Badlands

by Melissa Lenhardt

  There would be no reprieve this time. Rosemond would find me, brains sprayed across the bed and onto the wall. I would finally be with Kindle, forever, no more worry about being pulled apart.

  No more deaths in my name.

  My hand trembled.

  No more being used by others for their own ends.

  I put my thumb on the hammer.

  No more cravings.

  Through the tears pooled in my eyes, I saw myself in the small dresser mirror. Who was that woman with the gun to her head?

  I pulled the gun down.

  Sobs shuddered through me. I covered my mouth to keep Rosemond from hearing and coming to me.

  I didn’t want to die, and I didn’t want to live.

  I heard a knock at the front door and stilled, listening for Rosemond. Who would call so late? A rustling, another knock, and Rosemond’s voice. “Who’s there?”

  An indistinct male voice replied. A long moment passed; the male spoke again. Finally, Rosemond opened the door.

  I crept over to my bedroom door, cracked it, and peeked into the hall.

  “Harry. Why am I not surprised?”

  “Let me in.”

  “No. Go home to your wife.”

  “I will, after we catch up.” The door opened a bit, but Rosemond forced it back.

  “I’m not in that business anymore.”

  Harry Diamond laughed. “You’re a painter now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Once a whore, always a whore.”

  “If that’s your idea of talking your way inside—”

  Rosemond lost control of the door and it slammed against the wall. “I don’t need to talk my way in.” I stepped back and pulled my door almost shut. “Where’s your sister? I knew she was a whore when I first saw her.”

  “Helen’s asleep.”

  “Hmm. I seem to remember a rather raucous story you told about your sister once. Her name was Cordelia.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “Who is she, Rosemond?”

  “She’s my sister.”

  “You’re sticking to the lie. I’d expect nothing less. Regardless, wake your sister up. The three of us can have a good time.”

  “No. You need to leave.”

  Diamond looked into Rosemond’s studio. “You really are painting.”

  “Did you think it was a front for a whorehouse?”

  “It’s not a bad idea. Cheyenne’s the capital. Lots of important men would pay a premium to fuck Rosemond Barclay, the most exclusive madam in Saint Louis.”

  “I’m retired.”

  Diamond laughed. “As I said before …” He encroached on Rosemond. “I know you could use the coin. Lily told me that Negro lost your money.”

  “We’re fine. I appreciate you stopping by …” She moved toward the door, but Diamond put his arm around Rosemond’s waist.

  “You want to be selective in your customers. I understand.” His hand moved down to Rosemond’s ass and he pulled her toward him.

  She turned her head. “If I were being selective, you would be the last man I would fuck.”

  Diamond reared back and struck Rosemond across the face. I was across the hall before Diamond could pull his hand back again. I pressed the barrel of the gun against his head, right behind his ear.

  “Let her go.”

  Diamond stilled but didn’t release Rosemond. The click of the hammer being pulled back was loud in the hall. “Let her go, or Rosemond will have to scrape your brains from her freshly lumbered walls.”

  Rosemond pushed away from Diamond, who remained motionless. I pressed the gun against his head, pushing his chin down into his neck. Diamond held his hands out. “I don’t take kindly to men beating on women, whore or no.”

  “I—I—”

  “You probably don’t think I would do it, don’t you? Turn around.”

  Diamond did, and I pressed the gun to the middle of his forehead. “My sister’s done with that life. If you, or anyone like you, shows back up here, I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in their head.” I took the gun from his head and shoved it in his groin. “Or somewhere else.”

  Diamond tripped over his feet in his haste to leave. Once outside, he regained his confidence, even if his dignity was nowhere in sight. “You’ll regret this.”

  Rosemond closed the door and leaned against it; her eyes lingered on the gun I held by my side until they finally rose to meet mine. The humor in her eyes finally made it to her lips.

  “And you wonder why I like you?”

  CHAPTER

  16

  We pulled the worktable to the middle of the kitchen and drank our whisky out of tin coffee mugs. The gun lay on the table in front of me.

