Cora speared a few beans on her fork and took a dainty bite. “I suppose you have one of those faces.”
“Laura would have thousands of friends if she knew everyone who said she looked familiar,” Rosemond said.
Cora studied me. “No, I’m certain I’ve seen your face before. I’m sure it will come to me. I’ve always been good with faces.”
Disappointment clouded Rosemond’s expression. With something like resignation, she motioned to Martha, who disappeared into the kitchen. Rosemond refilled her own wineglass. “I suspect you either have the money for a room or train fare, but not both.”
“Why would you think that?” Cora asked.
“You said you were practically destitute. Obviously, you’ll save it for train fare. You can’t stay here with everyone knowing your potential husband rejected you.” Rosemond cut her roast, placed a few pieces on my plate, speared my uncut portion, and put it on her plate.
Cora placed her fork and knife on the table. “How did you—” Cora’s breath caught. She wore her mortification like a second skin.
Rosemond cut my meat up and returned it to my plate. “He was talking about it in the shebang, I’m sorry to tell you. Bullock was his name, I think. It was reprehensible, and I told him as much. What kind of man promises a woman a home and marriage and reneges on the deal?”
Cora gripped the edge of the table and breathed deeply, trying to regain her composure.
Rosemond smiled at me and nodded toward the food on my plate. She treated me like an invalid, and who could blame her? I’d been acting like one. Trembling and shaking like an addict. Unsure of what she wanted of me. Destitute. Completely under her thumb.
“I understand how terrifying it is to be alone, with nothing but your own wits and body to survive,” Rosemond said.
“My body?”
“When everything else is gone, it’s the one thing of value women have. Even you would make a fair living. You wouldn’t starve, at least. I don’t want it to come to that. For you. I’ll be happy to pay for your room tonight, as well as give you extra money for your journey. We don’t have much. Most of our belongings are still on the train, but we can spare five dollars.”
I watched Cora throughout Rosemond’s speech, noting the flush crawling up her neck until it covered her face and reached her ears.
“Why?” Her voice was tight.
“I hope I never ignore another woman in need. We have so few advantages, as it is. Helping each other when we can seems the least we can do.”
Cora narrowed her eyes at Rosemond, as if trying to judge her sincerity. Her gaze traveled to me and her face softened before she averted her eyes.
“I appreciate your offer, but five dollars will do little to help.”
Rosemond’s jaw muscle pulsed and her eyes turned flinty, but her voice retained its compassion. “I do wish we could help more, but we will have to buy new tickets, pay for dinner, the room. Your room.”
Cora reached down into her carpetbag, pulled out a piece of folded paper, and placed it in the center of the table. For a moment, I thought it was the letter I gave her, until Rosemond snatched the paper, folded it over again, and put it in her lap.
“The Wanted poster?” I asked Rosemond, who nodded once but didn’t take her eyes from Cora.
“Calling the man ‘Kindle’ helped, as well as using the name Laura. You look nothing like that photo now,” Cora said, her voice soft.
I stared at my plate, jaw clenched. I didn’t want to be reminded by this woman what I’d lost.
“You want five hundred dollars,” Rosemond said, voice flat.
Eyes downcast, Cora shook her head. “They’ve updated it.”
Still keeping her gaze glued to Cora, Rosemond unfolded the paper. My head turned back and forth, watching them. Cora, mortified that she’d been reduced to extortion, and Rosemond livid and defiant at being bested by a pathetic, lonely woman. After an extended glare, Rosemond dropped her eyes to the poster. One eyebrow crooked up and she handed it to me.
I covered my mouth. “A thousand dollars, dead or alive?” I inhaled a long, shuddering breath. Before there’d been the remote chance I would be able to mount a defense in a court of law. The necessity of bringing me in alive no doubt reduced the number of bounty hunters willing to chase me; why bother with the long trip back East for five hundred dollars? A dead body for one thousand dollars would bring every trigger-happy desperado and destitute farmer out of the woodwork, searching for Dr. Catherine Bennett, the Murderess. Or a rejected spinster with no options or future.
