Badlands

by Melissa Lenhardt

  “How?”

  She lifted her eyes to meet mine. “By not being returned.”

  With those four simple words, Rosemond’s character became clear. She wasn’t unfeeling in the least; she felt too much, and worked assiduously to mask it, lest she be hurt. Again.

  “Cordelia?”

  Her brows furrowed.

  “Your sister.”

  “I know who Cordelia is.”

  “You told me about her last night.”

  “I did?” She stood. “You’ll have to get me drunk again to get anything else out of me.”

  “If your appearance is any indication, that might take months.”

  “You might be right.”

  We chuckled together, and I immediately felt shy. Sometime in the night, our relationship had changed from antagonistic to something like an uneasy truce. Rosemond must have sensed it, too, because she joked, “Are we becoming friends?”

  “We aren’t enemies, at least.”

  A heavy knock at the door broke up our conversation, a relief to us both, I thought.

  “Should I get my gun?” I asked.

  “It’s probably Amalia’s boy delivering the blank signs. You get it. I’m hardly presentable.”

  I opened the door to Reverend Bright, who wore an open, happy expression, and his wife, Portia, who gripped her hands together so tightly her knuckles were white. “Good morning!” Reverend Bright said. He and Portia caught sight of Rosemond over my shoulder. When I followed their gaze and saw her through their eyes, I was embarrassed for Rosemond. She looked like a hard-used woman. Portia’s mouth bent further into a frown, but the Reverend merely looked chagrined. “Are we too early?”

  “For what?” I said.

  “To visit Calico Row. Have you forgotten?”

  “Yes, actually.” I touched my forehead with my hand.

  “Oh, well. Is it a bad time?” the Reverend asked.

  Portia reached out with her hand. “Of course it is. You’ve been through a lot. We’ll come back another day.”

  “No, it’s fine. I need to get out and about. Let me clean up breakfast, and I’ll be ready. Would you two like a biscuit? We have extra.”

  “A biscuit would be delicious!” The Reverend stepped through the door.

  “Oliver, I fed you breakfast.”

  “Yes,” he said with a chuckle, “but you and I both know your biscuits aren’t very good.”

  Rosemond glared at the man and was readying to speak when Portia moved forward and reached out to Rosemond. “What’s wrong with your face?” She remembered herself and pulled back before touching her.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Rosemond said, trying for dignity.

  “It’s red. Did someone hit you?” Portia’s accusing gaze landed on me.

  I laughed heartily. “You think I hit her?”

  “It’s nothing. Excuse me while I get dressed for the day,” Rosemond said.

  The Reverend had been looking in the studio. “Is that your work?” He stepped inside and went to the easel without asking leave to do so. We followed.

  “Yes,” Rosemond replied. “It’s Helen, gazing out the train window.”

  The Reverend’s expression was all appreciation. “How wonderful. Look, Portia.”

  “Yes,” his wife said. “It’s very nice.”

  “Maybe while Helen and I go see the girls, you and Portia can talk about your portrait. Won’t you do some sketches or something first?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “I’d rather go with you,” Portia said.

  An uncomfortable silence followed. “How nice,” Rosemond finally said. She addressed the Reverend. “I have one order to finish and two others to start. We’ll have to start the portrait another day.”

  “I didn’t mean …” Portia began.

  “I know exactly what you meant. If you’ll excuse me.”

  We filed out of the room and Portia turned toward Rosemond as if to apologize again, but Rosemond walked to her room and shut the door with a solid thump. Portia blushed but regained her composure quickly.

  “This way,” I said.

  I served the Reverend a biscuit. Portia demurred.

  “How long have you been involved in your mission?”

  “It’s how we met. Would you like to tell the story, Portia?”

  “You’re a much better storyteller than I am, Oliver.”

  He smiled fondly at Portia. “A good thing for a minister, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed.” Portia returned her husband’s smile.

