My hands grew accustomed to the heat; at night I dreamed of billowing material and brimming buckets of clothespins. It was exhausting, mind-numbing work (the thought plagued me that there must be an easier way – I muttered this to myself about a hundred times a day) and I was too drained by evening to do much talking; instead I creaked at a slow pace in the rocking chair and listened to Branch and Axton, who had become my dearest friends in the world of Howardsville. I counted my blessings, which were meager, that they had claimed me. If not for them, I couldn’t have managed the energy required to get out of bed, especially after a night spent trying to block out the sounds of male customers being serviced, hour after unending hour.
The women at Rilla’s slept until early afternoon, leaving me the only person prowling the saloon by dawn’s light other than the intolerant cook. When she realized I wasn’t there to disturb her – I tried my damnedest to avoid contact with almost everyone – and that in fact I hardly spoke, her attitude thawed. I recognized that physical depletion contributed to my lethargy but it ran much deeper; the emotional pain clamping my heart was the main reason I found it difficult to breathe, or manage even a small smile for Axton and Branch, who were two of the kindest men (at least I thought) I’d ever known. Overall I did my best not to feel anything all through the long days and endless nights.
I had visited their claim shanty, as they called their cabin and its acreage, for the first time yesterday afternoon, a ten-minute wagon ride from Howardsville. They owned a pair of mules to pull the wagon and two horses for riding. Axton’s horse was an especially beautiful animal, a sleek, long-limbed, rust-colored gelding he called Ranger; Ax had raised him from the day of the foal’s birth, five years earlier. Ranger’s mother, Ruby, a solid sorrel, was Branch’s horse. I was immediately drawn to the animals. After Branch helped me from the wagon seat I approached Ranger and stroked his long nose, murmuring to him.
“You’ve ridden before?” Axton dismounted and stood holding the reins as I rubbed Ranger’s square jaws. The gelding exhaled through his nostrils and gently nosed my waist.
I peered up at Axton, shading my eyes with one hand. “I don’t know, but I’d like to try. I mean, if it’s all right with you.”
“You’ll be needing some trousers,” he added, gesturing toward my thighs with the leather lead line. “You couldn’t ride in them skirts.”
I’d been wearing pants when they found me back in July but my old clothes had been disposed of, at least according to Rilla; she told me they were beyond repair. I knew I would prefer pants to the layers of skirts I was expected to wear, which not only flapped around my calves and dragged irritatingly in the dirt, but inhibited my every movement; I would’ve had to hike them thigh-high to run. Nothing fit right; I rolled the waistbands of the skirts and underskirts so they didn’t fall past my anklebones.
The secondhand shoes I’d been given were too small and so I often worked barefoot, refusing to think about the weather growing cold enough to prevent this habit. I hated, with a blistering passion, the corset that latched around my midsection, but the day I’d rebelled and decided not to wear it I was far too exposed, my breasts heavy and wobbly without some sort of restraint. After catching more than one man eyeing my chest, I’d plodded back up the steps to my room and wriggled into the pinching, itchy garment.
“Maybe you have some I could borrow?” I’d asked Axton, and so this evening he brought me a pair of pants, rolled into a neat bundle tied with twine.
“I don’t know that a lady oughta wear trousers,” Branch said for the second time. He was trying his best to be polite, I knew, but he was really concerned. “I feel it ain’t proper.”
“Aw, Uncle Branch, she can’t ride in a skirt.” Axton was even more animated than usual, unable to keep from grinning at the prospect of a riding partner. “Why don’t we take the horses out tomorrow afternoon, what do you say, Ruthie?”
I couldn’t help but smile in return, admiring the joy in his green eyes. I adored Ax; since the second day I’d known him, I’d indulged in pretending he was my younger brother. This fantasy helped keep me functioning; I clung to the notion that if life at Rilla’s grew too unbearable, Axton and Branch would let me live with them at the claim shanty.
“I would love to ride tomorrow afternoon.”
