Badlands

by Melissa Lenhardt

  “What’s that?” Zeke asked.

  Drummond held up the vial. “Morphine. It’ll ease your pain while Mrs. Graham here works on you.”

  “I cannot pay you for it,” I said. I gritted my teeth against my own pain, trying to mask my weakness from Drummond and my patient.

  “From one professional to another,” Drummond said with a sly smile. He held up the syringe. The young cowboy’s eyes widened in alarm at the needle.

  “I don’t think so,” Zeke said.

  I couldn’t tear my gaze from the brown liquid in the syringe. I imagined it flowing through my veins, releasing the ever-present tension in my muscles, dulling the pain I knew would lay me out for days, would keep me from going to Kindle. One dose would make travel on the emigrant train more bearable but would make a woman traveling alone vulnerable.

  “Maybe you need this more than the cowboy,” Drummond said with a knowing smile.

  “Give it to him.”

  “You sure?”

  I ignored him and said to the cowboy, “I can’t treat you here. We’re going to have to go to Dr. Hankins’s office.” Drummond pushed up the cowboy’s sleeve, hit his arm to raise the vein, and pushed the needle home. The cowboy cried out and turned green.

  Salter walked up with the man’s horse. Drummond removed the needle and returned the syringe to his case.

  With more gentleness than I expected, Salter helped Zeke stand. Before helping him onto his horse, Salter said, “I’m sorry about your arm, son. I’ll pay your bill.”

  Zeke’s legs buckled beneath him. “What about my lost wages?” he slurred.

  Salter boosted Zeke onto the horse and patted him on the leg. “If you lose your job, come find me at the Union Pacific Hotel.” He handed the reins to me. “I’ll leave your payment at the front desk. Unless you want me to pay Hankins? Five dollars?”

  “No,” I said. “The front desk is fine.”

  “If you need another dose, you know where to find me,” Drummond said.

  Salter and I watched the huckster return to the whores he’d been with when the commotion began. Clara took him inside.

  “He gives the whores a free taste to hook them, then sells it to them at a premium,” Salter said.

  “I know.”

  Salter looked down on me and studied my face. Did he see tension there from holding back the pain increasing in my abdomen? “Stay out of the alleys, Doc. Nothing good happens in the shadows.”

  I clicked to the horse and led him away. I went by Monique’s and told her I would return to check on Lavina and Thomas as soon as I could. We were crossing through the rail yard when a shadow stepped in front of us. “Mrs. Graham. How do you feel?”

  It was too dark to see his face clearly, but I recognized the voice. “I’m fine, Mr. Drummond.”

  He reached into his coat. “I thought you might rather get your dose away from prying eyes. Doesn’t look good for a doctor to be partaking, does it?”

  “I do not need your morphine, Mr. Drummond.”

  “Don’t you? I knew who you were the first time I met you.” Drummond’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.

  Fear and pain mingled in my stomach and I clutched at it instinctively. “Who am I?”

  “An addict.”

  Relief almost overshadowed the stabbing pain in my lower abdomen. He didn’t know me as Catherine Bennett. “I’m going to have to ask you let me pass. I need to help my patient.”

  Drummond laughed. “The cowboy can wait. He doesn’t feel any pain. Unlike you. I can help. I want to help.”

  I couldn’t help myself; I laughed. The thought that this man had my best interests at heart was too much. “You are reprehensible, preying on whores who have no hope.”

  “I help make their lives more bearable.”

  “Oh, you’re doing it out of the goodness of your heart?” I scoffed. “I’d be surprised if you had a heart.”

  Drummond’s expression changed in a flash. He drew his arm across his body and backhanded me across the face. The force of the blow spun me around and I fell heavily on my hands and knees. Zeke’s horse reared and bolted, jerking me forward by the hand still holding the rein. The leather strip whipped out of my hand and I fell forward onto my chest, which knocked the wind out of me.

  I lifted my head to gasp for breath and saw the horse trip on the railroad tracks, regain its footing, and continue on. Zeke tumbled over the side of the horse and hit the ground. Drummond turned me onto my back, pulled my gun, and tossed it aside. It hit the tracks with a metal clang. “The problem with women like you is you don’t know when to keep your mouth shut.”