  “I left Missouri back in sixty-seven to minister to the railroad workers. Let me tell you, everything you’ve read about the hell-on-wheels towns was true. When the final stake was driven, I kept going up and down. I liked the itinerant life, you see. But to be that kind of preacher you have to be inspiring and”—he chuckled self-deprecatingly—“I’ve never been called inspiring.”

  “Oliver,” Portia chided.

  “No, no. It’s okay. If I hadn’t taken a hard look at my life and my ineffectiveness, I would have never met you.” He took her hand and squeezed it. He kept his eyes on his wife as he continued. “We met at church, of course. I was visiting a friend, seeking his counsel, when his wife introduced us. It took no time at all for us to discover we suited very well.” He patted Portia’s hand and looked up at me expectantly.

  “We bring people to the Lord by setting an example,” Portia said. “Our behavior is our witness. If someone asks, we will surely tell them about the Lord. But we do not preach to the sinners.”

  “It’s a novel approach,” I said.

  “Portia suggested it, and I have to say, it’s been more effective than I would have ever imagined. I’ve tried evangelizing and got run out of more than one Western town.”

  “What precisely do you do?”

  “Befriend them. Talk to them about cleanliness, nurse those who need care, help those who want to leave the life however we can,” Portia said.

  “The biggest problem we see is their alcohol and opiate addiction,” the Reverend said. “They need money to support it, and the easiest way is to sell their body.”

  I nodded in agreement. It was the same problem I’d seen in less reputable houses in New York City. Typically, the madam encouraged the addiction, all the better to keep her girls under her power. My face flamed as I realized that Rosemond’s giving me laudanum on the train, in Grand Island and after the Kindle telegram, fell into the same vein.

  “Helen, are you feeling quite well?” the Reverend said.

  “What?”

  “You went pale all of a sudden,” Portia said.

  I shook my head as if to clear it and smiled. “You’re a nurse, Portia?” I asked.

  “No more than any other woman. My knowledge is basic.”

  “She makes up for it in the care she gives,” the Reverend said, adoration clear in his expression and voice.

  “Shall we go?” Portia said, rising from the table.

  “Yes,” I said. “Should I get my gun?”

  “You have a gun?” Reverend Bright said.

  “Doesn’t everyone west of the Mississippi?” I said.

  “I don’t,” he said, scandalized, but Portia didn’t seem surprised in the least.

  “You’re a man. I’m sure you can defend yourself.”

  “It’s not that, it’s that I couldn’t imagine taking another man’s life.”

  I smiled wanly at him. “You’ve never been pushed to the point, Reverend.”

  I wedged the gun in my belt as much to keep Rosemond from returning it to the Posts as to see the expression on the good Reverend’s face when I walked out with it. He didn’t disappoint. I think Portia smiled, slightly. As satisfying and surprising as their reactions were, I couldn’t deny the underlying truth of my small rebellion.

  The soiled doves of Calico Row congregated in small groups outside their tents, slatternly and exhausted after a busy Friday night. Their jokes and conversations were loud and boist
erous, as if they were trying to convince themselves their lives were normal and they weren’t doomed to die an early death from disease, addiction, or violence.

  A large woman noticed us first and separated herself from the throng. “Well, well, who do we have here? A female gunslinger?” The women laughed, as they were required to do.

  “Stella, this is Helen Graham,” Reverend Bright said. “She’s a nurse.”

  “That gun says different,” Stella said.

  “Yeah, I ain’t never seen no nurse carry a gun,” another woman said. “You ain’t that female bandit everyone’s talkin’ about, are you?”

  Bright laughed too loudly. “Don’t be silly, Clara.”

  “You think you need protection from us?” Stella said, moving closer to me. She was a few inches taller than me but easily a hundred pounds heavier. Her skin was pale and soft, her waist cinched tight to highlight her expansive bosom. Stella’s face might have once been pretty, but it was marred with the broken blood vessels and red eyes of a woman who liked her drink.

  “From your customers,” I said.

  “Afraid they might mistake you for a Calico queen, are you?”