I jumped at the sound of a loud thump behind me. I looked over my shoulder and saw the stranger rise from his table. He walked past our table, touching his hat to us, and out of the dining room and into the saloon.
I took a shuddering breath and let my gaze travel from the stranger to Cora to Rosemond, one threat to another. This was what my future held, being constantly under danger of exposure, arrest, or manipulation by everyone I met, and now death. The only person I could trust completely was in the brig in Saint Louis. Even if he was alive, he would be no help to me now.
“I want your necklace,” Cora said to Rosemond.
The last indignity. I swept my plate off the table. It shattered on the floor. Everyone in the dining room stopped eating and stared at me. Cora and Rosemond didn’t take their eyes from each other. The game was between them. I was merely a pawn.
Martha Mason came running from the kitchen. “Well, I’ll declare! Look at the mess you’ve made.”
“Please bring me another plate, Martha,” I said, glaring at Rosemond.
“It’ll cost extra.”
“My sister will pay.”
Rosemond wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin and said, “Sorry for the mess, Martha. It was an accident. Bring my sister another plate.”
Martha left, grumbling as a young boy came through the door, holding what looked like a letter.
“’Ere a Cora Bayle here?”
Cora’s head jerked toward the boy. She raised her hand slightly. “Here.”
The boy walked to Cora and held out his empty hand. Cora hesitated. Rosemond came to her rescue. “Here,” she said, pulling a coin from her reticule. The boy took the coin and bit it. Satisfied, he handed the note to Rosemond and left. With an arched eyebrow, Rosemond held it up between her thumb and forefinger, taunting Cora, whose present coloring reminded me of the bright red dirt of Palo Duro Canyon.
“Please hand me my note.”
“Technically it is mine, since I paid for it.”
Cora inhaled and exhaled slowly, gathering herself.
Rosemond pursed her lips. “Who could possibly know, or care, you’re here? Hmm.” She studied the handwriting on the outside of the note. “Looks masculine.” She looked over the top of the note at Cora. “And uneducated. This must be from your former future husband, Mr. Bullock. Has he had a change of heart? Is your future secure?”
“Give me the letter.”
“You can do much better, Cora. Even with that face.”
I snatched the note from Rosemond and held it out to Cora. When Cora grabbed the note I didn’t let go. I made her meet my eyes.
“Are you going to turn me in or kill me?”
“Kill you?” Cora had the grace to seem scandalized at the idea. Most like she was. She hadn’t lived in the West long enough to be hardened by the struggle to survive. Martha Mason watched us from the edge of the room.
“Most of the people who have threatened me in the last year are dead.” I let the note go and Cora fell back, her eyes full of fear. She pushed away from the table, picked up her carpetbag, and left.
Martha set my new plate in front of me. I picked up my utensils and, with steady hands, cut a chunk of roast and lifted the fork to my mouth. I continued to eat, letting the food nourish me, the strength seep back into my bones. I drank deeply and was halfway finished with my meal before I glanced at Rosemond. She was sitting back in her chair, holding her wineglass n
ear her head, an expression of deep admiration on her face.
She lifted her glass in toast and said, “There she is.”
CHAPTER
4
The rain had settled into a soft mist more akin to fog than rain. I opened the window, hoping a chill breeze would cool the anger that heated my skin. A trickle of sweat ran down the small of my back.
Rosemond placed the bottles of whisky and laudanum on the dresser with a clunk.
“Martha took that away.”
“And gave it back to me.”
“I don’t want it.”
“And I don’t want you to have it. But you won’t be able to sleep tonight without it.”
“Of course I will. I’m exhausted.” Having gone through opiate addiction with my father after the war, I knew Rosemond was right about the insomnia, but I didn’t want to give her one ounce of power over me.
