Badlands

by Melissa Lenhardt

  “Did you spend every dime I earned?”

  “Almost. Come. I’ve got stew in the kitchen.”

  She led me down the dogtrot hall in the middle of the house—a room-for-room replica of the one in Jacksboro where I’d recuperated from my ordeal with the Comanche—and to the kitchen in the back of the house. The cast-iron pot sitting on the wood-burning stove gave off an amazing aroma. My stomach growled.

  Rosemond ladled soup into a bowl and handed it to me. Besides the stove, a small worktable, and two chairs, the room was bare. We made space on the worktable and sat down to eat.

  I spooned the stew and blew on it. My hand trembled, slightly, but the worst of my withdrawal had happened when I was in bed. I was exhausted from tossing and turning with insomnia and weak from refusing to eat the food that had appeared periodically on my dresser. My stomach had revolted at the idea, but my refusal had been fueled mostly by belligerence, as if rejecting Rosemond’s food would hurt her instead of me.

  A thick roux coated the meat and carrot cradled in my spoon. The aroma of garlic and thyme wafted into my nostrils as I brought the morsel to my mouth. I chewed slowly, remembering sitting across a table from Maureen in my New York house, sopping up the last of the stew with a piece of thick bread. I’d never appreciated the touchstones of memory—smell, sound, touch—until I’d lost everything. Home. Profession. Love.

  “Did you make this?” I asked, hoping Rosemond would attribute my thick voice to the stew instead of heightened emotion.

  “I wish. Lily Diamond brought it. Do you know how to cook?”

  I shook my head in the negative, since my mouth was full of stew. “Maureen taught me a little on the wagon train. Biscuits and beans. I learned how to skin and cook a rattlesnake in Indian Territory.”

  Rosemond raised her eyebrows. “You’re hired. I’ll take care of the laundry.”

  I abandoned my spoon in the bowl and held it in my lap. “We’re splitting up housekeeping duties?”

  “It’s hardly fair for one or the other of us to do all the housework, don’t you think?”

  “Rosemond, I’m not staying.”

  She nodded. “I understand why you want to leave. You’ve had a shock. But it’s never a good idea to make an impulsive decision after your world’s been upended.”

  “Do you speak from experience?”

  “Hard-earned experience.” She stared off into the distance, her expression clouded with regret. When she focused on me again, her eyes were clear. “I’ll make a deal with you. Stay here with me for three months. It will give you time to grieve, and give the story of Catherine Bennett time to die down again. If you still want to move on after that, I’ll buy your ticket.”

  The thin silver ring on my left hand clinked against the mug handle. The image of Kindle holding the ring with a bruised and bloody hand swam before my eyes. I would never touch those hands again. My recurring dream of Kindle playing the piano and our child running up to hug me would never come true. Every decision I’d made since the Salt Creek Massacre led to me sitting in this kitchen, and to Kindle being tied to a post and executed. Arguing with Rosemond wouldn’t change the past.

  I nodded in agreement, too exhausted to care. I finished my stew while Rosemond sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, apparently lost in thought. I rinsed the bowl in the tub of water on the worktable, dried it, and returned it to its correct place.

  Rosemond shook herself from her reverie, smiled, and stood. She placed her chair back against the wall and I did the same with mine. “Your cloak is in your chest. Grab it and I’ll show you the town.”

  CHAPTER

  15

  What day is it?”

  “Friday.”

  “No, what date?”

  “April fifth.”

  Two weeks since Kindle was taken from me. It seemed a short amount of time for a trial, judgment, and execution.

  I pulled my cloak on but wondered at the need. The air was fresh, clear, and warm. The shadows were lengthening as the sun set over the horizon to our right.

  “The temperature drops quickly, I’ve found,” Rosemond said, as if reading my mind.

  Rosemond’s was the only house amid a line of tents stretched out along the northern edge of town. On the other side of the street were more tents and a couple of houses in various stages of completion. Behind the houses the desert stretched out to infinity. In the distance, I saw a butte, much like the one I saw in my sweat lodge vision.

