Blessing

by Deborah Bedford

  She’d laid her forehead against his chest, and she was crying, her sobs muffled.

  “What can we do?”

  “There isn’t a thing.”

  He couldn’t leave Tin Cup, not now, not when everything he’d fought for was finally nearing fruition. Word had already reached him that Ben Pearsall, enjoying his first addictive taste of power as Tin Cup’s marshal, had announced he would set up a speedy, decisive trial for Harris Olney and that Otto Violet would serve as prosecutor in the case. Dawson Hayes even planned to stay, with a gold pan in hand, to placer his way up Willow Creek.

  Thanks to Aaron, John Kincaid had taken down his shingle and was moving to a different camp. Judge Murphy proclaimed the entire business now under Gunnison County’s jurisdiction. Because Olney had been hired by the county, had served as marshal here for a great many months, and had done his best to hang a man he knew was innocent, Murphy wanted every aspect of the investigation and the trial to take place in the community. He’d probably have to bring a jury all the way from St. Elmo or Aspen. He’d already used everybody he could from Pitkin.

  “I can’t leave until it’s over,” Aaron said.

  “I wouldn’t ask it of you. After everything Olney tried to do, I’d love to see your testimony put him right where he tried to put you.”

  “You can’t tell them about yourself,” he said. “I wouldn’t ask that of you, either.”

  “Walk me home, Aaron.” She took one step back from him, holding his two hands in her own, hands that lay so large and gentle and strong within her own. In the air, everything still waited between them, the questions neither of them knew how to answer.

  I promised to keep her secret for a lifetime, he thought. I figured my lifetime would be over by now. Now I face more years of loving her and not telling anybody about it.

  As they walked back, the silence hung heavier and higher than the Continental Divide, an impassable boundary between them.

  Moll hadn’t lost her talent with figures. As a half-dozen of her girls waited at the top of the stairs and she sat at her desk beside the door, she scribbled names upon her ledger and realized that, as a result of the hoopla surrounding Aaron Brown’s trial, her profit for this month looked somewhat scarce. She’d be down to nothing this week if not for the Pitkin miners who’d walked through the front door searching for a little feminine companionship. The girls, who had painted their faces heavier than usual and donned their fanciest, frilliest dresses, stood whispering in a cluster, as intrigued by the outcome of the trial as everyone else.

  “Get to thinking about where your next meal is coming from. Can’t live on gossip, girls. I want to see you fluffing up those skirts and wearing your prettiest smiles, want to see you attracting men, not standing around talking about them.”

  Laura gripped the wooden rail with both hands, doing her best to steady herself. As long as her friends had been discussing the outcome of Aaron Brown’s hanging and chattering about happenings in town, she’d been able to hide from anyone who might come in, asking for a companion. But when Moll raised her eyes and began bellowing how she wanted them to stand, everything would be lost. Someone would walk in and choose her for sure. And Laura didn’t know how to explain what was happening in her heart since she’d prayed and asked Jesus to take over in there. She felt uneasy, her heart a heavy pendulum clanging against her in sides, whispering over and over, You are mine, beloved. You don’t belong to yourself. You don’t belong to this.

  And yet she did.

  How does a person go about changing her life on the inside when everything’s the same on the outside?

  Tin Can Laura had no idea.

  Just as she had thought, the door banged open and in stomped a man wearing a cowhide jacket almost as big around as the animal it had come off of, his Levi’s legs the same circumference as milk pails.

  The man’s grizzly beard cascaded over the snaps of his dirty brown long johns. “Hey.” He clomped toward Moll. “Got a gal in here for me?” He glanced around the room for the spittoon. It waited, burnished and ready, on the floor beside Moll’s desk. Evidently he didn’t see it. He hauled off and spat a wad of tobacco clear across the room. He watched in fascination as it slid down the wall, leaving a trail in its wake. “Didn’t anybody tell you that you need a spittoon in here?”