  “It’s not outside the realm of possibility. Drunk men do stupid things.”

  “Oh, listen to the fancy talk,” Stella said. She looked me up and down. “So, what are you doing here, Slim?”

  My breath caught, as a pang of grief shot through me hearing Kindle’s endearment in the mouth of this whore. I lifted my chin. Tears would signal weakness to this woman, and I was determined to fight them. “I’m here to offer my services.”

  The whore Bright called Clara sidled up to me. Her eyes were watery and red. She sniffed and tried to give me a seductive smile. “We don’t get many of your kind here,” she said, caressing my arm. “It’s my specialty.”

  “My nursing services.”

  Clara’s eyes lingered on my bosom. “Too bad.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve been longing for the soft touch of a woman. Come see me if you change your mind.” Clara moved away and winked at the Reverend and Portia.

  “Clara, show some respect,” the Reverend snapped. He shot a nervous glance at his wife, who remained stoic, with nary a blush touching her cheeks. She was obviously inured to the prostitute’s teasing. A good and necessary defense with this crowd.

  “We’ve already got medical services, courtesy of the good Dr. Hankins,” Stella said.

  “We thought you might like to be treated by someone who wouldn’t expect carnal payment,” the Reverend said.

  The woman laughed again. “Hell, Reverend, polishing that old cooter’s knob don’t cost us a dime,” Stella said.

  I was suddenly exhausted, tired of pushing my way into where I wasn’t wanted, and for what? A few dollars from hardened women who wouldn’t listen to me? These whores were a different breed from the laundresses of Fort Richardson and Camille King’s women on Twenty-Seventh Street. An aura of helplessness and hopelessness hung around their bravado that I was afraid I would never be able to crack. For the first time in my practice, I didn’t want to try. Whores might be the most numerous women in Cheyenne, but they weren’t the only ones.

  “I apologize. I was told you weren’t being cared for. If any of you would like to use my services, the Reverend knows where to find me.”

  I turned and walked off. Portia caught up with me and stopped me with a hand on my arm. “That was uncharitable.”

  “Yes, they were. But they have a doctor.”

  “I meant you.”

  “I’m uncharitable because I don’t want to poach another physician’s patients?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Enough of this. Why don’t you like me?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’ll grant you there are plenty of people in the world who loathe me, but at least I’ve given them a valid reason for their antipathy. What is your reason?”

  Portia’s face reddened from what I assumed was embarrassment at being confronted. “I do not loathe you.”

  “But you do not like me.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Precisely. To be frank, whether you like me is the least of my worries right now, and you’ve done nothing to endear yourself to me. I will at least endeavor to hold judgment on you until I get to know you better. I would appreciate it if you would do the same for me.” I held out my hand. “Agreed?”

  She shook it with a surprisingly firm grip. “Agreed.”

  “Thank you.” I continued walking. “As to the soiled doves, they don’t want my services, so I left.”

  “You don’t understand their ways. Their hard exterior is their armor.”

  “I understand whores better than you think.” I stopped and appraised Portia. Now that her expression had relaxed out of a constant state of puckered disapproval at the sight of me, I saw a different woman. She wasn’t beautiful by conventional standards due to the freckles dotting her face and the halo of frizzy hair that always seemed to escape her best attempts to tame her curls. But her mesmerizing eyes and the general pleasantness of her features made her a truly striking woman. “How do you know so much about them?”

  “I’ve worked with soiled doves for years.”

  “Trying to make them see the error in their ways?”

  “At first.”

  “Until you discovered their profession was rarely a choice they made freely, but something they came to for survival?”

  “Yes.” Portia studied me with genuine curiosity for the first time. “You sound like you’ve had a similar revelation.”

  From her innocent expression, I knew her husband hadn’t told her of my past, and I was relieved. I didn’t need to worry that another person was befriending me to further their own good fortune.

  “I worked with similar women in New York. With my father.”

