Badlands

by Melissa Lenhardt

  Eight of those deaths I regret.

  One will be the death of me.

  The door to the room struck the wall with a resounding thud.

  I turned over onto my back, holding my hand up against the light emitting from the lamp Rosemond held in her hand. Two more people with more offending lamps entered behind her. “Oh, dear.”

  I turned away and closed my eyes. “Go away, Rosemond.” The words were barely discernible, my throat dry from disuse.

  You will want me to come to you, I have no doubt. Even if I had the money, which I do not, I couldn’t bear the journey. Thousands of miles across land and sea. Even the comfort of your embrace cannot entice me for the journey.

  I am so very tired, Charlotte.

  “My God, the smell.” A cough, and a gag. “Her chamber pot is almost overflowing.”

  “How much laudanum did you give her?” a third voice accused. Portia Bright.

  “Enough to calm her down,” Rosemond said. “She was hysterical.”

  “This bottle is empty.”

  “Do you blame her? Her husband is dead.”

  “You shouldn’t have left her alone so long.”

  “Stop being judgmental and help me.”

  Someone shook my shoulder. “Laura, open your eyes.”

  Rosemond crouched in the tiny space between the bed and the wall.

  “Go away.”

  “You’re coming home with me.”

  “I don’t have a home.”

  “Yes, you do. We do. I’m sorry I left you so long, but I wanted to make sure everything was ready.” Rosemond brushed my hair from my face. Her gaze landed on the paper I clutched to my chest. She placed her hand on mine. The telegram. “Give it to me.”

  “No. Get away from me. You did this. You’re to blame.”

  It’s not her fault, Charlotte, not really, though it makes me feel better to say it. The eighteen deaths are on me, a direct result of the impulsive decision I made to leave New York City instead of staying and facing the baseless charges.

  “Let me try,” Portia said.

  Rosemond stood and made way for the preacher’s wife. “Laura.” Her voice was soothing and gentle. “Let us take you out of this dungeon and to Rosemond’s house. Your room has two windows and has the nicest little breeze flowing through in the middle of the day. You can go right back to bed, if you want.”

  “Not before she takes a bath,” the third woman said. Her voice was muffled by a handkerchief covering her mouth.

  I shook my head. “This is what I deserve. For all of them. Maureen, Cora, Dunk, Will—” My voice caught on Kindle’s name. I’d come to think of my room as my own grave, much like the one Kindle was in, his body rotting, worms crawling through his eyes, nose, and mouth. I started to sob.

  “You don’t deserve this.”

  I tried to move away. “Please leave me alone.”

  “Move.” A male voice broke through and I was being lifted and taken from the room. I tried to resist but was so weak from lack of food, water, and movement I could barely lift my head from the man’s shoulder. I opened my eyes and saw the pale countenance of Reverend Bright. I closed my eyes and cried softly as he carried me out of my grave and into the light.

  CHAPTER

  14

  Reverend Bright sat in a chair next to my bed, reading the Bible. He was a trim man with long legs and small hands. His smooth face suggested a youthfulness his receding hairline and weak chin contradicted. His thin lips moved as he read but his eyes remained stationary, leading me to believe he recited the passages from memory.

  He glanced up and a smile broke across his face. “You’re awake.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Job.”

  “Well, at least you’re not reading Psalm Twenty-Three over me.”

  Reverend Bright smiled. “You aren’t that far gone, I hope.”

  I didn’t answer but took in my surroundings. The room was sparsely furnished, as I suppose all new houses are. There were signs of hasty construction here and there: a crooked, jutting nail, a divot in the wood from a missed hammer hit, a gap between the glass and windowsill. It smelled refreshingly of new lumber, a scent I’d come to associate with the West almost as much as body odor, blood, horse sweat, and manure. I thought of the freshly hewn boards in Kindle’s officer’s quarters at Fort Richardson and turned my head from the Reverend.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days.”

  “And before?”

  “Three.”

