Badlands

by Melissa Lenhardt

  Hankins leaned forward, met my eyes, and said with feeling, “I admire that. I saw the work you did on that boy and, as much as I don’t want to admit it, you did a fine job.”

  “I’ve done better. I’m out of practice.”

  Hankins smiled. “The papers said you were arrogant, but you sound almost humble. You’re quite skilled.”

  No surgeon worth his salt would have said my work on Thomas was “skilled.” Serviceable, yes, but well below my usual standards. Standing over Thomas’s severed foot, fumbling with the thread and needle, my hands awkward and stiff as I sutured his wound, I told myself it was because I hadn’t worked on flesh in so long, that needlepoint was a poor substitute. My heart raced with nerves and my hands shook, and I’d realized I hadn’t taken up the needle for surgery since General Sherman held a lantern for me in Fort Richardson’s hospital. The procedure took twice as long as it should have, and my fumbling and incompetence, while appropriate for a nurse out of her depth, haunted me still, and had planted an idea in my mind that was growing stronger, and more alarming, by the day.

  Hankins drank his beer and said, “I’m want to offer you the best of both worlds. You keep your assumed name; Graham is it now?”

  I nodded.

  “How many have you had since you left New York?”

  “Too many.”

  “You keep your name, and you become my nurse. You’ll attend me on calls on this side of the tracks, to establish that you are extraordinarily skilled, and to establish my mentorship. You’ll be a quick learner, obviously, and, will soon take patients of your own. You’ll continue on with your practice on the other side of the tracks. If there’s another case like the amputated foot, you will call me, so as to not raise suspicion. I’ll let you assist as much as necessary. You are better at sutures than I am.”

  “What will you pay me?”

  “Pay you? You’ll pay me half of whatever you get from your patients.”

  “My patients are able to pay little. It would take months to earn what you could get immediately from handing me over to the sheriff. Wouldn’t that be the smarter play?”

  “Heavens, no. I know myself well enough to know I’d drink through that one thousand dollars in record time. Taking half of your earnings in perpetuity will be much more lucrative.”

  “I could leave town.”

  “If you do, I’ll send Sheriff Hall after you. And we won’t bother with bringing you back alive. I told him who you are, by the way. He gave me the poster. He gets a cut of what you give me. Everyone benefits.”

  “Someone paid me last week with a kitchen table. What then?” I didn’t bother to inform him of my favorite in-kind payment: a small leather scabbard fashioned inside the top of my boot to secret the knife, newly sharpened, I had stolen at the Nebraska whistle stop.

  “I guess it’ll depend on if I need one or not.”

  “What exactly will my tasks be?”

  “Typical nursing tasks, as well as some doctoring over across the tracks.”

  “I’m not going to wait on you, wash bandages, or clean up vomit or diarrhea.”

  “Those are nursing duties.”

  “I’m not a nurse.”

  Hankins furrowed his brows and with a puzzled smile said, “You aren’t in the position to make demands.”

  “Am I not? You forget, I can ride into the next town and turn myself in.”

  “You’ll be taken back to New York and hanged.”

  I evaluated Hankins. Despite the fact that he was blackmailing me with the option of servitude or death, I didn’t think he was entirely bad. Most doctors of my acquaintance would have found some fault, no matter how small, with my work, not praised it. It told me more about him than he intended. I believed that with time, and my ability to charm when I wanted to, I could win him over.

  Then again, killing him would be easier.

  “What exactly have you heard about me?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a simple question, but I’ll be plainer. What have the newspapers written about me?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I’ve been told generalities, but I’ve never read an article. I take it back. I read one that was full of lies.” I thought of Pope and wondered how the penny dreadful of my adventures was selling.

  “You killed your lover in New York …”

  I chuckled and shook my head.

  “… And ran to Texas. You survived one massacre, to be captured by Indians when you were almost to Fort Sill.” Hankins blushed and wouldn’t meet my eye.

  “Go on.”