Very few people Axton’s age resided in Howardsville. Branch had explained that while more homesteaders arrived every year, this deep in the territory there weren’t many women, other than those who worked in saloons. The men, overall, were a pretty rough lot, dirty and bad-mannered and best left alone, seeming to want nothing more in the evenings than shots of whiskey and the company of women, in that order. I steered deliberately clear of the main floor at Rilla’s once the sun went down, hiding in my room without so much as a book to keep me occupied. Sometimes I felt like I might start screaming and not stop.
The man with the ugly yellow beard drank in Rilla’s bar almost every night and eyed me more than anyone else, usually while wiping his lips with the back of his wrist. Although he hadn’t addressed me since that first night I could feel the weight of his eyes if I wasn’t careful to be out of sight after dusk. Once he’d grabbed his crotch while keeping his gaze pinned on me; to say he made me ill with discomfort was a gross understatement. Instinct suggested I should voice my concerns but I didn’t, not wanting Axton and Branch to worry over me more than they currently did. I already owed them more than I could ever hope to repay.
After the two of them bid me farewell and rode for home I crept inside, hurrying through the darkened kitchen, intending to climb the back staircase and bury my face in my pillow; now that I was in charge of laundry, my pillowcase was relatively clean. I sniffed at my armpits and grimaced, wondering when I would muster up the energy to pump and haul the water required for a full bath. ‘Full’ was not an accurate description; the tin washbasin was no wider than arm’s length and required the bather to wash in increments. My hair was dirty and limp, tied in a customary braid; I itched all over. I had just put my right foot on the bottom step when two things caused me to freeze.
The first, which struck with a cringing horror, was that my period was going to start any day – likely tomorrow, if the dull ache across my lower belly was any indication. The second was the sudden awareness of a woman bent forward over the hand-pump sink. Though I avoided interaction as much as possible, I felt a sharp, concerned pang. Almost before I knew I’d moved, I was resting a hand on her shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
She acknowledged my presence with a small huffing sound. In the dimness of the otherwise empty kitchen I recognized Celia Baker, a plump, dark-haired woman with breasts the size of ripe watermelons; I only knew her name because she had been considerate enough to introduce herself more than once. She was probably about a decade older than me, pretty but somehow hardened, with observant gray eyes. Her full, sensuous lips were her best feature but she was missing four front teeth on the bottom row and seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time pressing the tip of her tongue there. She didn’t answer my question.
“What’s wrong?” I pressed, whispering, although I needn’t have bothered keeping quiet. No one would ever hear us all the way back here what with the chatter and thumping music from the main floor. But I felt like she deserved privacy.
“I had a twinge,” she muttered, remaining tipped forward. Seeming impatient, she swept hair from her face, tucking it behind her ears. She wore a gown with a low neckline edged in tiny crystal beads, which tinkled like fairy bells when she moved. She growled, “Goddammit,” and plucked a fake beauty mark from her face; it had fallen from her cheekbone to her bottom lip. With an angry movement, she flicked the paste decoration into the washbasin.
“Is there anything I can do?”
At this she released a throaty laugh and then drew a long breath. With a tone of quiet bitterness, she muttered, “What’s been done is done, and I gotta live with it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked,
wondering why I was bothering. Her business was none of mine but I found I couldn’t just walk away and leave her alone in the dimness. The moon was new tonight, the sky as black as charcoal. I couldn’t help but feel that my soul, at present, was every bit as abandoned by the beauty of the moonlight.
“It’s nothing,” she insisted, but then she heaved a little, covering her lips with the back of one hand while the other rode low on her belly, and just like that, I knew.
“You’re pregnant,” I whispered.
“I’m caught,” she snapped, and although I was not familiar with the phrase I knew it meant the same thing. I could tell she was crying and trying to hide it and so I kept quiet, my hand resting lightly on her back. At last she whispered, “I was too much a coward to get rid of it when I had the chance. And it’s too late now.”
