The Saloon Girl's Journey (Texas Women of Spirit Book 3)

by Angela Castillo

  Mrs. Miranda had been cooking something in her giant pot, and Johnny, Doctor Ebenezer, and a few other members of the troupe were already lined up with bowls in their hands. Darla rose to get her share, but turned back to Ketzia. “Why doesn’t your family eat with the rest of us?”

  Ketzia folded her arms. “You eat white folk’s food. Just like our people only marry within our group, we also have rules about food and how it is prepared. It’s part of our faith.”

  “I see.” Darla had woken every morning to pray and read a few words from her worn Bible. Should I be doing more? “Where do you go to church?”

  Ketzia lowered her eyes. “Doctor Ebenezer has a little prayer service for the troupe on Sundays. Our people are not allowed in town churches. Even if we were . . . church for us is different. We left all the gypsy churches behind, in Russia. Now our church is inside here.” She tapped her heart.

  A lump rose in Darla’s throat as she remembered Sundays from a not-so-distant past. Churchgoers would stream from the building, giving her scandalized glances. Not that she blamed them. She’d thought nothing of standing outside in petticoats with crimson garters and skirts cut above her knees. Though some of the men who’d given her the most aggrieved stares from beside their wives on Sunday mornings had whistled the loudest when she danced on Monday nights.

  “Are you thinking about your man?” Ketzia gave her a sympathetic smile.

  Darla glanced around, realizing she was standing stock-still in between the fire and the food line. She hastily grabbed a bowl, allowed Miss Miranda to fill it, and went back to sit beside her friend.

  “No, I wasn’t thinking about Ethan. My old life . . . I don’t want to go back to that place ever again, even in my mind.”

  “The doctor always says the past stays with us so we won’t trip up in our future,” said Ketzia. “He’s wise, for a white man.”

  “The troupe seems to trust him.”

  Ketzia pulled off a gold bracelet and spun it around her finger. “Yes, we do. He has kept food in our bellies and money in our pockets, and treated us more fairly then any other mountebank we have worked for. I suppose you could say he has proven himself.”

  Darla shivered as a breeze sifted through the thin material of her dress. Though thankful for the quick friendship that had sprung up between herself and Ketzia, she wondered if she could truly trust the doctor.

  15 BRAMBLES

  Fog hung in clouds over the fields, but even the thickest patches couldn’t hide the bright green hills. Spring was coming. Ethan always thought of the season as a tall woman with clothing woven from willow branches, strewing wildflowers through the woods with graceful sweeps of her arm. She has flowers in her golden curls, and dimples that flash when she smiles.

  Ethan shook his head. Darla again. He couldn’t push her from his thoughts, not even for a moment.

  Trees parted to the left, and he rode into a clearing. Someone camped here recently, maybe even last night.

  He dismounted and hunched over, examining the ground. Giant marks rutted the ground, most certainly created by large, heavy wagons. The ground in one area was churned and furrowed from the hooves of at least a dozen draft horses.

  The fire pit in the middle of camp was still smoking. Only a few inches down, he found warm embers. After coaxing the flames back to life, he toasted his own bread on them. A strange comfort filled him. Perhaps Darla warmed herself by this very fire.

  “We ought to hurry,” he told Jack, who was pulling up tender shoots of grass at the clearing’s edge. “There’s no reason we can’t catch up with them by tonight.”

  A nagging voice wormed its way into his mind. And if she doesn’t want you to find her? What then?

  Ethan tidied up from lunch, raked dirt back over the fire, and climbed on Jack.

  The fog gradually burned away, leaving fields brimming with violet Spiderworts, pink primroses, and in some places, acres of bluebonnets stretching out like waves of the ocean.

  “No other land could have flowers prettier than Texas,” Ethan murmured.

  Brush grew thicker on the sides of the road. Oak and elm trees pressed in, boughs embracing to create a leafy tunnel over the lane.

  Ethan stopped to take a drink from his canteen. “We’ve made pretty good time, Jack. Shouldn’t be much longer.” He placed the container back in his pack.

  Loud crackles sounded from the bushes, growing closer. Must be a deer.

