Way Back

by Williams, Abbie;

Axton rallied, to my amusement, offering Patricia a sweet but unmistakably flirtatious smile. “If you’d ever like to ride Ranger, I’d be honored.”

  “How very thoughtful of you. I may take you up on that offer, Mr. Douglas.”

  Axton abruptly lost his cool, cheekbones taking on heat as Patricia beamed afresh.

  I jumped in to save him. “Ax, please tell Branch not to worry. I’m just fine here in town.”

  Axton refocused on me with visible effort. “I’m to bring you to dinner tonight, Ruthie. Cole Spicer is coming, too. Uncle Branch said he’d pay good coin to hear some of Cole’s fiddle music before they head west.” He added, with a wistful note, “Wish I was heading west.”

  “Who’s going west?” I demanded; Ax had said ‘they,’ after all. Immediately I realized, Miles and Cole, of course.

  “Marshal Rawley,” Axton replied, and my heart sank. “That’s why I’m to look after you this week, as he’ll be away.”

  Patricia shaded her eyes with one hand. “I was to accompany my father-in-law’s men this very day, westward as well, when they leave to scout land. However, Mrs. Mason has determined just this morning that the wild countryside does not suit her and she shall remain in Howardsville until Thomas’s men return. I am most disappointed. I cannot hope to accompany the men without a proper chaperone.” She sighed. “At times I detest being a woman.”

  “But isn’t that why you came here in the first place, to see the land?” I asked.

  “It is, yes. Perhaps you shall let me call upon you this week instead, Ruthann, and assist you with your daily tasks?”

  Axton and I eyed her with similar skepticism; my forehead crinkled as I envisioned this delicate, well-dressed flower of a girl stirring laundry in the huge, cast-iron kettle, braced over the steaming cauldron with the heavy wooden paddle in hand.

  “I am stronger than I look,” she insisted, reading our faces, and I smiled. Axton flushed anew and looked away, at the ground, down the street, and then back to Patricia, unable to keep his eyes from her.

  “Won’t you be bored? It’s not enjoyable work,” I pointed out.

  “Heavens, no. You shall keep me company. I find your company most pleasurable. Mrs. Mason cares not for how I spend my day, and Thomas’s men shall depart by the noon hour. They long to be rid of the responsibility of me, see if I am wrong.” She surprised me by murmuring softly, “Cole said…”

  Her voice faded away and her lips compressed; it was improper to use his first name like that, I figured, but I saw the way her longing gaze roved down the street in the direction of the jailhouse, just as mine had earlier. Not spying Cole, she said, “Last night when he escorted me home, Mr. Spicer informed me that his family originally set out for the Territory when he was but a young boy. They were forced by circumstance to reside in Iowa but have long wished to complete their original journey.”

  “The Spicers are moving here next spring,” I added. “Miles and Cole were talking about it last night.”

  Patricia searched my eyes. “Did you speak long with them after I retired?”

  “Not too long,” I assured her, hearing the sincere and barely-contained envy.

  Axton said, with great apology, “Ruthie, I must get on, but you’ll come out to the claim this evening, won’t you? We’ve missed you so.” His gaze returned to Patricia. “And please do join us as well, if you’ve a mind to. Cole and the marshal have already agreed.”

  Patricia brightened like a sunrise. “Why, thank you, Mr. Douglas.”

  I promised, “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

  Patricia said, “I shall be there even if I have to smother Mrs. Mason.”

  “She’s just kidding.” I giggled as Axton’s eyebrows lifted in mild alarm.

  Watching Axton ride away, as gracefully as though he’d been born to a saddle, Patricia murmured, “He is delightful, however gullible.” She eyed the laundry I’d set aside and offered brightly, “Well, shall we get to work?”

  I bit my lip to keep from smiling.

  “I am insistent.” She flipped her narrow skirts.

  “You’ll get dirty,” I warned, leaning to retrieve the small basket of clothes pins.

  “No matter!”