  “You were rescued by an Army major, another lover, and you two were on the run across Indian Territory when a Pinkerton caught up with you. Obviously, the article about you dying was a total fabrication.”

  “Obviously.”

  “The Major was caught on a riverboat about a month ago, and they suspected you were with him. That you got away. Which you did. How accurate is it?”

  “Not too far off the mark, to be honest. What else?”

  “Your major killed a lot of men to keep you safe. Some say he killed his brother, but no one believes it.”

  My throat thickened, and I stared off into space. “The things I’ve seen, and done, this past year … I thought the war …” I met Hankins’s eyes. “I never really understood what men, and women, were capable of. Kindle paid a high price for loving me. I’m sure I will eventually be held to account, too.”

  “Paid a high price? What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you heard? He was executed a few weeks ago.”

  Hankins jerked his head back. “He was?”

  “Yes. We got a telegram.”

  “Last I read, he was convicted of disobeying an order and sentenced to three months.”

  My heartbeat throbbed in my chest, my head, in every part of my body. I couldn’t hear, and could barely think. I focused on the man standing next to me—what was his name?—and said, “What did you say?” in a voice so low and strangled I barely heard the words myself.

  The man finished his beer. I drank from one of the glasses in my hand, wanting whisky, and revolted when the cloyingly sweet tea slid thickly down my throat. It was cool, and allowed me to speak clearly and see Hankins with focused eyes. “What did you say?”

  “Your major is alive and serving time at Jefferson Barracks.”

  I stared past Hankins at the edge of town. In the short weeks we had been there, the tents beside us had been pulled up, sold to a new settler, and moved to a new street farther out on the desert. The smell of fresh lumber would dominate until the dirt and grime traveled from the older streets to this one as it aged. Things moved fast in the West and could change in an instant.

  I faced Hankins. “When can I start?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Perfect.” I turned away from him and stopped. Harry Diamond and Salter were in a deep discussion on the edge of the crowd. Salter had his head bent down so Diamond could speak in his ear, but Salter’s eyes were on me. Salter nodded and Diamond looked in my direction. I inhaled and turned back to Hankins.

  “Who is the man Harry Diamond is talking to?”

  “Salter’s his name. He’s a Pinkerton.” Hankins leaned close. “Better stay clear of him.” He laughed and walked off.

  My breath came in short bursts. Salter a Pinkerton? Were he and Diamond speaking of me, or was I merely in their sight line? Or was this just another instance of me thinking the world revolved around me, as Rosemond said? Regardless, I couldn’t risk facing them, of Diamond and Salter seeing the fear I knew covered me like a second skin. I walked outside the tent and made my way to the candy booth from behind.

  Rosemond and Portia were laughing and talking as if they didn’t have a care in the world. They were a study in contrasts: effortlessly beautiful versus quietly handsome; vivacious versus demure; manipulative and soulless versus steadfast and principled.

  “What are you singing tomorrow?” Rosemond asked.

&
nbsp; “‘For the Beauty of the Earth.’”

  “To celebrate spring?”

  “Yes. I thought I would continue the theme.”

  “And will your husband’s sermon do the same?”

  “We haven’t talked about it. He has been distracted of late.” She paused, and continued. “Your dress is lovely. You put all the other women here to shame.”

  Rosemond leaned close to Portia. “Not a terribly difficult task, present company excluded.”

  Portia dipped her head. “Rosemond,” she whispered.

  I shoved the glass at Rosemond and she jumped. She pressed her hand against her heart and smiled, a slight blush creeping over her pockmarked face. “Helen! Where did you come from?”

  The edges of my vision darkened. Portia’s smile dipped slightly at the sight of me.

  “I saw you taking to Dr. Hankins,” Portia said.

  I somehow found my voice. “Yes.”

  “I suppose it was only a matter of time.” Rosemond drank deeply from her glass. Her eyes lit up. “That is wonderful. Do you like it?” She nodded to my own.