  “Where’s the telegram?”

  “Your sister took it.”

  I turned away and, for the hundredth time, saw Kindle tied to a post in the middle of a parade ground, staring down the firing squad with his one good eye, the flash of light and smoke from the guns’ muzzles and Kindle slumping against his restraints.

  “And the letter?”

  “What letter?”

  “To my cousin, Charlotte?”

  “There was no letter.”

  I threw my arm over my eyes against the light. Hadn’t I written a letter? Or merely composed one in my mind?

  The legs of Reverend Bright’s chair scraped across the floor. He touched my shoulder. “Helen, your husband—”

  “Don’t tell me he’s in a better place.”

  “But he is. He’s with our Lord.”

  I rose from the bed and walked on weak legs to the nearest window. Behind a line of tents, a vast, featureless plain stretched out to infinity. Of course. “How far west do I need to travel to see a goddamn tree?”

  The Reverend chuckled. “You’re almost there.”

  “Whose house is this?”

  “Eliza’s. The prefabricated house arrived by train the day …”

  “I found out my husband was dead.”

  I opened the armoire and found two skirts, shirts, a navy brocade vest, a thick brown leather belt, a pair of sensible boots, and a straw hat. A chemise, corset, and petticoat were folded on the bottom shelf. A hairbrush and mirror lay next to a pitcher, bowl, and fresh bar of soap on a nearby table. “It seems my sister has thought of everything.”

  The Reverend cleared his throat and stood. “She is concerned about you.”

  I laughed. “Don’t let her manipulate you, Reverend. She is only concerned with herself.” I placed the telegram on the table. Capt. WK convicted …

  “Did you read the telegram?”

  “Yes. Your sister told me your story.”

  “My story. You’ll have to specify which story so I’ll know which lies to stick with. There are so many I can hardly keep track myself.”

  “You have been through more tribulations than any woman should have to, Catherine.”

  “Ah.” I nodded. “She told you everything.”

  The Reverend nodded.

  “With Rosemond as my savior.”

  The Reverend paused, brows furrowed. “She helped you escape Saint Louis.”

  “She did. Did she tell you about her life there?”

  “No.”

  “Cora Bayle?”

  “Who?”

  “No. I didn’t think so. Does your wife know who I am?”

  The Reverend shook his head. “Eliza told me in the confidence of a minister and my parishioner.”

  I laughed heartily at this. “Eliza a Christian? Don’t believe it for a second, Reverend.”

  “It isn’t my place to judge one’s sincerity of belief but to offer counsel when needed and asked for.” He studied me. “All you have to do is ask.”

  “You want me to confess my sins?”

  “If that’s what you feel you need to do.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my sins and guilt are my own.”

  “Are they? Would Duncan agree with that statement? Or your husband?”

  His voice was temperate but his eyes told of judgment, his thin mouth of disapproval. When I didn’t reply, he continued. “God is punishing you, Catherine.”

  I found my
voice, but it was raspy and low, full of a myriad of emotions. “Don’t call me Catherine.”

  “Isn’t that your name?”

  “I haven’t been Catherine Bennett in a long time. Here, my name is Helen.”

  The Reverend nodded. “You’ve spent so many years violating God’s natural order of things that you’ve lost sight of yourself. Your trials are God’s punishment for the sin of pride.”

  “God has made his point.” I held my arms out in front of me, presenting my wrists for the shackles. “Are you going to turn me in?”

  “Of course not.”

  “A thousand dollars is a lot of money for a poor preacher. Imagine the number of Bibles you could purchase with it.”

  “I would never profit off another’s misfortune.”

  I laughed again. “If you get desperate enough, you will.” I moved close enough to see the tiny creases on his lips. I raised my eyes and met his. “What is religion if not profiting off the misfortunes of others? If it weren’t for sinners you wouldn’t have a congregation, or a living.”