  “Where’d you get the gun?”

  “I stole it from Amalia’s store.”

  Rosemond nodded. She refilled her mug, then mine, and drank. “Were you thinking of using it on me? Or yourself?”

  I drank my whisky and stared at the mug, remembering choking on my first drink of whisky months ago. “I hadn’t decided.”

  Rosemond laughed. “I do like your honesty. Why do you want to kill yourself?”

  I held out my hand. “Can we not talk about me? I’m so tired of myself I could …”

  “Kill yourself?”

  I finished the whisky in my mug and held it out for Rosemond to refill. “Where’s Lyman?”

  “What?”

  “Lyman. The man who sold out Kindle and wanted to turn me in. Why didn’t he follow us?”

  “Lyman wouldn’t want to get too far away from civilization. He likes the finer things. He’s probably waiting for Kindle to lead him to you.”

  “What will he do now?”

  Rosemond furrowed her eyebrows. “Now?” Her expression cleared. “That Kindle’s dead, you mean?” Rosemond shrugged.

  “He told me you two had a history.”

  “Did he?” Rosemond sloshed whisky onto the table with the next pour. “Oops.”

  The silence between us was uneasy, neither of us sure where this conversation was going or how much of each other we wanted to reveal. My strength came from hating Rosemond, not what she was, but that she had meant something to my husband in the past, and maybe the not-too-distant past. I didn’t trust her in the least, but my options were thin and she seemed eager to pursue a friendship with me. What else explained the clothes, the medicine, and the idea for my nursing practice? What else explained that she hadn’t turned me in for the new one-thousand-dollar reward?

  Rosemond isn’t a charitable woman.

  I couldn’t let myself become complacent and forget Kindle’s words. She wasn’t trying to help me, she wanted something from me. Legitimacy, she claimed, but there was more to it. She would never tell me willingly, probably afraid I wouldn’t go along with whatever it was. I had to keep my guard up but manipulate her to let hers down.

  Rosemond’s gaze kept settling on the gun in front of me. I turned it so the barrel pointed away from her. Her mouth quirked up into a half smile. “I wasn’t concerned.”

  I chuckled. “How did you become a prostitute?”

  She raised her eyebrows and waited to answer, holding my gaze while she did. “I spread my legs for the wrong man.”

  “Lyman?”

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “Kindle said—what were his words? ‘She has no respect for John Lyman.’ It’s not unreasonable to assume it’s a long-standing animosity.”

  “You don’t go through what Lyman and I have and call it animosity.”

  “What would you call it?”

  She pursed her lips and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Mutual admiration, with a healthy dose of suspicion.”

  “Admiration?”

  “Lyman taught me a lot about myself, and other people. Specifically, how to manipulate them so I get what I want.”

  “What a lovely characteristic to hone.”

  “Don’t act as if you haven’t done the same thing to get where you are.�
��

  I drank my whisky. She was right, to a point. I preferred to forge headfirst into conflict, but there were times when I took a more prudent approach to getting what I wanted. What had the last year been but a tactical approach to staying free? I’d lied, cheated, and killed to survive. I rolled my shoulders to banish the weight of familiarity that had settled there.

  “Lyman was the man you spread your legs for?”

  She finished her whisky and poured more. “He was a Union officer occupying Nashville. He took my virginity, probably took bets on how long it would take him to deflower me.”

  “Surely you didn’t have to become a prostitute.”

  She smiled, and I knew there was much more to the story. “Why did you want to be a doctor?”

  “To prove everyone wrong.”

  Rosemond’s mug stopped halfway to her mouth. “Truly?”

  “I wanted to help people, too. But mostly I wanted to be better than the men.” I chuckled. “Maureen called me out on it in Galveston. Said I …” I stopped, refilled our mugs. “We’re not talking about me.”

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “No, I’m trying to get me drunk.”

  “Would you like the bottle of laudanum?” Rosemond smirked.

