And Dinah was alone. The gentleman coming was too fine to make use of one of the rooms at the Yellow Parrot so he’d rented a hotel room uptown. She’d never imagined being in anything so luxurious. A large gilt mirror on the wall reflected ceiling-to-floor damask draperies and an enormous four-poster brass bed with a lacy canopy. The thick mattress wore a silk cover of deepest green—dark as fir needles. Dinah cringed, imagining how she must look in the midst of such beauty. Like a thistle in a rose garden.
She folded her hands on the lap of her dress—her familiar blue-flowered calico—and crossed her bare feet. She’d wondered if she would have to wear one of the bawdy costumes the other girls wore for greeting the men, but Miss Flo said her everyday dress was best for this man. Dinah had been relieved. She felt like herself in this simple frock, even if it was faded and too tight in some places. Dressed like this, she didn’t feel like a harlot. But she supposed even if she didn’t dress like one, she was one. Miss Flo had waved the money—a fanned display of crisp bills—in excitement when the appointment was set. She hadn’t given Dinah her half yet. She’d get it later. Afterward.
Nausea attacked. Could she do this? She swallowed. She had to do it. For Ma. To get out of this place. One time. Only one time. She could do it one time.
She stared at the raised paneled door. “He’ll be here soon,” Miss Flo had said. If Dinah’s heart didn’t settle down, she might be dead by the time he arrived. She never felt such a thud and thump in her chest. Every muscle in her body was tight and aching, too. How had her mother borne this awful anticipation, night after night for years on end? Maybe she couldn’t do this …
A scrape-click sounded—a key in the lock. Dinah pressed her palms against the cool silk bedspread and held her breath. The door eased open on silent hinges, and a long, trouser-covered leg slipped through. Dinah, her chest aching to hold its lungful of air, slid her gaze from the trouser leg to the buttoned vest and open suit coat, to the crisp white collar, and finally to the goateed face of a distinguished-looking gentleman.
Her breath whooshed out. He looked so different from the rough men who visited the Yellow Parrot. Clean shaven. Well dressed. Sophisticated. Even, she dared to reflect, fatherly with his nickel-colored, slicked-back hair and top hat held in his gloved hand. Her deepest apprehensions melted as she took in his appearance.
When he spotted her, a smile lifted the corners of his mouth, and Dinah found herself offering a timorous smile in reply. He tossed his hat onto the nearby dresser, took off his gloves, and closed the door with a sharp snap. Then he slipped his thumbs into the little pockets of his vest and gave her a thorough appraisal from her bare toes to her hair. His gaze seemed to linger on the thick, wavy tresses.
Should she have tied it back? She self-consciously reached to toss the strands over her shoulder.
“Don’t.”
Dinah froze with her fingers caught in the heavy strands.
“Leave it alone.”
Miss Flo had told her to do what he said, so she lowered her hand to her lap and linked her fingers together again.
He removed his jacket and tossed it carelessly next to his hat. Then he began unbuttoning his vest. Little by little, the vest opened to reveal a white shirt straining against a well-filled belly. “Flo told me you were a pretty little thing.”
Dinah gave a start. She had? She’d always called Dinah homely.
“She was right.”
Heat filled Dinah’s cheeks. Miss Flo had told her she didn’t need to speak, but according to the deportment lessons at school, she should acknowledge his comment. “Th-thank you, sir.”
He chuckled. “And polite, too.” He tugged off the vest and sent it flying. It landed on the jacket and then fell to the floor. He left it there. He took a step toward her, his gold-flecked brown eyes pinned on her face. “I think we’re going to get along just fine, Diana.”
“Dinah.”
“Dinah. Of course.” He reached out with one hand and caught the trailing end of a strand of her hair. Slowly, he wound the freshly washed length around his finger, inching closer with each turn. Dinah sat as still as a mouse, hands in her lap, heart hammering. His trousers brushed her knees, sending a prickle down her spine. When his knuckle touched her temple, he arched one brow and gave her a pensive look. “Are you as innocent as Flo proclaimed?”
Unsure of what he’d been told, Dinah didn’t know how to answer. She lifted her shoulders in an uncertain shrug.