  We walked south toward the main part of town and the railroad tracks. A train whistle sounded and a black plume of smoke shot into the air and curved to the left as the train pulled out of the station heading toward California.

  “Do you remember Amalia Post? From the bridge game?” Rosemond said.

  “Of course.”

  Rosemond found my arm beneath my cloak and intertwined hers in mine. “Turns out, she’s as good at business as her husband, or better. She keeps her own money and is buying up real estate across town. She owns the lot the house is on and gave me a reasonable rate and payment plan.”

  We turned onto a wide street and Rosemond regaled me with details about Cheyenne: where the legislature met and when it was in session, the creation of a library, which businesses were soon to be rebuilt into stone structures, Amalia’s help in getting her sign business going and her promise to introduce Rosemond to the powerful men of the territory to paint their portraits. She mentioned Reverend Bright’s church and waved in its general direction. She made note of businesses whose signs she believed she could improve on.

  She prattled on when we walked past the gallows, as if it wasn’t there, though I heard a slight hitch in her voice. Deputy Webster tipped his hat as we walked by. “Ladies.”

  “Deputy,” she said with a coy smile that dropped from her face when we were past.

  “You’ve learned quite a lot about Cheyenne in a short amount of time.”

  “One of the more surprising talents I cultivated from whoring was to ask questions and listen. People love to talk about themselves, especially men. Sometimes, I was lucky enough they forgot about the sex part. Not often, though. There’s the apothecary.” She pointed to a false-front building across the street. “I’m repainting his sign. I think I’m going to turn the Y into scales. What do you think?”

  “Clever.”

  She grinned. “I hope Amalia comes through on the introductions. Signs are fine, but there’s a limit to my creative ability with letters. We’re here.” Rosemond opened the door to WC Post’s General Store and let me enter. Amalia greeted us from behind a glass counter topped with jars of brightly colored hard candies.

  “Well, look who’s here.”

  “Hello, Amalia,” Rosemond said.

  “Eliza. Helen, good to see you up and about.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Sorry to hear about your husband. But if there’s an ideal place for a woman alone to start over, it’s Cheyenne.”

  “She’s not alone,” Rosemond interjected.

  “Of course not. But you aren’t married, either,” Amalia said. “Don’t need to be, as far as I can tell. Not here, if you’ve got a mind for business. And I think you do.” She nodded at Rosemond, who looked pleased at the compliment. “I’ve got a couple more orders for you.” While Rosemond and Amalia put their heads together over the new orders, I wandered around the well-stocked general store.

  The store burst at the seams with all types of goods: food staples such as flour, sugar, and salt; hardware and building supplies; cloth, patterns, and ready-made clothes (which were strikingly similar to what I wore); tents, kitchen utensils, plates, and cups. I walked behind the counter and inspected the small shelf of medicines with dubious claims to effectiveness: Hostetter’s Bitters, Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, Dr. Morse’s Indian Root Pills, Mrs. Moffat’s Shoo-Fly Powders for Drunkenness. I’d had to counsel more than one patient against using these cures, which were mostly nothing more than opium, cocaine, or alcohol mixed wi
th dangerous ingredients, and had treated a fair few who were made more ill by their use. I turned away and stopped completely at the sight of a Colt revolver lying on a shelf beneath the front counter. I picked it up and opened it. Five chambers, five rounds.

  I missed my gun. The last I saw it was at the bottom of my and Kindle’s trunk on the Mississippi stern-wheeler. I was certain everything we owned had been dispersed among the cabin boys or officers, not that any of it was worth much. I grieved for the loss of my wedding dress, but the pang of loss was brief. I’d left New York City with little to my name. Everything I acquired since had been lost, looted, stolen, or unintentionally abandoned. Now I stood in a general store bursting with many of the items I’d gained and lost over the last months, wearing clothes purchased for me by a woman I despised but relied on for survival. I stared at the guns displayed and wondered if I’d finally plumbed the depths of despair, or if I had further to go.