  “We’ve got a spittoon. It’s right here, if you would have looked to see it. Although I’m glad you didn’t aim in this direction. It would have been frightening, Mr….”

  “Mortimus. Henry Mortimus.”

  “Yes, Mr. Mortimus. You may have your pick of the girls at the top of the steps. They’re all ready and available.”

  Laura was trembling in her shoes. Lord, please don’t let him pick me. Please. I just can’t do this anymore. And not with him.

  Last night, she and Uley had been poring over Scripture in Uley’s Bible and Uley had showed her the one that read, “All things work together for the good of those who love the Lord.” That seemed all well and good when they’d been discussing the events that had led up to Mr. Brown’s exoneration. It did not seem so easy to accept here.

  The detestable man surveyed them. His scowl turned to a frown, then the frown turned into interest and amusement. He never did come close to a smile.

  “I see the one I want. That one. Right there.” He pointed at Laura. “The young one with the feather in her hair.”

  “You’ve picked Laura.” Moll gave a nod that showed she was pleased. “A good choice. That one’s been managing not to get herself picked much lately.”

  As he started up the stairs toward her, his boot steps made sharp blows against the wood. As Laura’s belly filled with dread, she tried to figure why he seemed so familiar. Whoever he was, he did not look pleasant.

  “Hey, you purty little thing.” He took her by the arm when he reached the top of the steps. “Didn’t have any trouble picking you, all dressed up in red. Red’s my favorite color.”

  He smelled like he hadn’t seen soap in a month.

  “You ready to sit and talk for a while? You ready to make friends?”

  As Laura led him to a room and shut the door, her mouth went as dry as a chunk of dirt from the Gold Cup. She leaned her head against the door and prayed. Please, Lord. Protect me.

  But why should He protect her from something she’d chosen to do herself? Why should He come as her rescuer when she knew she didn’t deserve it?

  “Gonna be a rich man someday,” the horrid man bragged to her. “You ought to be feeling lucky, getting picked by someone with such promise as me. I came all the way over from Pitkin. Did you know that, little red lady?”

  Ah. It began to make sense. Laura had forgotten about the Pitkin miners in town for the trial. That would explain why she recognized his face. He went back to her earlier days.

  With one dingy hand, he reached and pulled her close to him. He buried his face against the flesh of her shoulder.

  Oh, Father. Show me what I’m supposed to do.

  At first she thought the pain came from the man’s huge, prickly beard. Perhaps a wiry strand was poking into her. But she should have known better. Poking beards didn’t hurt like that. Henry Mortimus was biting her.

  “Ouch!” She jumped up. “You can’t do that to me.”

  “I can, too. I’m paying for companionship, aren’t I?” He followed her across the room.

  “No, you can’t.” She hated the quaver in her voice. “Please, mister.”

  Henry Mortimus stopped stalking her across the room and stood straight up. “Now, you don’t have to go goody on me. You’re nothing but a hurdy-gurdy girl. I pay Moll, I can do anything I get a mind to.”

  He stopped.

  She followed his eyes to the tin can sitting on her dresser. His eyes shot back to hers.

  “That there your tin can?”

  “Yes.”

  “Laura, it is? Your name’s Laura?”

  She squared her shoulders, swallowed hard. Who was this man?

  �
�It is.”

  “Tin Can Laura?”

  “The very same.”

  She didn’t like the contempt in his eyes. “Well, I’ll be. I been looking fer you a long time, little lady.”

  The bite on her shoulder had not drawn blood, but throbbed like a hot brand.

  “Think back two or three years, Laura Wilson.”

  She flinched at his use of her given name. Around her, no one knew it.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t remember.”

  He spat another wad of tobacco across the room, this time not even bothering to look for a spittoon. “You were my favorite girl to call on in Pitkin, Laura. That is, until you got to feeling like you were too good for the likes of me. I saw you one night through the church window, I did.”

  She gasped. No one in the world was supposed to know how she’d come to learn to play the piano in Pitkin.