I didn’t know how to respond. Her dress felt slippery and my callused palm kept catching on the sleek material. She gulped, hiding her face; her voice emerged slightly muffled. “I know the poor little thing’s daddy, imagine that. Not many a whore would know such a thing, but I do. I was fool enough to save myself for him when he was in town last spring. I was half in love with him, I suppose.” She issued a disgusted sigh. “And me a woman who should know far better. I am a goddamn fool, many times over.”
“Where is he now?”
“God only knows,” she said darkly. “He visits this town on his circuit, maybe three times a year. He had his fun with me. He never figured I’d get caught by him.” She grumbled, “Fuck the well-hung son of a bitch anyhow. I knew I wasn’t careful enough. Dammit. Fuck me in a fucking potato sack.”
In other circumstances her creative cursing would have made me laugh; just now I was too concerned. “What will Rilla say?”
Celia eased back and smoothed both hands over her stomach; this movement, such an instinctive maternal gesture, tore at my heart. Her enormous breasts were harnessed high in a corset, showcasing about an acre of cleavage. She smelled like stale sweat but even so I felt the urge to hug her. Despite her tough words and manner of speaking, she seemed so terribly vulnerable. She finally answered, “Rilla won’t force me out. Tilda’s been caught before. She sent the child back east on the train, in the company of a do-gooder mission woman.”
“How can I help you?”
Celia’s expression shifted as a small but genuine smile elongated her mouth, the first I’d ever seen on any of the women’s faces. “You’re a kind woman, Miss Ruth. I don’t know heads or tails of your story but you’re in despair, I can tell.”
“Never mind me,” I mumbled, surprised she had noticed me at all. “I will help you if I can. Just tell me what to do.”
“Help me with this bellyache,” she groused. “I can’t hardly stand the smell of food but once I head out to the floor and grab a fella, I’ll be stuck in my room ’til morning. I best eat now.”
“You can’t continue to work when you’re pregnant!” I stared at her with true horror.
Celia rolled her eyes and replied briskly, “I can if I want to live under this roof.” She studied my face, which must have registered open shock; she snorted a laugh. “Don’t look so stunned, girl. I’m caught now, so at least I don’t have to worry about getting caught again for a few more months anyhow. It’s always a real sore worry for us girls.”
I finally realized there was no point arguing.
“Silver linings,” I muttered.
“You’re a funny little thing,” she said in return, and surprised me for the second time by kissing my forehead. Her breath smelled faintly of mint and I listened to my gut and hugged her close, for just a second. Her breath tickled my ear as she whispered, “Let’s keep this a secret, for now. In another month I won’t be able to hide it no more, but for now, promise me?”
I nodded, drawing away.
She lowered her chin and studied me at close range. “Your name’s Rawley, ain’t it?”
I nodded again.
“Huh. Well, if you’re related to the marshal then you’re related to his child.”
“How do you mean?” I did not follow.
“Marshal Rawley is the one that got me in this state,” she explained, breasts rising and falling with a deep sigh. “He’s due back this way in the next month or so. Could be you’ll recognize him as your kin,” and I thought she sounded cautiously hopeful.
“Marshal Rawley, the lawman?” I clarified, my heart throbbing so hard I could barely hear my own voice. Branch and Axton had spoken of this man, speculating that he might know someone connected to me, someone who could explain why I was alone in Montana Territory.
“His given name is Miles and he’s the marshal, yes,” Celia confirmed. “He won’t ever know I got caught by him, but he’s the daddy all the same.”
“What do you mean? You won’t tell him?” I demanded.
Celia laughed, heartily this time, as though I’d just told her an unexpectedly good joke. “Of course I won’t tell him. Are you half-witted, girl? Shit. Miles ain’t a bad sort, as men go, but I know men. And no man – dirt poor or with the means to buy an empire – would trouble himself for a whore’s child.”
I felt hot and sweaty, more upset than the situation should warrant. “But it’s his child, too. Damned right he better ‘trouble’ himself.”