  A horse crashed though the trees in front of them and bolted across the path. Jack tossed his head and danced to the side.

  “Easy, easy,” Ethan held the reins with one hand and patted Jack with the other. “Calm down.”

  The other horse lumbered off through the underbrush and disappeared.

  Ethan spoke soothing words to his horse while he considered the situation. The animal hadn’t been a draft horse, like the ones pulling the caravan. It was a sturdy riding mount with a plain saddle and bridle, the kind any local farmer could have owned.

  Ethan peered down the path of broken bracken the horse had left in its wake. “Jack, I think we need to see what’s going on over here.”

  Deep hoof prints in the soft earth made backtracking easy. Ethan ducked down to avoid low-hanging branches. The horse hadn’t bothered to follow any man-made path in its mad dash through the trees.

  A low moan came through the woods.

  Jack snorted and jerked his head, the whites of his eyes showing.

  “Smell something you don’t like?” Ethan pulled his shotgun from its saddle holster and slid down from the broad back.

  Only a small ways in and he stopped short. A man’s boot protruded from a clump of bushes.

  Ethan stepped closer and nudged it with his toe.

  Another moan sounded from inside the brush.

  Pushing into the sticks, Ethan found the owner of the foot, tangled in the brambles. He put his gun back into the holster on Jack’s back and pulled out his Bowie knife. Hacking away at the brush, he freed the man, one branch at a time.

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  The only answer was a low sigh.

  His efforts finally allowed him to clear the man’s face, which was pale and sagging with wrinkles. His hair would have been colored salt-and-pepper if a large wound on his forehead hadn’t darkened it to a sticky scarlet.

  “We’d better get you out of here.” Ethan untangled the remaining thorns from the man’s upper torso. He drew a clean handkerchief from his pocket and shook his head. Not big enough. Returning to Jack, he pulled his only shirt from his pack. As he tore it into strips, his finger brushed against a row of coarse stitches where a hole had been mended in the sleeve.

  Darla did that. He knew it was her work because she was the woman least handy with a needle in Downs house and she’d apologized for the quality of mending when she’d returned it. He didn’t care about the haphazard stitching; he liked having something she’d touched so close to himself.

  No one can fix the shirt now. Would a similar fate be in store for the feelings that had grown in his heart over the last few months?

  Ethan folded the cloth and pressed it against the wound. After a short time, the flow of blood turned to a trickle. He wrapped another strip of his shirt around the man’s head to hold the makeshift bandage in place.

  Rocking back on his heels, he watched the cloth. Blood seeped through to make a dime-sized splotch, but grew no bigger.

  The man’s eyes fluttered open. “Hey,” he said in a weak voice. Moving his head, he winced.

  “Yeah, best not to do that yet.” Ethan rolled up what was left of his shirt and placed it beneath the man’s head. “I’m Ethan Downs.”

  “Frank Duncan.” The man moved his hand as if to offer to shake, and then clutched at his side. “Ouch! That blasted horse! Rabbit ran right under his hooves and spooked the daylights out of him. Don’t know how long I’ve been laying here.”

  Ethan glanced over at the blood stain on the dirt beneath the brambles. “Not for long.
Or you might not be alive to talk about it.” At fifteen, Ethan had worked for a farmer. One of the man’s hired hands had been pinned by a thresher. The man had been alone in the field, and had bled to death before Ethan had found him.

  The blood pooled on the forest floor here was almost as abundant. Good thing I don’t have a weak stomach. “If I hadn’t seen your horse thundering down the path, I would have kept going.” He held his canteen to the man’s lips.

  Mr. Duncan guzzled the water. After he had his fill, he pushed himself up on an elbow, but quickly sank back down. “Oh, I’m seeing the little stars shining bright, that’s for sure.”

  “You lost some blood there.” Ethan craned his neck to look into the trees. Not another soul in sight.

  “I was by myself, on my way to town,” the elderly man explained. “But my house ain’t far from here. Jerusha’s my wife. She knows a bit about doctoring. She’ll help me if I can just get to her.”

  “All right.” Every moment Darla was riding further away, and the road ahead held dozens of twists and turns. Surely the show’ll set up shop in the nearest town. Jack’s fast. I’ll make it. He couldn’t very well leave Mr. Duncan in the woods by himself.