  I breathed deeply, the urge to run as far from Cheyenne as possible battling with the urge to retrieve my gun from the house and make good on my threat to kill her for lying to me. With hundreds of witnesses there would be no doubt to my guilt and conviction if I did, and with law-and-order citizens like Amalia Post on the jury, I’d surely hang. “She lied to me” would be a weak defense. No, Rosemond’s punishment needed to be a living hell instead of fire and brimstone.

  “Helen, are you feeling well?” Portia asked.

  I stared at the preacher’s wife. “No.”

  “Did Hankins upset you?” Rosemond said. “What did he want?”

  Hatred bubbled up, threatened to consume me. I inhaled a long, shaky breath. “For me to work as his nurse.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I had little choice. He knows—” I looked at Portia. “Do you mind? I need to speak to my sister alone.”

  Though taken aback, Portia agreed and left.

  When she was well out of earshot I moved close to Rosemond. “Salter is a Pinkerton.”

  “Who?”

  My brows furrowed. “Salter. From Grand Island?” Rosemond shook her head. “The man who threatened me at the hotel.”

  Her eyebrows rose in understanding. “How do you know he’s a Pinkerton?” I could see the flecks of gold in her worried brown eyes. I resisted the urge to gouge them out.

  “Hankins told me. Hankins knows who I am, by the way.”

  “What?”

  “He thought my work was quite good, too good for a nurse. It took little effort to put two and two together.”

  “I told you you should have let that boy die,” Rosemond said.

  “No. No more people will die to save my skin.”

  “What does Hankins want?”

  “I’ll work for him and he will take most of my earnings.”

  “Instead of turning you in?”

  “He doesn’t trust himself with such a windfall.”

  “That’s good.”

  “How is indentured servitude good?”

  “It keeps the noose from around your neck.” Rosemond’s brow furrowed and I knew her mind was working, calculating how to manipulate this best to her advantage.

  “Worried I won’t get to fulfill my end of our deal?” I said, the rage at learning about her deception too fresh and strong to mask. I shall never forget the expression of shock and dismay on her face.

  She hid it quickly, but her voice held the remnants. “I was trying to think of a way to convince you to stay. I assume leaving is your priority now?”

  I thought of the weeks I’d spent grieving for Kindle, her willful deceit. She’d been manipulating me from the beginning. It was time she learned what it felt like. I would stay, take my revenge on Rosemond, until Kindle was set free. Pretend I was still the grieving widow, deepen our bond, make her rely on me, love me like the sister I pretended to be, and abandon her without a word.

  I smiled. “I have nowhere to go, no one to go to. You’re stuck with me.”

  She pulled me into a strong embrace. With a relieved sigh she said, “I’m so glad.”

  I returned her hug, my gaze falling on Portia and Salter across the way, near each other but not together, both watching us.

  CHAPTER

  19

  Biding time wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. If I could have paid to leave immediately, which I could not, being in Saint Louis wouldn’t help Kindle. I wouldn’t be able to see him and though I assumed I would be welcomed back to Mary’s orphanage, there was no guarantee it would be a safe place for me to hide. Now that Kindle was caught, and the world knew I was alive, the orphanage might be watched for my arrival. When I mulled the question “stay or go?” I discovered not only was the safest decision to stay, but that I wanted to stay. The draw of practicing medicine again, even in Hankins’s twisted version, was too strong.

  May arrived on a wave of thunderstorms and train upon train of people seeking their fortune through legitimate and illegitimate means. Cheyenne’s population ebbed and flowed as passengers disembarked and moved on south to Boulder and Denver, and headed north and west to the mines. Enough were intrigued by Cheyenne’s potential that the town grew inexorably northward. Streets surveyed in March were dotted with tents in April and lined with wooden buildings in May. Fifteenth and Sixteenth Streets were slowly transforming from small false-fronted wooden buildings to more majestic brick and stone. Rosemond’s portrait business was growing, and her sign business was booming, as was Dr. Hankins’s practice, though Dr. Hankins’s workload was not.