  I tried to scramble back on my elbows, but my chest felt as if it were in a vise. I couldn’t breathe, my tight corset working against me. My vision swam as I clutched at my chest, ineffectively trying to loosen the corset beneath my shirt. Drummond knelt down and straddled me. I bucked against him, trying to dislodge him, while my hand reached down toward my leg, bent so I could access my knife. Drummond took my arm clutching at my corset, shoved my shirtsleeve up, and hit my arm a couple of times, while I continued to squirm beneath him. “You’re feisty, but you’ll be compliant soon enough.”

  I could barely hear through the pounding in my ears and my gasps for breath, but I felt his erection and knew what he intended for me.

  I saw the needle at the same moment I grasped the handle of my knife. “You’ll be begging to suck my dick for another dose,” he said. Drummond stuck the needle in my arm and pushed the plunger a moment before I stabbed him in the back of his shoulder. I bucked against him with as much power as I could muster. He screamed, reached for the knife, and flew backward off me as if plucked by the hand of God.

  I pulled the syringe from my arm and rolled over onto my hands and knees. I crawled away still clutching the syringe, the edges of the world dark from lack of oxygen. With a final, unsuccessful heave, I collapsed on my chest. I saw nothing but the hard metal of the railroad track, heard my heartbeat slow, the sound of fighting, the oof of a man being punched in the stomach, and finally the crunch of gravel beneath running feet. I closed my eyes and relaxed, exhausted. A sublime feeling of well-being flowed through me.

  I’m sorry, Kindle.

  Strong hands turned me over and fumbled with my clothes—the buttons of my vest, my shirt, and finally, the laces of my corset. I knew I should fight but didn’t have the strength. The man pulled the corset open and said, “Take a deep breath, Helen.”

  I did so and air, glorious air, filled my lungs. I tried to rise, but the man placed a hand on my shoulder. “Catch your breath first.” He held my hand and when my vision came into focus I saw who my savior was.

  “Reverend.” One side of his red face was dirty and he rubbed his abdomen.

  He helped me sit. “Better?”

  I nodded as the morphine seeped into the far reaches of my body. God, why have I avoided this for so long?

  “Can you stand?”

  “Not yet, I don’t think.” I lifted the syringe. It was three-quarters full. Drummond only managed a small dose. I pushed the plunger and the liquid shot out of the needle onto the ground. No need to tempt myself. I had a patient to take care of and it would be hard enough with the dose I’d received.

  “What is that?” the Reverend said.

  “Morphine. It’s Drummond’s new line. He tried to make me a customer by force.”

  The Reverend’s face darkened in anger, and he looked back toward Calico Row, his forehead creased in thoughtful concern. He turned back to me.

  “Did he violate you?”

  “No.”

  The Reverend sighed and shook his head in relief. “I’m glad I wasn’t too late.”

  I took a few deep breaths and stood with the Reverend’s help. I turned my back to button my shirt and found that they had been ripped off. The Reverend had managed to save my vest, so I pulled my shirt together as best I could and closed my vest.

  “I apologize for your shirt,” the Reverend said. “You w
ere turning purple.”

  “Buttons can be replaced.” I looked around the dark train yard. “I don’t suppose you have a lantern.”

  “No.”

  “Drummond threw my gun.” I turned around. “I’m not sure which way.”

  Reverend Bright picked up my carpetbag and handed it to me. The sound of broken glass explained the blots of wetness on the side of the bag that had been lying on the ground. I opened it and saw my small bottle of alcohol destroyed, and my carbolic powder gumming up in the liquid.

  A man groaned.

  “Zeke,” I said, pointing to a lump on the ground a little distance off. I hurried to my patient, trying to walk in a straight line, the Reverend on my heels. Zeke’s head was pillowed awkwardly on a railroad track. I slid my hand beneath his head and probed the base of his skull, relieved to find a large bump instead of the soft, pebbly sign of a crushed skull. “I fear his horse is gone for good. Can you help me with him?” I asked the Reverend, my words slurring together.

  “Can you?” the Reverend asked.

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  He took Zeke’s good arm and pulled him upright. Zeke’s legs gave way, but Reverend Bright wrapped the cowboy’s arm around his neck and supported him. I gently took Zeke’s broken arm and dipped below it to help the Reverend as much as possible. It had the added benefit of supporting my numb legs. Zeke’s head lolled around on his neck, finally settling back so if conscious, he would be staring at the stars. We continued on.