He tugged on the strand of hair, and she tipped her head in response. Without warning, he planted his mouth over hers. His lips hadn’t looked hard beneath his neatly trimmed mustache, but they felt hard. Demanding. Bruising. She tried to draw back, but his grip on her hair prevented her from moving. She whimpered.
He straightened as abruptly as he’d leaned in and released her hair with an impatient yank.
She touched one hand to her sore mouth and the other to her stinging temple. She blinked back tears.
He gazed at her, satisfaction glowing in his eyes. “Completely unspoiled.” He tugged the shirttails from his waistband and began unbuttoning his shirt, the motions jerky and eager. “You’ll be worth every penny of that two hundred dollars.”
Two hundred? Dinah pulled in a startled breath and looked toward the adjoining door. Miss Flo had lied to her about the money. Other things the woman had said played through Dinah’s memory. “It’s nothing, really, for the female … You just do what he says, and everything’ll be fine.” Had she lied about all that, too?
She bolted to her feet, determined to fetch Miss Flo, but the man caught her arm.
“What are you doing?”
She strained to free herself. “I … I need to talk to Miss Flo.”
With amazing ease, he lifted her and threw her onto the bed with the same indifference as he’d used when tossing his clothes aside. “You don’t need Flo. I’ll show you what to do.”
Dinah scrambled for the edge. “No. I want Miss Flo.”
His gaze hardened. “I don’t give a fig what you want.” He gave her a vicious shove that sent her backward. Her skirt flew up, and his gaze fell to her exposed limbs and ruffled underthings. His eyes glittered in a far-too-familiar manner. Had she really thought him a gentleman? He was no different than Jamie or Max or any of the others who’d sent lecherous looks her way in the past year.
Dinah quickly shifted to a seated position and pushed her skirts down until they covered her ankles. Her ears rang. Her head throbbed. Her heart pounded so hard her chest felt ready to explode. “Please get Miss Flo. She’s in the room next door. I don’t want to do this.”
“Shut up.” He reached for her bodice.
His fingertips connecting with her collarbone ignited waves of shame and fear and revulsion. Dinah pushed his hands away and began to cry. “Please … Let me talk to Miss Flo.”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”
She pulled as much air as possible into her heaving lungs and bellowed, “Miss Flo!”
He swung his palm against her cheek with a resounding smack. The force sent her flat against the mattress again. She yelped, and he silenced any further sound by clamping his hand over her mouth. The soft edge of his palm blocked her nostrils. She couldn’t breathe. Panic thundered through her veins. His face loomed over hers, his expression forbidding. “This can be easy or hard. Do what I say, and it will be easy. Keep fighting me and …”
He didn’t finish the threat, but he didn’t need to. Her throbbing cheek communicated his meaning. And she needed air. Stars were dancing behind her eyes. She bobbed her head slightly. A smile reappeared on his face, and he moved his hand. Dinah sucked in a long, shuddering breath.
“Good girl.” He patted her face on the same spot he’d slapped. She bit her lip to keep from whimpering. He slipped his fingers beneath her collar. With one fierce jerk, he tore open the bodice all the way to her waist.
She shivered as nausea rolled through her stomach. She was going to be sick. If he slapped her for
talking, he’d surely beat her senseless if she dared to vomit. Dinah crunched her eyes closed. This was a dream. Only a dream … A nightmare, yes, but not real. It couldn’t be real.
Over the next hour she learned Miss Flo wasn’t the only liar. Dinah had lied to herself—it was real, not a nightmare. And he’d lied, too. There was nothing easy about what he did to her. When he finished, he made use of the water in the pitcher, dressed, and left without a word.
She lay on the soiled mattress, curled in a discarded ball, for nearly another hour before she found the courage to unfold her sore, aching body. Bruises dotted her wrists. More decorated her thighs. Warm, silent tears rolled down her cheeks as she haltingly gathered the torn remnants of her dress, petticoats, and chemise.
As she eased herself up with her wadded clothing in her arms, she caught a glimpse in the mirror of a pale face wearing a pinkish-purple smudge on the cheekbone and surrounded by a mass of tangled hair. She blinked twice in confusion. Was that truly her? She took two stumbling steps closer and stared hard at the image. Yes, her own face—and yet a stranger’s face—peered back at her.