  “May I help you?”

  I pulled the gun beneath my cloak and behind my back. A gray-haired man with unlined skin stood on the other side of the counter with a pleasant smile on his face. Mr. Neck Whiskers from the gambling den stood next to him. The man visibly started.

  I moved out from behind the counter. “I was looking at your medicines.”

  “Can I get something for you?”

  “No, thank you. I’m waiting for …” How to describe Rosemond? The word sister stuck in my throat.

  “Me.” Rosemond sailed up, a broad smile on her face that froze when she saw Mr. Neck Whiskers.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

  “Hello, Miss Ryan,” the clerk said to Rosemond.

  “Mr. Post. Good to see you.”

  “Amalia get you squared away?”

  “Of course I did. Harry, how do you know Eliza?” Amalia asked. I wondered the same thing myself, but if Mr. Neck Whiskers’ expression was any indication, I thought I knew.

  I moved back a step and hoped to escape Amalia’s close scrutiny. She was too perceptive by half.

  Mr. Neck Whiskers glanced around, wondering who Eliza was, no doubt, but Rosemond came to his rescue. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” she said, holding out her hand. “Eliza Ryan. This is my sister, Helen Graham.”

  “Harry Diamond.”

  “Lily’s husband!” Rosemond said with forced cheer. “How nice to meet you. Your wife is quite the cutthroat bridge player.”

  “Ah, yes. She mentioned you and your … sister.” Harry Diamond looked me up and down.

  “Eliza is a painter,” Amalia put in. “Signs, mostly. If you know anyone who needs a sign, come to me. I take the orders for her.”

  Harry Diamond nodded appreciatively. “Leave it to you, Amalia, to already have your finger in a new endeavor.”

  “I’m invested in this one; sold her a lot over on Mill Street. She had her house up and move-in ready in four days. Helen, this is my husband, Mr. Post.”

  The gray-haired man nodded to me. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” I said.

  “Helen and I must be going,” Rosemond said. “I want to show her as much of the town as possible before sunset. Amalia, have your boy bring the blank signs along tomorrow.”

  “Will do.”

  When we were down the street Rosemond’s tight smile faded to a scowl. “I played poker with Harry Diamond. He propositioned me,” I said.

  “He would.”

  “A former customer?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Her step was determined.

  “You had to know this would happen.”

  She sighed. “Yes, but I hoped it wouldn’t happen so soon.” She stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street. I followed, enjoying the weight of the gun I held behind my back.

  Unlike the town, the Cheyenne rail yard wasn’t winding down for the night. Freight trains shunted off onto side tracks were being unloaded, uncoupled, and reorganized for diversion to Denver. Ash and bits of coal from the plumes of smoke emitted by the locomotives floated through the air, coating everything in a gray dust. Rail workers yelled instructions, rail cars clanged into one another, brakes screeched before emitting an exhausted hiss, locomotives rotated in the stone roundhouse for their return journey. The yard was ten tracks wide, and a train in various states of readiness waited on every one.

  Across the tracks was a second city, this one less prosperous than the one behind us. A street ran next to the far track, and a line of wooden buildings fronted it. The land rose slightly behind the buildings and there I saw the familiar sight of a tent city, glowing with lamplight.

  “Calico Row.”

  “The Brights’ cause.”

  “It’s mostly two-bit whores. Some Negroes and a couple of Chinese,” Rosemond said.

  “Where are the nicer houses?”

  “Around Nineteenth Street.”

  “I wonder if the Brights visit them as well?”

  A stream of men walked in the direction of Calico Row. They dipped their heads to us, touching the brims of their hats respectfully. We turned and started walking back to Rosemond’s house.

  “I doubt it,” Rosemond said. “It’s not a terrible life, if you’re in the right house. I’ve heard of some whores marrying newly rich miners and becoming prominent citizens in their own right.”

  We walked in silence for a while. “Why didn’t you ever go that route? Surely you were asked.”

  “I’ve never met a man I wanted to be beholden to. And no matter how much money or influence they have, they’ll always be known as former whores.”