  I shook my head. “Why do I feel like you’re leaving something out of your story?”

  “Because I am. I know what you’re doing.” She pointed at me and squinted out of one eye. Her speech was noticeably slurred. Part of me wondered if this was an act. I’d drunk as much as she and was pleasantly numb around the edges but far from drunk. I’d assumed Rosemond would be an experienced drinker, enough so a few glasses of whisky wouldn’t affect her like this.

  “What am I doing?”

  “Besides trying to get me drunk, you’re pretending to care about me so I’ll tell you my secrets.”

  “Sisters tell each other everything, don’t they?”

  Rosemond’s head jerked back. “They do. Yes, they do. Do you have a sister?”

  “If I had anyone at all I wouldn’t have left New York.”

  “Of course. I had a sister. Cordelia. She was the favorite, naturally. Beautiful. Sweet. Innocent. Trusting. Everything I wasn’t.”

  “You resented her.”

  “No. I loved her. I would have done anything for her.” Rosemond poured more whisky. “And did.” She shook out the last drop into her cup. “Don’t worry. There’s more. Somewhere.”

  “I think you’ve had enough.”

  Rosemond shook her head. “Now I’ve started, I don’t want to stop.”

  “What happened to your sister?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Not a Goddamn thing. She’s married to a Tennessee politician and is having babies with alarming regularity.”

  I waited while Rosemond laughed manically at her joke. When her laughter died down, her expression slowly faded to thoughtfulness. “I chose the winning side, but Cordelia won anyway.”

  Rosemond drank her whisky in one swallow, rose unsteadily, and walked out of the kitchen. Curious, I picked up my gun and followed.

  I found her in the studio, rummaging in her trunk. She straightened and held up a full bottle of bourbon. “It’s time for the good stuff. I’m surprised Dunk didn’t drink it.”

  “Rosemond, you’ve had enough.”

  “You’re taking this sister act too seriously,” she said.

  “Am I?”

  While Rosemond struggled with opening the new bottle, I returned to the kitchen and retrieved a bowl.

  “What’s that for?” she asked.

  “When you get sick in the night.” I placed the bowl on the floor next to her cot.

  Rosemond twirled around, bottle high in the air. “I don’t have a Goddamn sofa to sit on.” She stumbled over to the cot and landed heavily on it, sloshing bourbon on herself in the process.

  I set the gun down on the worktable. “I’ll confess; I’m surprised you’re such an easy drunk.” I sat on the cot next to her and pried the bottle gently from her hand.

  Rosemond shrugged and exhaled dramatically. “I gave up drinking whisky a couple of years ago.”

  “You’re temperance?”

  “God, no. Selling cheap whisky at exorbitant prices was almost as lucrative as whoring. Until I became the most expensive madam in Saint Louis.” She said the last with a healthy dose of derision. She smacked her lips. “I’m out of practice, drinking whisky. Wine isn’t the same. I see you’re one to be reckoned with.” She nodded to my empty tin mug. “Drink. There’s nothing worse than a lone drunk.”

  I let her splash bourbon in my mug but didn’t drink it. “Why did you stop drinking?”

  Rosemond leaned her elbows on her knees and stared off into the distance. “A lover.”

  “What?”

  “I stopped drinking because my lover didn’t like it.”

  “A lover?”

  She turned her head and glared at me. “I had lovers who didn’t pay.” She stared back into the middle distance. “Not many, but a few.”

  My stomach clenched as I realized who she was talking about. Kindle had started as a client and morphed into more. “Kindle asked you to quit?”

  Her glare was more brutal the second time. I defiantly held her gaze, and she exploded in laughter. “My God, you’re one of the most egotistical people I’ve ever known, including myself. Move.” She pushed against my shoulder. I stood and she lay down on her cot and closed her eyes. “Don’t forget your gun when you leave.”

  I placed the bourbon on the table and picked up the Colt.

  “If you decide to kill yourself, have the courtesy to do it outside so I won’t have to clean it up,” Rosemond said.