She dropped her clothes, covered her face with her palms, and burst into loud, pain-filled sobs. Her entire body convulsed with the force of her crying, but the torrent of tears did nothing to wash away the pain and degradation of the past hours.
A door latch clicked, footsteps approached, and someone slipped something warm and soft around her bare shoulders. Hands guided her to the bed and eased her onto its edge. Then fingers caught her bruised wrists and pulled them downward. Despite the thick robe covering her nakedness, chills shook Dinah’s frame. She looked at Miss Flo, who stood before her. Tears veiled her eyes, making the woman’s image waver, but she heard clearly her calm, unconcerned statement.
“I’ve ordered a tub an’ hot water. You’ll feel better after you’ve soaked a bit an’ had a good wash.”
Dinah might have foolishly believed such a statement earlier, but her innocence had been shattered. That man—that so-called gentleman—had left his imprint on her soul just as he’d left his mark on her face. She’d never be clean. She’d never feel better. She touched her bruised cheek with her trembling fingers and grated out, “Liar.”
She expected Miss Flo’s anger, but instead the woman laughed. She kicked at the pile of clothes on the floor. “I’m glad I thought to bring another dress. You’re gonna need it.”
Dinah swiped the tears from her face with her wrists, then hunkered into the robe. “I don’t want your dress.” She didn’t even want the promised money. But she’d take it. She hated how much she needed it. She hated herself for how much she needed it.
Miss Flo balled her hands on her hips. “Well, you can’t leave here in the altogether. So you’ll have to take it whether you want it or not.” She sighed and plopped down next to Dinah. “Listen, honey, take it from someone who knows. It’ll never hurt like this again. But there’s only one first time. That’s why you gotta get as much as you can from it.” She reached out as if to pat Dinah’s knee, but Dinah jerked away. Miss Flo sighed again and rose. “I’ll go hurry them up with that tub. Just wait there.” She left the room.
Naked and so sore it hurt to breathe, Dinah had no choice but to wait. One of Miss Flo’s comments returned to haunt her. “There’s only one first time.” She found no reassurance—if it were even true—that it would never hurt like this again, but it mattered little compared to the realization now collapsing her heart.
Her entire life she’d envied the children who went home to a mother and father, who fought and shared and played with brothers and sisters. She’d dreamed of the day she would grow up, marry, have children, and be part of such a family herself. Why hadn’t she stopped to think about the future, being courted, giving herself to her husband on her marriage bed?
“There’s only one first time.” She had just sacrificed something she could never get back. No decent man would want her now.
Florence, Kansas
Amos
Amos Ackerman ducked beneath the straggling branches of the scrub oak growing next to the chicken yard and shook his head at the Leghorn hen sitting as pretty as a queen on her throne on a low branch. “What is it you’re doing up there?”
The chicken tipped its head and blinked one round black eye.
“All the nice roosting boxes I built for you and your friends, and you think you need to sit in a tree?”
It clucked as if defending itself.
Amos laughed. “Is that so, huh? Well, I don’t think I believe a word of it.” He lifted the chicken from its roosting spot, ignoring its indignant cluck-cluck-cluck and wing flapping, and placed it gently on the ground. “Go on now. Keep your feet on the ground where they belong.” The chicken joined the other feathered fowl pecking in the yard, and Amos chuckled at its continued complaining squawk.
He stood for a moment beneath the tree’s skinny branches and observed his flock. Four dozen in all—snowy Leghorns with rosy combs that flopped to the side as if too lazy to stand upright. They were sassy birds, chattering to one another as they foraged among the clumps of grass for tasty morsels. Pride filled his chest. Would he ever have imagined owning such a fine bunch of chickens? No, never. But Ma always said God gifted His children beyond their deserving, and Amos Ackerman’s chicken farm proved it.
A prayer left his heart, his talking to God as instinctive as breathing. Thank You, my dear Lord and Savior, for my home and the means of providing for myself.
Bending forward to avoid catching his hat on the tree’s prickly branches, he moved into the sunshine. The mid-July sun burned hot overhead, and he hurried across the yard to the barn where its deep shadows would offer a cool respite. He’d learned to swing his good leg twice as far as the bad one to make up for his stiff hip, giving him an awkward but effective gait.