“No need to play the tough with me, Laura. Though superb job with that sniveling wench, Cora.”
“It wasn’t an act.”
Rosemond grinned. “I know.” She portioned out a shot of whisky, put a few drops of laudanum in it, and held it out to me. “See, barely any to speak of. It will merely help you sleep.”
I stared at the glass, torn between the craving I was struggling to resist and the need to keep my wits about me. Cora might be easily vanquished, but Rosemond was another case altogether. I didn’t believe for one second she was helping me because of some sort of respect or long-held affection for Kindle. More than that, I couldn’t believe Kindle would ask her to.
Rosemond sighed, put the glass down, and undressed. “You can either take it and sleep in the bed with me or sleep on the floor. I won’t be kept up all night with a doper going through withdrawals.”
I turned from my temptation and back to the window. The mist dampened the lamplight shining through the sheriff’s office window. A shadow of a person walked down the deserted street. I leaned forward and watched Cora Bayle walk up the train platform steps and disappear behind the depot. I thought of the letter in her carpetbag, most likely read and a confirmation of my identity.
“Why hasn’t she turned me in?”
“Cora?”
I nodded.
“She’s not the type.” Rosemond spoke from close behind me. I looked at her over my shoulder. She was stripped down to her bodice and petticoat.
Since escaping New York City a year earlier, money—earning it, managing it, retaining it—had been almost as consuming an idea as survival. Going back to my father’s death, medical school, and the thin times before my practice blossomed, money had been a constant worry. I had at least had a profession to fall back on. Cora Bayle had nothing at all. “I’d turn me in for a thousand dollars.”
“She put on a good show, but Cora Bayle is decent, deep down.”
“I’m a decent person.”
Rosemond stroked my hair and smiled wistfully. “I have no doubt you were. You’re a survivor now.”
I turned my head away. I wanted to argue with her, but I knew her words were true. I saw the faces of the men killed by me or in my name since coming west, and knew if confronted with the choice of survival and their lives, I would choose survival.
“Is her future husband a decent person?”
After a pause, Rosemond said, “I wouldn’t worry too much about that.”
“Why?”
“The note was from me. By the time she figures it out, we’ll be gone.”
“You knew she recognized me all along.”
“I suspected. You didn’t?”
“No.” I rubbed my forehead and pinched the bridge of my nose. The laudanum not only took my pain away, it took away my discernment. “I shouldn’t have threatened her.”
“Nonsense. I don’t think you fully appreciate the reputation you have, Laura. Come to think of it, I’m impressed Cora had the courage to confront you at all. She understands now that she’s no match for you. Her fear of you will keep her waiting for Bullock all night. Who was the cowboy in the dining room?”
“The man I followed into the brothel.”
“Did you call him Kindle?”
“I don’t know.”
Rosemond nodded and pursed her lips. “You need a new name. How about—”
“Helen. Helen Graham.”
“That’s rather specific.”
“It’s from a book I read once.”
Rosemond raised her eyebrows and with a wry grin said, “You don’t look much like a Helen, but if that’s what you want.”
I stared out the window at the glowing sheriff’s office window. Now that the reward was “dead or alive” I couldn’t even find safety there from those who would use me for their own ends. If I turned myself in, what were the chances I would survive the night?
Rosemond moved into my line of sight. “I know what you’re thinking.”
I crossed my arms. “That I have little chance of surviving without you?”
Rosemond’s mouth quirked up. “Oh. I didn’t know what you were thinking, but I’m glad you realize it. I’m not your enemy.”
“You aren’t my friend, either.”
“Maybe not now. But I will be.”
I laughed. “It’s highly unlikely I’ll be friends with my husband’s whore.”
“That was before your time.”
“Was it?” I thought of Kindle’s refusal to answer my question about his night with Rosemond on the riverboat.
Did you fuck Rosemond? It’s a simple yes-or-no answer.