  He swallowed. “I know of no preacher who is called to the ministry for riches. We struggle with our own demons, and want only to offer comfort in the word of the Lord to those who suffer.”

  “Who offers you succor?” I whispered. “Your wife?”

  The Reverend dropped his eyes to his Bible. “Of course. And God, his forgiveness.”

  I wondered what sins the good Reverend had to confess, and if they were significant enough to make mine look small. “Did you wonder if the rumors about me are true? Is that why you were waiting patiently by my bedside? To ask for comfort in exchange for your silence? What do you want from me?”

  The Reverend blushed and opened his mouth to reply when Rosemond interrupted.

  “Alleluia, she’s out of bed.” She stood in the door, wearing a white smock dotted with paint over men’s trousers tucked into riding boots, a knowing smirk on her face as she glanced between the two of us. She was cleaning a paintbrush with a cloth. “You are a miracle worker, Reverend. Are you hungry, Helen? I have some stew on the stove.”

  I was hungry but didn’t want to admit it. “Working already?” I said.

  Rosemond smiled and looked genuinely happy for the first time since I’d known her. I could almost forget she was a manipulative bitch. “Yes. A sign for the new apothecary.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you if you would paint a portrait of Portia,” Reverend Bright asked.

  Rosemond stopped twisting the paintbrush in the cloth. “Of course. Does your wife want to sit for it?”

  “She doesn’t know yet.”

  Rosemond’s face brightened mischievously. “If she resists, tell her I promise to make her as comfortable as possible.”

  “I will.” He walked to the door. “How much?”

  Rosemond looked up at him with a flirtatious little grin. “For you, free. As long as I can use it as my calling card for future portraits.”

  “Of course!”

  “If anyone asks, tell them I am charging you ten dollars.”

  The Reverend laughed. “Now, Eliza, I cannot lie.”

  “It’s a little white one.”

  He shook his head in amusement. “I’ll talk to Portia right away.”

  “I’m available at her convenience.”

  The Reverend turned to me. “You asked me earlier what I wanted from you. I would like your help. My wife and I are trying to help the prostitutes on Calico Row leave that life.”

  I laughed. “You want me to help you preach to whores?” Camille King had asked me if I was a missionary when she met me, a starving and desperate doctor begging for clients, even whores on Twenty-Seventh Street. Now, it seemed as if her initial impression would turn out to be true, though I was shocked Reverend Bright wanted me as a missionary after our earlier discussion.

  Rosemond moved forward. Without her eyes leaving the Reverend’s face, I could tell she was sizing him up from head to toe and finding him lacking. “Indeed? What a noble cause.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What life are they saved into?” Rosemond asked.

  “Marriage,” the Reverend replied.

  Rosemond lifted her chin and nodded slowly. “Yes, there does seem to be a demand for wives in the West, almost as high as the demand for whores.”

  “What do you need me for?” I asked.

  “There is a doctor in town, Hankins is his name, that treats the whores. But he demands payment in kind from them, as well as money. We, Portia and I, thought it would be a nice change for the women to receive care from a professional who is only interested in their health and well-being.”

  “As you and your wife are only interested in their souls?” Rosemond asked.

  The preacher’s shoulders lifted and his face flushed, but his eyes didn’t meet either of ours. “Yes. Precisely.”

  “Of course I’ll help you,” I said. “I have nothing better to do with my time.”

  The preacher dipped his head. “Thank you. We will come by in the morning to take you to Calico Row, introduce you to the women.”

  Rosemond let the Reverend out and returned, her expression one of amusement. “Were you trying to seduce the preacher?”

  “I wouldn’t know how.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short.” She looked back toward the front door. “Though I can tell you from experience he wouldn’t need much seducing.”

  “Do any men?”

  She laughed. “No. No, they don’t. Enough about that boring little man. How are you feeling?”

  “Tired.”

  She nodded. “You need to move around, shake off the malaise. Let me finish my sign and we’ll go for a walk. I’ll show you the town. There’s water in the pitcher and soap and a washcloth in the drawer.” She turned to leave.