The Leghorns had scattered from him in nervousness the first time he moved among them, but over their weeks together they’d grown accustomed to his hitching means of walking and now pecked, unconcerned and trusting, around his feet. He had lots of reasons to like the birds—their willingness to forage for food, their easy acceptance of the roosting house, their consistent delivery of eggs each day that would let him make a decent living—but he liked them most because they didn’t shy away from him.
He reached the barn, and two curious hens darted ahead of him to poke their beaks against the dark earth floor. He stepped past them and made his way to the straw-lined wagon where he’d placed the morning’s eggs in with the previous two days’ bounty. Admiring the washed, smooth orbs, he smiled. Twelve-dozen eggs in three days’ worth of laying. When the salesman in Hutchinson had told him the birds would each lay an egg up to 360 days a year, Amos had been skeptical. Almost an egg a day? But so far, the man’s words had proven true.
Of course, the hens were tricky about it, laying an egg in twenty-five-hour cycles and only when the sun shone. So his egg retrieval had to change every day according to the hens’ schedule. There’d be fewer eggs in the wintertime, too, with the shorter days. But even so, he was happy with his choice of the Leghorns. They were certainly the best egg-laying chickens a man could own.
He fingered the eggs, thinking. At twenty cents per dozen, with four dozen hens laying, he could make eighty cents a day. If he doubled his flock, then he could make a dollar and sixty cents a day. A dollar and sixty cents times 360 days came to—
With a wry chuckle, he stopped himself. He sent a grin in the direction of the two hens. “What now, am I counting eggs before you even lay them? I should know better.”
He took hold of the handle of his wagon and headed for the barn door. The wagon was nothing more than a child’s toy, but it worked for transporting his eggs into town. He’d spent every one of his carefully saved pennies plus the money Pa had given him—what Pa called an early inheritance—to buy the farm and chickens, so he couldn’t afford a horse to get his eggs to those who would buy them. But it was less than two miles into Florence. Even wi
th his bum hip, he could make it. Hadn’t the Lord been good to lead him to a farmstead close enough to town for him to walk? Thank You, dear Lord.
The wooden wheels moaned like rusty hinges, and the pair of chickens scattered, clucking in alarm when he pulled the little cart from the barn. “Now, now, you are fine. It’s only noise. It can’t harm you.”
Without warning, words he’d heard in the past taunted his memory. His mother always quoted the rhyme about sticks and stones breaking his bones but words not hurting. Ma had been right about most things but not that.
Words did hurt, and even remembering them hurt.
But he was far from those who had tormented him, so he pushed aside the remembrances and addressed the chickens once more. “Be good and stay on the ground. No flying up in trees. I’ll be back soon.”
He headed down the dirt road, his wagon squeaking behind him. Was it foolish to talk to chickens? Most people would probably think so, but sometimes a man needed to say things out loud. There wasn’t anyone else around to listen. His heavy boots scuffed up dust, but the Kansas wind whisked it away. He watched his long shadow stretch toward the scrubby brush alongside the road, and a hint of melancholy struck. If only the shadow were another person walking with him.
“Now that I’m settled,” he said to his shadow, “I should get myself a dog. A dog could walk to town with me.” Maybe he could even get two—one to go with him and one to stay behind and keep watch over the chickens. Not that he worried much about predators during daylight hours. Even so, extra precaution wouldn’t be foolish. He’d ask in town about litters of puppies.
Some dogs chased chickens, he knew, but they could be trained not to do so. His pa had trained their dog by hanging a dead chicken around its neck and then beating it. Afterward, the dog had been afraid of chickens, but it had also been afraid of Pa. So Amos wouldn’t train his dogs in such a heartless manner. He wouldn’t want his dogs skulking away from him in fear.
He paused, checked to be sure the eggs weren’t bouncing together, switched hands on the handle, then set off again. Yes, it would be nice to have a dog or two to sit beside the table when he ate his meals or to trot along with him when he did his chores. He’d look less silly talking to a dog than to the chickens. Dogs were good companions.
Through the Deep Waters Page 3