  Ethan examined the cloth around the man’s head. The blood stain hadn’t grown any larger. He pressed his lips together and nodded. “This is going to be tough, but if your house is as close as you say, it would be better to get you there and find some help.”

  Mr. Duncan closed his eyes. “Sounds best.”

  Ethan grabbed Mr. Duncan’s arm and hooked it over his own shoulders. He pulled the man to a sitting position. Mr. Duncan howled and pressed a hand to his side again.

  Pulling the homespun shirt up, Ethan found a reddened patch of skin.

  “Yep, you banged it up pretty good. You’ll have a real nice bruise there by tomorrow, Mr. Duncan.”

  The man gritted his teeth as Ethan prodded the area with gentle fingers. “Musta landed on a rock,” he grunted.

  “You might have cracked a rib, but I don’t think so. Of course, I’m not a doctor.” He hoisted Mr. Duncan up once more. “Are we ready, then?”

  Mr. Duncan grimaced. “I’m not sure. I feel like Old Nick’s dancing on my innards. I’ll do my best.”

  With a bit of effort and more than a few choice words from the old man, Ethan finally got him up on Jack’s back. He led his horse down the path indicated by Mr. Duncan, stopping every few steps to make sure he was secure in the saddle.

  The old man’s face changed to various shades of red, and he moaned when Jack stepped a bit too heavy on the rough dirt path. Ethan could tell he worked hard to hide the bulk of the pain he must be enduring. He’d shift his right or left hand when they’d come to a fork in the path. Ethan would trudge onward after cutting a section of bark from a nearby tree to make sure he could find his way out.

  Finally, the scent of smoke tinged the air, and clucks of chickens reached Ethan’s ears. A small brown house appeared in a clearing. A wizened old woman bent over a garden, pulling weeds in a methodical fashion. Her hair was smoothed back into a little white knot at the nape of her neck. Though made of simple cloth, her clothes were tidy and well mended.

  The old woman’s head snapped up as the small party crashed through the trees. Her gaze landed on the crumpled man in Jack’s saddle, and she leapt to her feet. “Oh Frankie, what happened to you? Oh my lord, was it bandits? Are you a bandit?” This question was directed towards Ethan. She reached over and grabbed a hoe, a dangerous glint in her faded blue eyes.

  “No, no,” Mr. Duncan said, chuckling a bit as Ethan lowered him from the saddle. “It’s that blasted horse. Got spooked. I suppose I lost him. And good riddance.”

  As if in reply, the runaway horse trotted around the side of the chicken coop, dipped his head, and pulled a mouthful of clover from the ground. He looked up at the cluster of humans, chewed a moment, and then swallowed.

  “I’ve never seen a horse look so smug,” said Ethan.

  “Told you not to try to ride that animal, Frankie Duncan.” Mrs. Duncan walked over and scooped up the animal’s trailing reins. “Best let this nice man help you inside so I can check you over.”

  She jerked at the horse’s halter. “And you better consider yourself lucky I don’t shoot you and sell you for dog meat.”

  Ethan helped Mr. Duncan through the small door. The one room house had a cast-iron stove in one corner and a bed in another. A wooden chest, two chairs and a table completed the furniture collection.

  “Take him over to the bed. Hopefully he won’t bleed out on the way there.” Mrs. Duncan’s tone was irritated, but her eyes were full of concern.

  Ethan stooped to keep from hitting his head on the low roof. He climbed up the old-fashioned step-stool and hoisted Mr. Duncan on to the four-poster bed.

  Mr. Duncan rolled over and lay flat out on the bed. “Oh, I am glad to be here and not out in that thorn bush! Lordy, I thought I was a goner!”

  “You’re too cantankerous to keel over that easy.” Mrs. Duncan pulled off her husband’s boots and covered him with the worn blanket. She poured water from the stove into a dish and brought it to the bed, along with some clean cloths.

  “I’m going to take a look. Good patch-up job, by the way,” she said to Ethan as she examined the bandage.

  “Thank you. It started out as a nice shirt, too.”