She made a clucking sound and swished out her skirts, in preparation to end our conversation and get back to work. Amusement colored her tone. “Whoever you are, you must’ve been raised a lady. But that ain’t the attitude out here, girl. I know my place.”
“You have to tell him. He should know the truth. He could help you.”
Celia shook her head, polite but firm. “I’d be much obliged if you’d keep my secret, at least until I can tell Rilla.”
And I had little choice but to promise I would.
Chapter Four
THE NEXT AFTERNOON I WAS WEARING HIS TROUSERS WHEN Axton rode Ranger up to Rilla’s Place. Thrilled at the prospect of riding with Ax, I’d hurried through my daily work before scurrying to my room to shuck my skirt and underskirt, next tucking my blouse into my borrowed pants. I had an immediate problem, realizing after examining the strange pattern of buttons on the waistband that I required suspenders – and in a building full of women, there were no suspenders to be had. And so I improvised, journeying back to the laundry shack and digging up a length of rope, which I knotted around my waist, effectively creating a belt. I was wearing my too-small shoes and longed for the kind of hard leather boots Axton wore, knee-high and sturdy, made for fitting neatly into a stirrup.
“You look real nice, Ruthie,” Axton said, half-teasing, as he halted Ranger and eyed my boyish outfit. I stood in the shade of the overhang on Rilla’s front veranda and felt a smile tug at my lips, which had been his intent. This early in the evening the foot traffic to and from the saloons was light, though the elderly man who sat on a stool near the piano and played the fiddle, night after night, was already sawing out a melody. The day was fair and sunny, as usual, with little wind, and the anticipation of riding a horse created within me a small beat of real excitement.
“I really don’t, but thanks all the same.” I harbored no illusions about my appearance. I was surrounded daily by women who sold their bodies for a living and whose ample breasts and curving hips were constantly on display; by night, I dug my fingers in my ears to muffle the grunts and moans, the steady thumping, filtering through the thin walls. The sounds of sex made my body ache. Even when I felt like I could cry no more for what I didn’t know, what I couldn’t remember, when my head throbbed and my eyes stung – all the sobs I held inside throughout the day came hurtling out by night.
“You do look nice,” Axton insisted, holding the reins in his right hand, forearms crossed at the wrist and braced on his saddle horn. Ranger snorted a loud breath and stepped delicately backward, as though anxious to keep moving. The late-afternoon sun was gorgeous on Ranger’s rusty hide and picked out copper highlights in the unkempt hair visible at the back of Axton�
�s neck, beneath the brown, wide-brimmed hat he wore. With the sun backlighting him, his shoulders appeared all the more wide and strong; I reflected again that Axton had no idea just how appealing he really was.
“You look like a cowboy,” I observed, and his eyebrows lifted.
He contradicted, “I got no experience with cattle.”
“Trust me.”
“Here, climb on up. Uncle Branch said Ruby would be a good horse for you to ride at first, but she’s at home.”
So saying, he extended his left hand and helped me step into the stirrup on that side, shifting his foot and then swinging me up with easy grace. I settled just behind the saddle and caught hold of his narrow waist. My long braid hung down my back, slapping my spine as Axton heeled Ranger to a steady trot to take us beyond the town limits. I was thankful the claim shanty was to the north so we could avoid riding through the rows of dirty canvas tents where many of the railroad workers lived, south of Howardsville. They were a mobile work force, hence the temporary lodging, and most had a bad look – the yellow-bearded man among them. The type to drag a woman into an alley and feel no remorse about what happened next.
“The girls at Rilla’s were laughing about how I looked,” I admitted to Axton. None of them were openly hostile – since our conversation in the kitchen Celia had actually been downright friendly – but the rest of the women regarded me with either wariness or amusement. One, a woman named Lucy, commented on how much time I spent with Axton and asked if I was planning to make him into a man. If so, she said to send him her way directly after.
Way Back Page 4