  “Where are we going?”

  “My house.”

  “Dr. Hankins’s is closer.”

  “Yes, but it’s more important I get his wound disinfected first. I have more carbolic at my house.”

  We labored on for a while in silence. My chest burned with the effort of helping hold Zeke up. The man was dead weight. “Let me,” the Reverend said, taking Zeke from me. It wasn’t until we were in sight of my house that the Reverend spoke on what I had little doubt had been plaguing his mind for a while.

  “Mrs. Graham, about what you saw …”

  “Reverend—”

  “It is something I’ve struggled against—”

  “Really, Reverend, I do not care about your struggles. I am not the one you should be discussing this with.”

  “My wife and I rarely—”

  “Oliver,” I snapped. “I do not want to know of something so personal. There is nothing special or unique about a man fucking a whore. Spare me your excuses and justifications. If you want to ask for forgiveness, talk to your wife.”

  I led him between the houses to the kitchen door at the back of Rosemond’s house. I hurried on to open the door and light the lantern.

  A pot of coffee was warm on the stove. One mug with dregs sat on the table across from an empty glass and a bottle of whisky. Rosemond had company and hadn’t cleaned up after herself. Typical.

  I cleared the table and moved the chairs out of the way and directed the Reverend to lay Zeke out on it.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Now, I must ask another favor.”

  Reverend Bright put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Of course.”

  “Find Hankins. You can try his office, but you might want to go by the Rollins House first. Tell him I’m treating a compound fracture and need some plaster of Paris.”

  The Reverend nodded.

  “First, sit for a moment,” I said, moving a chair toward him. I poured a cup of coffee from the pot and handed it to the Reverend. “Rest for a minute while I get the carbolic.”

  He nodded and drank. I took the lantern and left the room.

  CHAPTER

  22

  I grasped the top of the dresser to steady myself and took a few deep breaths. The morphine had dulled the pain in my stomach but dulled my senses as well. My eyelids were heavy and the sight of the bed in the mirror was almost too enticing to ignore. I closed my eyes against it and shook my head. I needed to eat something, drink a cup of coffee, and regain my focus. The clock ticked ever closer to my time of departure, and I had many tasks to complete before I left.

  I lifted my extra bottle of carbolic from the box of medicines Rosemond had given me and was returning to the kitchen when I heard a thump and scrape from Rosemond’s studio. She was awake. Best to tell her about the cowboy in the kitchen.

  Lamplight glowed through the crack in the door. I reached out to push the door open when I heard a moan of pleasure. I pulled my hand back as if burned. I couldn’t imagine who she would be entertaining in such a way. She spent her time painting and working on the sheriff’s portrait and now Portia’s. Surely she wasn’t servicing the sheriff. I recoiled in disgust and turned to leave. The sound of a woman’s voice stopped me.

  “Rosie, what are you doing to me?”

  My heart hammered in my chest. Not the sheriff, but Portia Bright. Was Rosemond seducing her against her will? I moved forward and opened the door wider, not sure what I expected to see. It took a moment to understand there was no undue coercion on the part of either woman. Portia was against the wall, her face tilted to the ceiling, eyes closed. Her wild hair was unbound from its bun, framing her glowing face. Her shirt gaped open, baring one naked breast. Portia held Rosemond’s head against the other one.

  Rosemond released Portia’s breast and said, “Loving you. The true you. Not the prim preacher’s wife you pretend to be.”

  “I’m not pretending.”

  “Not now, you’re not.”

  “No.”

  Rosemond kissed Portia deeply. Portia returned the kiss and let her hands move tentatively down to Rosemond’s hips.

  I turned my head away, ashamed at my voyeurism, ashamed at the longing it ignited in me, but didn’t move away.

  “I love you, Portia. I came all this way for you.” They kissed again, frantically, as if afraid their time was limited and they wanted to taste and feel as much as possible. Portia’s hands went to Rosemond’s shirt and worked at the buttons. Rosemond pulled Portia’s skirt up and pushed her hand between her legs.

  Portia groaned and said, “Yes,” in a breathless whisper. Her mouth turned up into a smile of happiness and contentment, like returning home after a long time away. She opened her eyes and caught sight of me over Rosemond’s shoulder. Incomprehension morphed into horror. “Oliver!”