My gaze lingered on the glass of laudanum-laced whisky on the chest of drawers. I drew nearer to it, like a moth to a flame. It would be so easy …
I turned abruptly. “Are you so unappealing to women you have to kidnap me and coerce me to be your friend?”
Rosemond’s smile slipped and her face tightened. I’d hit a nerve. “Since you have so conveniently forgotten, I’ll remind you: Kindle asked me to help you. If I hadn’t, you would be in a damp New York City jail cell being measured for a noose right now. Or, considering the latest Wanted poster, you’d be dead. I think a little fucking gratitude is in order.”
“Why did you agree to help me?”
“You won’t believe me.”
I crossed my arms and waited.
“I like you.”
I scoffed.
“Are you so repulsive to women you can’t believe one wants to be your friend?” Rosemond said.
She turned my insult around and aimed it perfectly. Female friends had always been thin on the ground with me. With the exception of Harriet Mackenzie, I couldn’t remember one who had sought my friendship. I’d misjudged Harriet terribly, and wasted the little time we had together. Was I doing the same with Rosemond?
“I need your help to start a new life. A woman alone is a target. Men would assume I’m searching for a husband, or a huckleberry to take care of me on the side.”
“In a mining town?”
Rosemond’s head jerked back. “Why would you think that?”
“Dunk told me.”
Rosemond shook her head. “Duncan has big dreams about striking it rich in the silver mines, and he’s welcome to tilt at that particular windmill. I, on the other hand, am not delusional. I have no intention of setting up shop in a mining town. I’ll be near enough so he can come back when he fails.”
“What if he succeeds?”
“I’ll be the first to congratulate him. He deserves good fortune. As do you, Laura. Helen.”
My good fortune was sitting in a jail cell in Saint Louis, not standing in front of me. “Who will believe we’re sisters?” We were roughly the same height, but Rosemond was all soft, voluptuous curves, with dark hair, red lips, and porcelain skin marred slightly by smallpox scars. I was poorly endowed and slim, with dark blond hair that lightened to the color of honey when exposed to the sun for any length of time.
“If you saw some of the whores I worked with, you’d know I can do wonders with very little. With you, though, most of
my work will be accomplished by getting you off the dope, feeding you, and keeping you out of the sun.”
“And then what? We open a brothel together?”
Rosemond looked away. “I’m done with that life.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “You’re afraid the life isn’t done with you.”
She met my gaze. “Nearly every miner, sodbuster, gambler, and businessman heading west went through Saint Louis.”
“And you fucked your share.”
Rosemond’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Yes.”
“Won’t you be recognized, with your scars?”
“Most like. But if you tell a lie with enough confidence, people will doubt themselves, and that’s all I need.”
I chuckled, thinking of the dozens of lies I’d told in the last year. “If you need a liar, you’ve enlisted a master.”
If I couldn’t return to Kindle, I needed to hide somewhere. Pretending to be Rosemond’s sister temporarily was a better idea than anything I could come up with. Settling down in the West had been my original plan when I left New York City, and I was curious what life in one of the new, rough-and-tumble towns would be like. “What’s our story?”
“We’re sisters from back East starting a new life. You’re a nurse, I’m a painter.”
“A painter?” I remembered the sketchbook and the obvious skill exhibited by the artist.
“I wasn’t always a whore, Laura.”
“Of course not.” I was struck with a sudden curiosity about Rosemond’s prior life. What events led to her becoming a whore? How did Dunk fit into the story? The questions didn’t have time to fully form before Rosemond continued, her eyes sparkling with grand plans and impossible dreams.
“I leave whoring behind and you get a safe place to wait for Kindle. A fresh start with a new name.”
My laughter died off into a long sigh. “I’ve tried that, three times now.” I went to the window and pressed my nose against it. The sheriff’s office was dark. “It never works.”
“It will this time.”
I glanced over my shoulder again. Rosemond was climbing into bed. “Why?”
“Because, Helen, I always get what I want.”
Badlands Page 4