Hold me up.”

  Rosemond’s expression was one of concern. She called up to us. “Laura, are you all right?”

  Pretending to be feeble wasn’t difficult. “Just weak is all. Cora saw me and came to help.”

  “She’s always there when you need her,” Rosemond said. Cora tensed. I squeezed her arm in warning.

  At the bottom of the stairs Rosemond took my other arm. I pulled away from both her and Cora. “Thank you, but I will walk on my own power.”

  Rosemond shrugged, and let her gaze travel to Cora. “Whatever do you have in that carpetbag?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why didn’t you leave it in your room?”

  Cora’s face reddened. “I like to keep it with me.”

  “Indeed.” Rosemond took in Cora’s sodden appearance like a wolf sizing up its next meal. “Martha found you. Invited you to dinner with us?”

  “Yes, thank you for the invitation. It was … unexpected.”

  “It’s the least I could do after you came to my sister’s aid. I hope you’re hungry. I’ve ordered us a feast. There is no way we will be able to finish it all. Come.” Rosemond slipped her arm into Cora’s and led her into the dining room, leaving me to make good on walking on my own. I did an admirable job of it, though my eyes darted around the front desk and the office behind, wondering where Martha would have put the bottle of laudanum.

  The dining room was half full, with the majority of the hotel’s guests in the saloon across the lobby. Lively piano music and men’s laughter floated through the hotel, though it did little to give the staid dining room an air of celebration. I stopped dead at the sight of the man from the brothel sitting alone at the back table, smoking a cigar, his chair tilted up on its hind legs. A thin tendril of smoke curved into the air in front of the man’s unblinking eyes.

  “Laura?”

  Rosemond touched my arm, her questioning moving from the stranger to me. I shook my head slightly and turned away from his unwavering gaze only to meet Cora’s comprehending one.

  Rosemond sat Cora across the table from her, forcing me to sit between the two, though thankfully with my back to the stranger. Rosemond had said I mentioned Kindle’s name to Cora. Did I say it to that man as well? I rubbed my sweaty palms on my skirt and tried to put the man out of my mind.

  “Wine?” Rosemond lifted the bottle in the middle of the table and tried to pour a glass for Cora. The redheaded woman placed her hand over the top. “I don’t drink.”

  “In general, or wine in particular?”

  “I do not partake of alcohol.”

  “More for us.”

  I nodded. Cheap wine gave me headaches and I was fairly confident whatever wine was to be found in Grand Island, Nebraska, would qualify as cheap. But I couldn’t be discerning. Cut-rate or not, wine might help ease my shakes. I reached out to grasp the glass but paused. I squeezed my hand into a fist, inhaled, and concentrated. I picked up the glass and brought it to my mouth, ashamed at the quiver in my hand. I gulped the wine, determined that it was indeed some of the worst wine I’d ever tasted, and set the goblet on the table. I looked up and realized Cora and Rosemond had been watching me. One with an expression of concern, one with amusement.

  “So, Cora.” Rosemond lifted her glass like a queen gesturing to her ladies-in-waiting and said, “Tell us your life story.” Rosemond drank the wine without grimacing and placed the glass on the table.

  “Oh, it’s not interesting.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure it’s scintillating.”

  Cora narrowed her eyes. Rosemond looked as if she was struggling not to laugh. Cora clasped her hands together and rested them on the edge of the table. “I grew up in Maine with an alcoholic father and consumptive mother.” Cora’s eyes flicked to me and away. “When she died the care of the children and my father fell to me, being the oldest. When they grew up, I took care of my father. He died recently, leaving me nothing more than the clothes on my back, the furnishings of the house to sell for what I could, most of which went to pay his tab at the saloons in town, and this ugly carpetbag.”

  “Well, that explains your aversion to alcohol and your attachment to the bag.” Rosemond drank deeply from her wineglass. “And how did you come to be on a train to California?”

  “I answered an ad in the paper.”

  “For?”

  The muscles in Cora’s jaw pulsed. “A teacher.”

  “Of course. In Grand Island?”

  She lifted her chin. “No, Denver.”

  “And my sister made you miss the train?”

  “Not at all.”

  “But I thought …”

  “I decided to get off at Grand Island. I’ve been on a train for a thousand miles. I wanted a day or two on solid land.”

  “And Grand Island was such a better choice than Omaha.” Cora reddened, realizing too late her lie was thin. To Rosemond’s credit, she moved on quickly. “Do you have a room in the hotel?”

  Cora paused. “No, not yet. I’ve been walking around the town.”

  Rosemond pursed her lips and nodded as if this were one of the most reasonable answers she’d ever heard. “Strolling in the rain is refreshing.” Martha Mason came to the table carrying three plates loaded with food.

  “Martha dear, this looks wonderful,” Rosemond said.

  It did, and it smelled wonderful as well. A chunk of pork roast doused with a brown gravy, lima beans in a thick white roux, collard greens, and a large slab of corn bread covered the plate completely. My mouth watered as my shaking hands picked up the utensils. Rosemond and I were digging into our food when we realized Cora had dropped her head in prayer. I glanced at Rosemond and for once our thoughts were in harmony. Neither of us had much use for God. He hadn’t done anything to help me this past year; I doubted he cared enough to grace what I was about to eat.

  The dinner was an obstacle course. The beans fell off my trembling fork and my hands were too weak to cut the roast, which was tougher than it looked. The greens were long and unwieldy and dripping with grease. I settled for picking a corner off my corn bread. It was greasy and gummy but delicious all the same. A few moments after I swallowed, my stomach cramped from the shock.

  “I have a friend,” Rosemond sai
d, picking up the previous thread of conversation, “who answered an ad in Colorado for a schoolteacher.”

  “Do you?”

  “She was married within three months.”

  “And is she happy?” Cora asked.

  “From what I gather from the one letter she sent, he isn’t completely reprehensible. She had her pick, you see, being the only single woman in a new town. She wasn’t very pragmatic. She chose the poor, principled man instead of waiting for a rich one.”

  “She married for love.”

  Rosemond laughed. “I doubt it. You seem like a pragmatic woman.”

  Cora’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “With a face like mine, I’ve had to be.”

  “Do not say that,” I said.

  Cora furrowed her brows. “Why? It’s the truth.”

  “Your only armor against other people’s insults is a belief in yourself. Agreeing with them gives away your power,” I said.

  “What power?” Cora laughed. “I am alone in the world, nearly destitute, and a woman.”

  “It didn’t stop me fr—” Rosemond kicked me under the table.

  “Cora,” Rosemond said, “are you sure you wouldn’t like some wine. A sip? To celebrate. It’s quite good.”

  Cora’s gaze traveled between the two of us. I picked a bit of corn bread and ate it, chastising myself for almost giving away my identity. “What are we celebrating?”

  “Making new friends.” Rosemond raised the wine bottle in question. Cora nodded and Rosemond splashed wine into the goblet.

  Cora drank and her face twisted in disgust. “That’s good wine?”

  “It’s not the worst I’ve ever had.” Rosemond laughed.

  Cora tilted the glass back and held it out to Rosemond, who filled it up. Cora drank again, licked her lips, and placed the glass on the table. “Laura, you look familiar. Have we met before?”

  “Not that I recall. I’ve never been to Maine,” I said.

  We all knew Cora Bayle had a memorable face. The only way she would have known me, however, was from the Wanted poster that had been dogging my feet since February last.