  Rosemond followed Portia’s gaze, as did I. Oliver Bright stood behind me, staring wide-eyed at the sight of his wife in the throes of passion with another woman. For the first time since I’d known her, Rosemond looked terrified. Portia removed Rosemond’s hand from between her legs with one hand while the other tried to close her shirt.

  “Oliver, this isn’t—”

  The Reverend looked at me with dead eyes and said, “I’m going to find Hankins.” He walked out the front door without closing it and turned in the opposite direction of Hankins’s house and the Rollins House Hotel.

  Quiet sobs turned my attention back to the studio. Portia’d covered her face with her hands. Rosemond reached out for her and pulled her into her arms. “Shh, don’t cry. It’s okay.” She rubbed Portia’s back. “We can be together sooner than we thought.”

  Portia pulled away. Her striking eyes stared at Rosemond with incomprehension. “Be together?”

  “Of course. That’s why I came west. Gave up everything. To be with you.” Rosemond caressed Portia’s face. “I love you, Portia. I’ve loved you since the first moment I met you. You love me, too.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Portia said, voice rising. “We’re deviants. Unnatural.”

  “No. Stop it.”

  “Did you think I would leave my husband for you? If I wanted a Boston marriage I wouldn’t have left Saint Louis.”

  “He doesn’t love you. He’s a Calico Row john.”

  “Of course he is. That’s why we suit. He has his whores, and so do I.”

  Rosemond stepped back. “What?”

  Portia turned away from Rosemond and buttoned her shirt. Portia’s face was in profile, but I
could see her pained expression clear enough. It didn’t match the cold timbre of her voice. “You weren’t the first, or the last. But you were the best.” Portia grimaced with the last verbal dart; Rosemond’s expression behind her was one of astonishment and deep, deep pain.

  “You’re lying.”

  Portia faced Rosemond with a stony expression. “Good-bye, Rosemond.” She walked toward me, head held high. Her eyes met mine and, try as she might, she couldn’t hide her devastation. “Helen.” Her voice broke ever so slightly as she glided past and out the front door. Once on the street, Portia covered her mouth and ran.

  I stared at the empty street, too stunned to move. I knew Rosemond had been lying, been keeping something from me, but this? The strange caresses and comments Rosemond had made in front of Portia took on a new light. Portia would have known immediately I wasn’t Rosemond’s sister. Knowing where Rosemond’s predilections lay, of course she would think I was her new lover. Rosemond had killed Cora Bayle not to protect me at Kindle’s behest but because she needed me to make Portia jealous, to win back the woman she loved.

  Incredulous and disgusted, I turned in time to see Rosemond charging me. She wrapped her hands around my throat. The surprise of her attack and her forward momentum thrust me backward off my feet. I fell on my back and Rosemond’s full weight slammed into me. The breath I’d struggled for so recently was, again, pushed out of me. Rosemond squeezed my neck, her thumbs pressing into the hollow of my throat. Her face was red with the effort of strangling me. Weak from the morphine, I ineffectively clawed at her hands.

  “You did this on purpose,” she said through gritted teeth.

  I tried to shake my head, to say no, but could do nothing but slap at her hands and try to buck her off me. Panic welled inside me, but my energy ebbed. My hands were clumsy and heavy.

  A thump and crash from the kitchen distracted Rosemond enough that my increasingly ineffective bucks threw her off balance and loosened her grip. She fell forward and I hit her in the nose. My punch was weak but it surprised her, and that was all I needed. I grasped her neck and rolled her off me and beneath me. I didn’t bother choking her. I pulled my fist back and punched her in the face one, two, three times, and would have kept going until her lying, manipulative, pockmarked face was a bloody pulp if the groaning from the kitchen hadn’t reminded me of Zeke. I sat back, shaking my rebroken right hand, the hand I’d worked so hard to rehabilitate over the last year. I looked at the knuckles, which were a bloody, pulpy mess. “Son of a bitch,” I said, knowing finally that surgery as a profession was lost to me. I lifted Rosemond by the shirt and punched her in the face again as I hard as I could. I had the satisfaction of hearing her nose break. “That’s for lying to me about Kindle.” I dropped her back down to the floor and stood on legs as weak as a newborn calf’s. I kicked her in the side. “That’s for Cora Bayle.”