  By the noon hour both of us were dirty, drenched in slick sweat. August had grown hotter with each subsequent day; other than the rainfall that occurred the morning Miles Rawley returned to town, there hadn’t been a cloud to mar the sky or block the radiance of the prairie sun. Patricia had long since shed her jacket and rolled up her sleeves; her delicate ivory blouse was wrinkled, damp with exertion, her hair drifting downward from its collection of pins. Before daring to unbutton her limp collar, she confessed in a hushed voice, “But I feel so scandalous!”

  Because it was just the two of us working side-by-side in the laundry shack I was amused she felt the need to whisper. We’d propped open the canvas doorway to gain access to what little breeze the day allowed and could hear the activity of Howardsville on the nearby street. None of the girls from Rilla’s had interrupted our work. I thought of Celia; I hadn’t yet admitted I’d spilled her secret to the marshal, and felt like a lowdown coward. I would have to tell her soon; I owed her that much.

  A traitorous part of me rejoiced, You’ll see Miles again! Tonight!

  Stop it, Ruthann. Jesus Christ.

  “No one here cares if you unbutton your collar,” I assured Patricia, pausing in my work to roll my aching shoulders. I stepped out into the sun so I had room to lift my elbows above my head and fully stretch, just in time to spy a rider dismounting at the hitching rail in front of Rilla’s; his red-gold hair gleamed in the dazzle of the noontime sun.

  I’d just opened my mouth to inform Patricia we had company when Cole caught a glimpse of me and called, “Good morning!”

  I saw Patricia twitch inside the laundry shack, her attention darting toward the sound of his voice. Immediately she began rolling down her sleeves and tucking up her wayward hair, but it was too late; Cole had already walked the few paces required to reach us. My gaze leapfrogged over Cole’s shoulder; it wasn’t as though I actually hoped Miles might be with him…

  Cole stood with self-assured ease, hands on hips, addressing me with cheer. “Ruthann. You’re looking well.” He caught sight of Patricia hiding out in the laundry shack and his eyes took on an undeniable glint of happiness despite all the very good reasons he shouldn’t dare. Adopting a more formal tone, he acknowledged, “Mrs. Yancy,” and then could not resist needling her. “You’ve been hard at work this morning, I see.”

  “As I imagine you have not,” she threw back at him, joining us.

  Cole’s eyes detoured to the unbuttoned neckline of her blouse and his grin deepened.

  “I’ve a long ride to make, starting first thing tomorrow,” he returned, with typical good nature. “Can’t hardly blame a man for taking it easy this morning.” His amused gaze ate up her disheveled hair and sweat-stained dress, though I heard only sincerity in his voice as he said, “Might I observe how absolutely lovely you look today, Mrs. Yancy.”

  Patricia grew so flushed she appeared sunburned, even though she kept her expression just slightly haughty.

  “Miles sent Aemon Turnbull packing before dawn,” Cole informed me before Patricia could formulate a response. “Told the bastard if he ever rode back into Howardsville it would be for the last time.”

  I was not sure how to respond to this news.

  “That was very good of the marshal,” Patricia said, finding her voice. She wiped her hands on the apron I’d lent her and untied it from her slim waist.

  “It was indeed,” Cole agreed. He was an exceptionally good-looking man but I could tell he knew it. I imagined a thousand scenarios, fair or not, in which he used those good looks and sexy, knowing eyes to his considerable advantage; it was difficult to imagine any woman speaking the word ‘no’ in his presence.

  Patricia shaded her gaze and asked, with an excess of innuendo dripping from her words, “And what brings yo
u here this noon, Mr. Spicer? It is a bit early in the day to indulge in the many charms of a saloon, is it not?”

  He winked and replied without missing a beat, “Never too early for that,” and Patricia’s cheeks blazed all over again. Cole continued, “Has Branch’s nephew been around to invite you to dinner? Miles asked me to make certain.”

  “He has,” I said. “Will we see you there, as well?”

  “You can count on it.” He left seconds later, bidding us a polite farewell.

  Patricia watched until he was out of sight, only then muttering adamantly, “That man.”

  I peeked at her from where I stood hanging clothes on the line. Admittedly egging her on a little, I observed, “He’s really cute, isn’t he?”

  She whirled to face me, gorgeous eyes wide. She demanded, “‘Cute?’ What word is this to describe a grown man? I have never heard of such a thing. He is incorrigible.” She lowered her left hand, which had been shading her gaze, and a sunbeam got stuck in her wedding ring, sending a dazzle of prismatic light into my eyes.