  “I saw that fancy preacher teaching you to play ‘Oh, for a Thousand Tongues To Sing.’ Just about laughed my eyeballs out. Hurdy-gurdy girls got tongues, all right, but the tongues they got are made for kissing, not for singing praises to God.”

  “You hush up.”

  “I wouldn’t figure God wants a tarnished dove singing about him to folks, now, would you?”

  “I’d always wanted to learn to play the piano,” she said haughtily.

  “Seems to me you were doing more than learning piano playing. You were laughing up at that man like a wife sharing a secret.”

  Laura didn’t care what Henry Mortimus thought about her. She did care what he thought about the man who’d been pastor of the Pitkin Congregational Church.

  “He was doing what every preacher does for his flock, Mr. Mortimus. He was telling me that, no matter what sort of work I do, the Lord died for all my bad choices.”

  “After that day I seen you at that piano,” Mortimus growled at her, “I knew why I’d been getting those feelings from you every time I stepped into the place.”

  “What feelings?” she asked almost frantically. She didn’t remember sending any feelings out to him. She couldn’t remember him at all.

  “Just like today,” he said. “Acting like you’re too good for what you’re doing. Acting like you’re too good for me.”

  “I’m not acting that way.” She backed away from him, feeling for the edge of the bureau with her hand.

  “You’re my gal for the next hour.”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “See here.” He pulled a pouch from his pocket and opened it so she could see the gold dust. “My money’s just as good as the next fellow’s.”

  She scooted sideways, out of his reach.

  “I’ve had enough of you playing coy, Tin Can Laura. It’s been fun watching you pretend to be a lady. But I’m getting bored with it now.”

  “No, Mr. Mortimus.”

  “You come here.”

  “I don’t think so. Please.”

  He grabbed her arm, wrenched it behind her back.

  “Won’t do what you want me to do. I don’t care what Moll says.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought. That preacher, teaching you piano. He went and put notions in your head, didn’t he?”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with my piano-playing days. It has to do with what’s going on inside my head.

  “I belong to the Lord.”

  “A girl who’s done what you did? Thinking God would care about what happens to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Trust me, little red lady. The Lord doesn’t want anything to do with the likes of you.”

  Laura felt sick. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’ve been fooling myself, thinking it would make any difference.

  Even though he still had a grip on her, she’d made it to the door. She struggled with the handle with her free hand.

  “Hey!” he bellowed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The bolt wouldn’t give. Laura jerked frantically, trying to pull it through the metal ring that held it secure.

  “You get away from that door.”

  “You take your hands off of me.”

  He spun her around.

  “Please.”

  “You begging?”

  She kicked him and twisted herself free. One of her slippers came off in his hand. Leering, he flipped the shoe across the room and dove after her other foot.

  She landed a blow square on his nose. Blood sprayed from it.

  “Confound it.” He cupped his face with his fingers. “Look what you’ve done.”

  “I’ll bloody more than that—” she squinted at him with all the friendliness of a wolverine on the attack “—if you don’t figure out that I mean what I say.”

  Her words baited him. He crawled forward on his elbows and went for her skirt. The satin gave way with a rending tear. As she struggled to wrap the fabric around her again, Mortimer climbed up and caught her around the waist. “You haven’t changed, have you?” He jerked her head backward by the hair and spun her toward him. “You’re the same snotty little thing who thought she was too good for her britches over in Pitkin.” He hauled off and slapped her hard across the face.

  Father, if You’re with me, show me what to do.

  Then suddenly, she knew. She didn’t have to be treated this way ever again. It wasn’t what a loving Heavenly Father would ever want for her. She would never again have to deal with the likes of Henry Mortimus. She kneed him in the groin. When he doubled over in pain, she ducked away from his arm. She pummeled the door with force she didn’t know she possessed, desperate for someone to help.

  Mortimus grabbed her away from the door, shoved her against the wall. When she heard the crack Laura didn’t know whether it was her head or the pine planking behind her.