  Not precisely a lie. My heart sank a bit. Would I ever again be able to share the unvarnished truth of my past without worry?

  I continued. “These women have little control over their life. They pretend they do, but we know the truth. If rejecting my services gives them a feeling of power and confidence, who am I to push them to do otherwise? They know I’m here, and willing to help. They’ll come to me eventually.”

  Portia nodded. “When Stella called you Slim …”

  “It was my husband’s nickname for me,” I said quickly, hoping to stave off tears.

  “My condolences.”

  A purple caravan pulled by two stout brown horses jingled its way down the street, interrupting us. A portly man drove the wagon, resplendent in lavender pants and purple coat that perfectly matched the wagon. He lifted his black derby from his head as he passed and said, “Ladies.” The painting of a nearly naked woman feeding a snake graced the side of the caravan, advertising Mugwump Specific, “For the Cure and Prevention of All Diseases of the Flesh.”

  “Is he selling a chastity belt?” I asked. “Otherwise, that’s a tall order.”

  Portia smiled wryly. “If he sold those he wouldn’t have any business, would he?”

  The man put the brake on his wagon and disembarked. He clutched at his backside and grimaced before grinning hugely at the gathered crowd. “Ladies, did you miss me?”

  “Well, if it isn’t Dr. Drummond,” Stella sneered. “There’s no takers here for your snake oil. It don’t cure nothing, unless giving my girls the shits counts. No one wants to poke a girl who’s got the trots.”

  “That can happen if you take too much of it. Lucky for you, the formula has been changed such that it not only decreases that unfortunate side effect, but has been proven to cure the pox within days.”

  “It’s a waste of our money,” Stella said.

  “You’d be better off buying sheaths,” I said, stepping forward. “Stopping the infection before it starts, as well as stopping the spread to your johns.”

  The snake-oil salesman’s expression changed so subtly I doubted anyone but me noticed it. Beneath his bonhomie exterior
lived a calculating, manipulative man. He took me in from head to toe, his gaze lingering on the gun in my belt.

  His smile widened and he stepped forward. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.”

  “That’s our very own gunslinger,” Stella said. “If your new stuff don’t work, we’ll send her after you.”

  “I’m a nurse,” I said.

  He held out his hand. “Theodore Drummond.”

  “Helen Graham.” His grip was strong, and I winced.

  “I’m sorry,” Drummond said, not sorry at all. “Did I hurt you?”

  I gripped and released my hand a few times. Since leaving the Mississippi and falling under sway of the opiate, I’d fallen out of the habit of massaging my hand, and it was stiff as a result. My mouth watered at the thought of laudanum. I felt my skin go clammy, and I swallowed. “No. It’s an old injury. I’m fine.”

  “Pain? Stiffness? I have something for that,” he said, motioning to his caravan.

  “I’m sure you do, Doctor Drummond,” I said, looking at the side of his caravan.

  He leaned forward and whispered, “Only in the very loosest sense of the word.”

  Drummond noticed Portia. “Mrs. Bright, how lovely to see you. I see you aren’t using the hair tonic I gave you.”

  “The ineffective tonic and draught you sold me at an exorbitant price, you mean?” Portia said.

  “The very one. Some hair is too much for even the best treatment. I can mix a stronger potion, if you like.”

  “I wouldn’t buy anything from you even if it promised to be from the fountain of youth.”

  Drummond raised his eyebrows, and I knew she had given him an idea for another ineffective, but profitable, potion.

  “I’ll be in town for a couple of days. Come see me if you change your mind.” He lifted his hat from his head and ducked into Stella’s tent.

  “I can’t believe I fell for it,” Portia said in a harsh voice.

  “Sometimes we believe what we want to believe, all evidence to the contrary.” I forced myself to not look at Portia’s hair, furrows of waves pulled tightly against her scalp. Her eyes met mine, and I was struck again by their singular beauty and uniqueness. Now that they had lost their animosity toward me, I was enchanted by the depth of intelligence I saw there.