  I spoke before I thought. “What about your husband?”

  We’d discussed many things this morning, including Patricia’s privileged upbringing as an only child in Boston and her sorrow over her father’s death only a year past, but not yet of the topic of marriage. I felt I had an unfair advantage after the conversation with Miles and Cole last night and hadn’t intended to imply any sort of incrimination with this remark, but the expression upon her face altered, growing wary.

  Her tone was guarded. “What of him?”

  I felt like a jerk but I wanted to hear Patricia’s opinion on the matter. “I only meant you must miss him.”

  Her lips twisted and she remained silent. Her hands drifted to her hips, latching there with slow movements.

  I reached for another clean, damp garment, fastening two pins over it before guessing quietly, “You aren’t happy with him.” In the wake of this observation the sounds of the town, horses and halter chains, the rumble of wagon wheels and the occasional man’s voice raised in conversation, receded to the distance.

  Patricia smoothed both palms over her waist. Without challenge, she asked, “Is it that obvious?”

  I considered lying, attempting to visualize this husband, picturing him as a sniveling weakling at the Yancy family home in Chicago, wealthy and entitled, ordering a servant to cut up his steak at dinner; Dredd Yancy was a man who probably hated to be out of an air-conditioned environment.

  Wait – a what? My mind struggled to make sense of what I’d just thought.

  “Dredd and I have more in common than I would have guessed, at first,” Patricia said before I could answer, moving to help me hang laundry. “He has been without a mother from a young age, as have I. He is well educated and articulate, the product of many expensive tutors. And he is possessed of an absurd and, as time has proven, unattainable desire to please his father, just as I was.”

  “Was he cruel to you?” I asked, praying she would say no.

  “My father, or Dredd?”

  “Dredd,” I clarified. “What a strange name.”

  “It was his mother’s surname,” Patricia explained. “And no, Dredd has not been cruel to me. Perhaps ‘indifferent’ is a better word. My father and Thomas Yancy sustained a friendship and Father wished for me to be wed to Thomas’s eldest son, Fallon, at first…” A sudden shudder overtook her spine and my senses snapped alert at this mention of Fallon, the man Miles and Cole had said, without hesitation, should be hung.

  Patricia continued, “Though I remain ever so grateful Fallon had no wish to marry me. Being related by marriage is unfortunate enough. I have never beheld such hollow eyes as that man possesses. My only consolation would have been that Fallon travels extensively for his business dealings. His sustained presence in Chicago is something of a rarity.” She stared into space for several seconds. “Fortunately, Father settled for an alliance with Dredd. It eased Father’s passing, knowing I was secured in marriage to one of Thomas’s sons. Other than my mother’s elder brother, my father was the last of my family.”

  “Do you think Fallon is a criminal?” I asked, debating whether to tell her what Cole and Miles had said last night, at the risk of offending her.

  Patricia closed her eyes and inhaled through her nostrils. She whispered, “I am sure of it.” She opened her eyes and the blue of them was almost shocking. She caught my wrist in one hand and implored, “You shan’t breathe a word of anything I have told you.”

  “What is this?” a woman demanded before I could respond, in a hoarse, commanding voice I knew all too well. And then Rilla was upon us, flapping across the dusty alley with her breasts leading the way. She was dressed as respectably as she could manage, which wasn’t saying much, her face with its usual pinched and irritated expression, lipstick red as death. “Why in God’s name is Mr. Thomas Yancy’s daughter-inlaw hanging laundry in my alley like a common servant? Ruthann, is this your doing, you lazy little –”

  Patricia cut her off, administering a tone I was certain had sent many an actual servant scurrying. “How dare you speak to either me or Ruthann in such an insolent manner? I do as I please!”

  “Not here you don’t, you impertinent young hussy!” Rilla glared at us with concentrated venom. She threatened, “You want the town speculating that you’ve taken up work at a whorehouse?” Rilla chuckled at her own cruel words. “How would your husband’s daddy feel about receiving such news secondhand?”

  Patricia’s lips compressed and her face went suddenly bloodless, though with alarm or anger, I wasn’t entirely certain.