  “How was Dunk’s funeral?”

  Rosemond’s shoulders straightened. She turned to face me. “Nice. Portia sang ‘Amazing Grace.’ Dunk loved that hymn.”

  I nodded. “It was sung at my father’s funeral.” I poured a glass of water and drank deeply. I closed my eyes as the water flowed down my throat, slaking my thirst and cooling my body, warm and languid from inactivity. “Rosemond, if I could change the past … I know I’m responsible—”

  Rosemond put her hand on my shoulder. “Laura, stop. I know you like to think the entire world revolves around you, and that every decision a person makes is somehow related to you, but it’s not.”

  “Why did you tell Bright who I was?”

  “He read the telegram before I could burn it.”

  “You burned it?”

  “Of course I did. Bright is proof that even an idiot could put together the initials WK with the Murderess and the Major.”

  “He’s not the only threat. Everyone is talking about it. I see the man from the train everywhere I go. I should leave.”

  “Yes, I got your good-bye note from the hotel clerk, and the money, obviously. Where were you going?”

  “Away.” Where I can’t hurt anyone. “I don’t know.”

  “Laura, you saw the man from the train in a busy railroad hotel. He’s probably passing through. And hotels are hubs for gossip. It’s been two weeks. Interest in the story is already waning, and soon enough there will be another story to take its place. Stay here, cement yourself in everyone’s mind as Helen Graham.”

  “Kindle’s dead. You’re freed from any obligation you thought you were under.”

  “I wasn’t helping you out of obligation.”

  “Then why?”

  “Isn’t it enough that I am?”

  “Kindle warned me about you.”

  “Did he? What did he say?”

  “That you aren’t a charitable woman.”

  “I’m not.” Rosemond moved closer to me. “What else?”

  I held her gaze steadily but didn’t reply. Kindle hadn’t been forthcoming on Rosemond or their relationship.

  “Nothing? Do you really think Kindle knew me? He sa
w what I wanted him to see. What he wanted to see. You and I both know men don’t want to see the real woman beneath the silks and perfume and powder. How many men of your acquaintance knew you as you truly are?”

  “Kindle, in the end.”

  “I know you, and like you. I want to help you, to be your friend. It’s really as simple as that.”

  Could it be that simple? I wanted it to be, but didn’t trust it, the purity of the reason. I wasn’t the type of person who engendered uncomplicated feelings, and looking into her eyes, I realized she wasn’t the type of person to have them.

  In an effort to focus on anything else but myself or Rosemond, or whatever it was she wanted from me, I turned her head to the side and looked at the sutured gash on her temple. “You’ve kept it clean. Good. Have you been having headaches?”

  “I’m fine.” She pulled her chin from my grasp. “I’m offering you a home, Laura. Stay or leave, it’s your choice. But your best chance to have a life is here, with me, and you know it.”

  I found her in the front room. She took stock of me in my new clothes and smiled. “I wasn’t sure of your style. I, for one, am sick of wearing dresses. With skirts and shirts, we can share clothes. Once you gain a bit of weight, our size won’t be so different.”

  I ran my hand down the navy brocade tailored vest buttoned over a white shirt and lifted my khaki skirt. “The clothes are fine, thank you.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  Rosemond set her brush down. “What do you think?”

  She had turned the front room into a studio. Light flooded in through the bay window on the front wall and filtered in through a gauzy curtain covering the side window. Paints, brushes, empty cans, scissors, knives, a handsaw, tools, and a partially framed piece of canvas sat on a table that butted up flush with the interior wall. Long, one-inch pieces of squared wood and a roll of thick canvas leaned against the wall. A drop cloth was thrown haphazardly over a trunk in the corner. Two easels sat in the middle of the room, one holding a framed canvas with broad black brushstrokes, the beginning of a painting; the other, sturdier easel held a large wooden sign, painted white with precise lettering.