  Hankins’s plan for me to aid him and apprentice lasted a week, the amount of time for him to realize I could do all the work and he could get most of the remuneration. There was little objection to me taking over Hankins’s practice: the women in town preferred a female treating them, even if it was a nurse, and the men who urgently needed Hankins’s services were rarely in a condition to object, bloody and in pain as they were from knife attacks and gunshot wounds. When I tied the final suture off, they were impressed with my work and, feeling magnanimous and light-headed with loss of blood, most like, occasionally gave me extra coin on top of the standard fee. It was in this way I was able to slowly secret a personal stash of money unbeknownst to Hankins, who took his portion off the top, and Rosemond, whom I combined my earnings with for household expenses and was slowly paying back for the clothes she’d bought me. Though she insisted payment wasn’t necessary, I didn’t want to be beholden to her in any way.

  With a few discreet inquiries on my and Rosemond’s parts, we discovered Salter was contracted with the railroad, investigating crimes that happened up and down the line or on the trains themselves. Salter disappeared from town without a word to me, and Rosemond convinced me I was seeing a threat where there wasn’t one. As the days wore on and Salter didn’t return, and Harry Diamond continued to pretend I’d never threatened to shoot his cock off, I began to feel safe again, if not entirely easy.

  Rosemond and I were so busy we rarely saw each other, nor did we have time to perform our respective household duties. On Amalia’s recommendation, Rosemond hired a stout, whiskery Swedish woman to come in twice a week and cook and clean for us. Ingrid spoke little English and took no interest in us other than our ability to pay her for a day’s work. She arrived, donned an apron, performed her duties, and left, with nary a word passing her lips.

  One morning, a little after dawn, I walked into the kitchen and discovered Rosemond sketching on a pad of paper, a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of her. She looked up from her sketch pad and smiled. “Hello, stranger.”

  “Please tell me there’s more coffee.” I placed Cora Bayle’s carpetbag on the table.

  “An entire pot.”

  I poured a mug and sat across from her.

  “What are you sketching?”

  “Portia. She’s com
ing today so we can get started.”

  I blew on my coffee and watched Rosemond work. Her hand was light on the pencil, her strokes long and sure. She tilted her head to and fro, pursing her lips and furrowing her brows as she worked. There were times I looked at Rosemond and didn’t recognize her from the woman I’d met on a Mississippi riverboat. Besides the obvious differences in dress—she wore men’s trousers more often than not, for climbing up and down ladders to paint signs on buildings—and the lack of paint on her face, her entire mien had softened into a sort of glow. Her eyes seemed less calculating, her smile more genuine.

  “What?” Rosemond looked up from her work.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re staring.”

  “Watching you work. Too tired to talk.”

  “Busy night?”

  “Lavina went into labor.” I warmed my hands on my coffee mug and tried to banish the memory of the woman’s screams.

  “What happened?”

  I looked up at the softness in Rosemond’s voice. “Some women handle pain better than others.”

  Rosemond nodded. “What did she have?”

  “A girl. Stillborn. Deformed.” My throat thickened and I couldn’t continue. For all of Lavina’s apparent disinterest in the baby, she’d looked down her body at me with expectation and hope when the baby delivered. Monique’s exclamation of disgust at the sight of the baby’s slanted eyes and deformed lip deflated Lavina and she lay back, turned her head away. I knew immediately the baby was dead but tried to spur it to cry anyway.

  Rosemond touched my hand and I opened my eyes, tears trickling from their corners. Rosemond didn’t say anything, only kept her warm hand over mine, ice-cold despite holding the hot tin mug. I felt monstrous, crying for the loss of the train passage to Saint Louis more than the death of an unwanted baby.

  “Have you ever been pregnant?” I asked her, desperate to reject her undeserved compassion in the cruelest way possible.

  Rosemond’s hand stiffened on mine. She sat back and took her pencil back up. “Of course. Few whores haven’t. I’ve never taken a pregnancy to term, if that’s what you’re asking. Have you? Been pregnant?” She said it mocking, sure she knew the answer.