  Rilla turned her annoyance on me. “Ain’t it enough I lose one of my best customers because of your idiocy, girl? And now Marshal Rawley, that self-righteous son of a bitch, is telling me who I can and cannot allow into my establishment.”

  “You will shut your despicable and unworthy mouth,” Patricia ordered, with real fire.

  Ouch. Anger it was, then.

  Rilla’s eyes bulged out of her mascara-streaked face. She had probably just rolled from bed. No stranger to confrontation, she reached a thick-fingered hand, grasping Patricia by the hair. She hissed, “Speak to me that way again and you’ll be more than sorry, missy.”

  With no appreciable loss of composure, Patricia yanked free and stepped away, crisply informing Rilla, “You would be the sorry party in such a situation, mark my very words. I shall go, and take Ruthann with me. No longer shall she remain in this squalid den of vice and corruption.”

  Shit, shit, shit. My stomach flapped with increasing panic.

  Rilla tugged at the tight bodice of her gown and lifted her chin with the imperious nature afforded those who feel they are being unfairly judged. She nearly growled, “Just like a little rich, spoiled hussy to look down on others.”

  “Come, Ruthann,” Patricia ordered. “Let us collect your belongings.”

  I stood frozen in a state of semi-stupefaction. “But this is where I live.”

  Rilla was furious. She spat, “No longer, you worthless bitch! I want the both of you gone.”

  “But I…” I faltered, truly fearful now. That this had come to pass in the last thirty seconds was beyond me. I was quite suddenly homeless, a concept Patricia could not possibly comprehend.

  “Get,” Rilla seethed. “You have exactly five minutes to get out of my sight for good.”

  I spent those five minutes frantically packing everything I owned in the world, all of which had been donated to me (two skirts with ragged hems, two blouses, an underskirt petticoat, two pairs of stockings, and a thick wad of cotton binding), wrapping these items in one of the skirts and tying it with a length of rope. Patricia followed me upstairs to assist, contrite now, though I couldn’t make sense of her consoling words, terrified as I was by this turn of events.

  I shed my skirt and tugged on the riding trousers Axton had lent me, trembling so hard I struggled to tuck my blouse in the waistband, let alone cinch it with the length of rope I’d b
een using for that purpose. I’d grown unpleasantly skinny in the past weeks. Though my ribs had healed and no longer ached, they were visible in rows along my sides; my collarbones were prominent knobs beneath my skin. Often I ate nothing more in a day than bacon around Branch’s evening cookfire. I grimaced as I caught an unwitting glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, taking a moment to glance around the space which had been mine for the past summer. I had no memories of anything before this room.

  “Come,” Patricia murmured, resting her hands on my shoulders. “All shall be well, Ruthann, I promise.”

  A shadow darkened the doorway and Celia was suddenly there, wrapped in her silk shawl. Her face was free of cosmetics, gray eyes wide with concern. She guessed quietly, “Rilla has ordered you out.”

  I flew to her arms and Celia hugged me close. She smelled of stale sweat, musky perfume, and tobacco, but I clung to her, letting her comfort me. She whispered against my hair, “Where will you go, sweet little Ruth? I am sore worried about you.”

  “I told Miles Rawley about the baby.” I drew back enough to see her face. No beauty mark in sight; she looked younger and more vulnerable without her customary layer of make-up. Her steady gaze betrayed no errant emotion at this news.

  “You did,” she said, not a question. She curled her plump hands around my forearms. “What possessed you to do such a thing?” But there was no anger in her tone, only a sense of resignation.

  “Because he deserves to know.” Tears washed over my face. I gulped and it cost me to say it, but I knew I must. “And because maybe he can help you. He could marry you.”

  Celia smiled sadly as she regarded my face, no doubt acknowledging what she considered my complete idiocy; she smoothed both hands over my hair. She whispered, “Well, I can’t rightly be angry at you then, can I? Where will you go?”

  “With me,” Patricia said decisively, at my shoulder. “Ruthann shall come with me.”

  “You take care of her, young miss, you hear?” Celia ordered, releasing me and drawing her shawl around her torso. “Ruth is a dear little thing and I care a great deal for her.”