  “Open up in there! Laura, you okay? This is Charles Ongewach, mister. You open this door.”

  “You’re nothing but a dirty bird.”

  Laura was fast slipping toward incoherency. From outside in the hallway, she could hear someone ramming the door. The wood around the bolt began to splinter.

  “You almost got it,” she heard Moll shout.

  “Again! Come on!” She recognized that voice as Peter Sturge, a fellow who Charles must have brought in off the streets to help because he’d always been too shy to come in here.

  The wood shattered. The bolt fell to the floor. From somewhere far away, Laura thought she heard hinges squeaking, a door yawning open. There was a glint of Ongewach’s gun, a voice growling, “You unhand her, man.”

  She felt herself being bundled inside a quilt, felt Moll rocking her back and forth on the bed as if she were a hurt child. And the woman’s voice crooning, in a tone she’d never heard before, “There you are. We come to get you, Laura. There you are.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Moll shook Laura’s dress free of wrinkles. She shook her head at the rip in the skirt. “Going to make him pay for a new working dress for you when Ben Pearsall lets him out of jail. It’s a crying shame what he did to this dress.”

  Laura sat on the bed, her legs curled beneath her, a demure flannel nightgown buttoned up to her chin. She didn’t speak.

  “In the morning, we’ll find Doc Gillette. I want him to look at those bites.”

  Still Laura said nothing.

  “Guess it’s too much to wish that Mortimus fellow has rabies. He acted like a dog gone out of his mind. I’d like to find some reason to shoot the nasty coot and put him out of his misery.”

  Laura fingered the pearl button at the hollow of her neck.

  “You did the right thing, signaling us and all. We can’t have customers thinking they can come in here and do this.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nasty shiner on your eye, too. Ought to be the talk of the town now that the murder trial’s over.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ain’t it something how Pete Sturge came running in to help you? Charles went bellowing out the door that Laura was in trouble, and you should’ve seen the loo
k on that young Pete’s face. He come bareling in here like a bull out of a rodeo chute. Ain’t it something?”

  Silence.

  Moll snugged out the tallow candle on the wall. “Tomorrow will be another day, won’t it? We’ll get somebody up here to fix this door.” She let herself out. The door, though shut, wouldn’t fasten all the way. As Laura’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, a ribbon of light lay across the fancy dress still hanging on the wall peg.

  I’m not wearing that horrid thing again as long as I live.

  I don’t care what anyone does to me.

  I’m not going to be Tin Can Laura anymore.

  The room stopped spinning. Slowly she stood.

  She paused, holding her breath, when she heard somebody coming up the stairs.

  She wouldn’t take time to dress. There was too great a possibility that Charles or Moll or one of the other girls might come back up to check on her. She pulled her yellow calico down off the peg and laid it out on the bed.

  She stooped beside the mattress and ran one flat, outstretched hand beneath it. After three passes, she found what she searched for, a leather pouch not much different from the one Mortimus had displayed, filled a third of the way with gold dust and coins.

  She untied the strings and opened the pouch. She picked up the tin can beside her bed and shook it. It had been a slow night. She didn’t have much to add to the pouch. She dumped the evening’s earnings from the can and left it sitting empty beside the bed.

  The pouch she tied up neatly and hid within a pocket of the calico dress. That was all she gathered to take with her. Joe was nowhere in sight. But even if the cat had been curled up at the foot of her bed, where she usually stayed, Laura couldn’t have taken her. Ever since the spring storm, that cat meowed louder than a cow bawling. Joe would certainly give her away.

  Laura draped her shawl around her shoulders, shoved her bundled yellow dress up beneath one arm and climbed out the upstairs window.

  Uley sat on her bed, braiding her hair, with Storm purring contentedly from the lap of her nightgown. A pounding came at the window, loud enough to make her flinch and make Storm stop her purring. “Uley! You gotta help me! Quick!”