  “Are you going to help the Brights in their reform efforts?”

  Rosemond laughed. “No. I have enough to be going on with reforming myself. I’m sure you will do fine without me.” Rosemond opened the front door to her house and let me enter. “I’ve been telling people you’re a midwife, were a nurse in the war. That your father was a doctor.”

  “No lies so far.”

  “You can’t hang your shingle as a doctor.” Rosemond removed her coat and walked into her studio. I noticed a cot folded up in the corner for the first time. “But you can do the next best thing. Treat the people the doctor doesn’t want to.”

  “As a midwife.”

  “Or nurse. It’s not the perfect solution, I grant you, and you’ll have to be careful not to be too terribly good at your job. You should probably stay away from the hospital if you want to be able to quietly ply your trade. The two-bit whores will complain at first, but they’ll be so happy someone competent is helping them they’ll keep their mouths shut, especially if you keep the cost down and buy their loyalty.”

  My gaze fell on an unfinished painting facing away from the door. I expected the early stages of the sheriff’s portrait and was surprised to see the outlines of a portrait of a woman, sitting on a bench, gazing out a window. I recognized it as a replica of the sketch from her notebook I flipped through on the train.

  “It’s me.”

  “Gazing longingly east toward the man you love. At least, you will be gazing longingly.”

  Bile rose in my throat at my remembrance of Kindle’s fate. How could I consider settling in with Rosemond, creating a life in Cheyenne, when Kindle’s had been cut short? Why did I deserve to live when he did not?

  “Why are you painting me?”

  “I need to practice before I paint Portia—the Reverend Mrs. Bright. And the good sheriff. You are, unfortunately, the most familiar face of the past few weeks.”

  Rosemond pulled the drop cloth off a standing trunk, flipped open the latches, and, with a jingle of glass hitting glass, pulled out my medical bag. “You were clutching the ticket when you fainted.” She kept her hands on the top of the bag. “You were planning to leave before you left the room that night, weren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  She shook her head, opened the bag, and pulled out a small wooden box. “The apothecary said this is a good start.”

  Rows of medicine bottles and rolled bandages fit snug
ly together inside the box. So familiar was the gun I’d been hiding behind my back I almost reached out with it. I caught myself in time, and lifted a bottle with my free hand. Laudanum. My mouth watered.

  “Can I trust you?” Rosemond asked.

  I removed the bottle from the box and gave it to Rosemond. “Why are you helping me?”

  She placed the laudanum on her worktable and laughed. I stuck the gun in the back of my skirt. “You don’t get it, do you? You’ve made it. Oh, it’s not Timberline, Colorado—that’s where you were heading originally, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “But it’s probably better. Women can own property in Wyoming, vote even. You’ve been trying to start over for a year. Here you are. Your new life.”

  Without Kindle.

  “This is your opportunity, Laura. You can take it or you can go back East where you’ll surely be caught and hanged. Give it three months.” She pushed the box toward me. I grabbed it with both hands and held it to me. “Please?”

  I nodded slowly. “Three months.”

  It was easier than arguing.

  The polished wooden gun handle was smooth and unblemished, and fit comfortably in my hand.

  I broke the barrel, checked the bullets, and clicked it back together.

  The house was dark and quiet. The smell of paint and the occasional bump from the other room told me Rosemond was awake but engrossed in her work. Unconcerned about me.

  Ignorant of the gun I held in my hand.

  I broke the barrel, checked the bullets, and clicked it back together.

  No more killing, I’d resolved after the sweat lodge cleansing ceremony. I closed my eyes and inhaled, trying and failing to recapture the place of solace I found in Indian Territory. I’d put the events of the Canadian behind me, mostly, and moved on with Kindle. We had been given a glimpse of what life together would be like, only to have it snatched out from under us because of who I was.

  I took a shuddering breath, felt the tears stream down my cheeks, broke the barrel, checked the bullets, and clicked it back together.

  And lifted it to my temple.