  When she pulled back the cloth, a hand crept to her cheek. “Land sakes, Frankie!”

  She turned and studied Ethan. An old clock on the mantle ticked away several seconds before she spoke, this time in a softer tone. “I thank you for saving my Frank’s life.”

  “Oh, anyone would have done it.” Ethan shrugged. “It was just me that happened by.”

  “God sent you, and that’s the truth.” She patted at the wound with her cloth. The gash was about two inches long beneath the blood, and gaped open wide enough to fit a penny inside, lengthwise. The lump beneath it had already turned a purplish-green.

  “Ah, Frankie, you could never do things halfway.” Though an admonishment, the words were delivered in a sweet, soothing tone. “I’ll have to stitch it closed-- we don’t want that handsome forehead all marked up. But I’ve done it before, haven’t I?” She traced another scar on Mr. Duncan’s temple with a leathered finger.

  Ethan rocked back on his heels. His heart urged him to jump on Jack and gallop off to Darla, now that his passenger had been delivered.

  Mrs. Duncan’s hands shook while she attempted to thread a needle. She held it out to Ethan. “Would you mind? It’s hard for me now, in this light.”

  I can’t leave. Not yet. Ethan took the needle. “I’ll stay and help you get the stitching done.”

  “Thank you, son. Won’t take me long.”

  Flickering candles had replaced the daylight by the time the little procedure was completed.

  Mrs. Duncan served Ethan a steaming bowl of stew that had been simmering on the stove. “Might as well stay the night. Won’t do to bluster into those woods with the dark upon you. We have a loft upstairs, where my boy sleeps. He’s out of town for a few days, so you’re free to use it.”

  Ethan nodded glumly. He could only hope the medicine show would linger in town a bit longer.

  Mrs. Duncan settled into a rocker that must have been made when time began, cupping her own bowl of soup in careful hands. “So, what brings you to our neck of the woods?”

  “A woman.” Ethan saw no reason to hide the truth, and found surprising comfort in speaking the words aloud.

  “I see.” She sipped her stew and then contemplated her empty spoon in the firelight. “You from Dallas, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a big place.” She gave him a slanted look. “Lots of ladies to choose from. What makes this girl so special? She must be awful pretty.”

  Darla’s smile flashed into Ethan’s mind like a shooting star. “She is beautiful, but, ah, there’s something more. When she walks into a room, everything changes.” He ru
bbed his chin. “The colors get brighter.”

  A slow smile spread across Mrs. Duncan’s wrinkled face. “Hmmm. She sounds pretty wonderful.”

  “It’s not only all that. She has such a caring heart. Tries to find the worth in people, show them they have something great inside of them. So many girls worry about how their hair looks, or keeping up with the latest clothing styles. That’s not Darla. She wants to help everyone.”

  Mrs. Duncan patted his hand. “Sounds like the two of you make the perfect pair.”

  16 FIRST ACT

  “Hup!” One of the zanies--Darla never could be quite sure whether it was Simon or Aaron though both flirted with her shamelessly-- tossed flaming batons into the air.

  “Hup, hup.” The other zany caught them and tossed them back. The movements were fluid as walking, breathing. A part of every day life.

  Hands and flames moved faster and faster. The crowd held a collected breath of wonder.

  “Hup!” The clowns somersaulted forward, landing with even thumps on the rough wooden boards of the stage, each catching two still-lit batons.

  Darla applauded along with the audience. Though the flames burned brighter when the brothers practiced at night, the energy and awe of the crowd made the act even more exciting. Behind the stage, an expansive field of newly-planted corn flowed as far as the eye could see.

  The next segment belonged to Miss Miranda. The stately coils of hair, usually piled high on her head, had been transformed into thick braids that hung down over each shoulder, almost to her knees. A deep purple robe was wrapped around her and she wore silver slippers with pointed toes. The transformation was so complete Darla would never have guessed this could be the same genteel woman, except that she’d helped braid the dark hair this morning.

  Doctor Ebenezer stepped out ahead of Miss Miranda and bowed to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will now show you the creatures that provide our most valuable ingredient. A patented formula no man can reproduce . . .”

  CLANG! Somewhere off stage, a pair of cymbals banged together.