  “And if I use it on you?”

  Rosemond opened her eyes and grinned. “I’ll be beyond caring, now, won’t I? You won’t do it, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “You like me, though you don’t want to admit it. We’re alike, you and I. Survivors.”

  I laughed. “What have you survived? You choose to be a whore.”

  She closed her eyes. “Don’t kill me, and maybe one day I’ll tell you.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  I can’t decide if that smells delicious or if it makes me want to vomit.”

  Rosemond was a mess. Her dark, tangled hair stuck up in every direction, framing her wan face. Her normally rosy lips were pale and cracked, and dark circles underlined eyes squinting at the harsh morning light.

  “I made biscuits and coffee.” Rosemond clutched her stomach. I motioned to the chair. “Sit.”

  “Don’t yell at me.”

  I twisted my mouth to keep from laughing. I poured a cup of coffee in my mug from the night before.

  “What’s that?”

  I placed the coffee in front of Rosemond, who was staring at the paper and pen on the other side of the table. “A letter to Mary.”

  “The pious Sister Magdalena? Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Why not?”

  “She probably blames you for Kindle’s death. And chances are the Pinkertons are watching her like a hawk, hoping you’ll do just that.” She motioned to the letter.

  I knew she was correct but didn’t want to admit it. Instead, I grasped her chin and lifted her face to the light. “Your face is red from where Diamond hit you.”

  She moved her head away. “It’s nothing I haven’t covered up before. How long have you been awake?”

  “A while.” I continued to pay the price for the relief laudanum gave me for my menses. I was nervous and irritable and couldn’t sleep. I kept my cravings at bay by staying busy, keeping my mind occupied, and eventually I knew I would feel myself. Then the next monthly cycle would start. The time between the former and the latter was getting shorter and it was getting more and more difficult to resist the release of one tiny draught. Whisky helped, but I knew it was merely another vice that would be difficult to resist.

  Rosemond clutched her stomach again. “I hav
e to go clean your mess up today.”

  “What mess?”

  “Well, there’s the small problem of you threatening to shoot Diamond’s cock off with a stolen gun. You can’t threaten a man like that.”

  “I won’t help you next time.”

  “Brooding men are dangerous, and a thousand dollars is a lot of money. He knows you’re not my sister. Be careful of Diamond.”

  “I will, but he won’t tell that story. He’ll look the fool at the hands of a woman.”

  She seemed to consider. I placed a plate with a biscuit in front of her. She grimaced again. I served myself and sat across from her.

  “We need sorghum,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Sorghum syrup. I have an affinity for it.”

  “I’m sure Amalia has some at the store. They’re going to miss their gun, if they haven’t already, and Amalia’ll figure it was you soon enough. I need to take it back.”

  Rosemond picked at her biscuit and tentatively took a bite. She swallowed with difficulty and pushed the plate away. “What brought on your bout of biscuit making? Are you done wallowing?”

  “Yes.”

  I’d had plenty of time to think during my sleepless night. I’d cried until tears wouldn’t come, then spent hours staring mindlessly at a large knot in the wooden ceiling, going over the events of my life since leaving New York—the peaks and valleys, the deaths, the terror, the moments of happiness and joy—until I saw myself as the eye on the ceiling did: an addict wallowing in grief and self-pity, hoping for a death that would not come, but not brave enough to make it happen. The eye judged me and found me lacking. There was nothing I hated more than weak, helpless women, and I had become one quicker than I ever imagined possible. Grieving wouldn’t kill me, but betraying who I was would. I rose determined to survive my loss despite myself.

  “Good. Kindle would want you to move on.”

  “I can’t promise to not burst into tears at inopportune times.”

  “And I can’t promise to hold your hand every time you do.”

  “Trust me, I know.” I sat back and studied Rosemond. “I can’t decide if you are as cold as you pretend to be, or if it’s a carefully crafted facade.”

  Rosemond picked her biscuit to shreds. “Emotions have always betrayed me.”