by Heidi Betts
Caleb had planned to return to New York at the first opportunity, but now it looked as if he would be staying in Leavenworth a while longer. His father's recovery from the illness that remained a mystery to Doc Meade seemed slow. Maybe he ought to send Sabrina back to her apartments in the city. She would, be happier there, and he would no longer have to listen to her complaints about being so far from “polite company.” He could give her enough money to keep her occupied until his return—if he returned.
Caleb had just passed the post office, which doubled as a telegraph office, when he heard someone calling his name. He turned to see a tall, reed-thin young man coming toward him.
"Oh, Mr. Adams, am I glad to catch you.” The man wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve, disturbing his adequately greased and combed blond hair. “This just came over the wire from New York. It's for your father, but it sounds mighty important. I thought maybe you could take it to him."
Caleb took the paper the man held out and read it. “Damn!” he swore, instantly turning and starting back across the dusty street toward the Express office. Once there, he smacked the telegram onto the counter. “She's missing,” he told his father.
"Who?” Holbrook asked.
"Megan, that's who. Mother says she disappeared two nights ago."
"Dear God,” Holbrook whispered, picking up the paper. “What are we going to do?"
"I'll tell you what I'm going to do,” Caleb said. “When I find her, I'm going to—"
"How are you going to find her when we don't even know where she went?"
Caleb had already been thinking about that. Why would his sister have run away in the first place? She was only sixteen, not interested in any young man that Caleb knew of, so she hadn't run off to get married. So where could she have gone? Her only family was Mother in New York and he and Holbrook here in Leavenworth.
Caleb nodded decisively. “She's on her way here."
"What?” his father asked, obviously confused.
"When Megan found out I was leaving, she cried for days. She begged me to bring her along, but I wouldn't."
"Whyever not? I'd love for her to come here and live."
"She has school, Dad. Besides that, Mother insists the city is a better place for a girl her age. She'll make friends and, with Mother's influence, be right in the heart of society."
Holbrook's face fell. “True,” he said. “Not that I wouldn't rather she were here."
"If I'm right, she will be. Probably today or tomorrow.” He stepped outside, waiting for his father to join him. “I'd better telegraph Mother. She'll be worried sick. When does the next stage pull in?"
Holbrook took out his watch and checked the time. “Any minute now."
"I won't be surprised if Megan just happens to be on it.” Caleb took a few steps, then turned back to face his father. “If you decide to thrash her, don't be too harsh.” He started away, muttering, “Leave some skin for me."
Rebecca stood at an open window with a cup of tea in her hands. She watched Caleb Adams walking down the main street of town in her direction. Her heart leapt as she realized he might be coming to pay the rest of her bill. She flushed, taking back every mean, nasty name she had called him only minutes earlier.
And then, as she saw him stop, speak to the telegraph operator, and turn to walk back across town, she called him all the names again—adding some new ones and even inventing a few. She stomped her foot, sloshing tea over the rim of the cup and burning her stomach through the material of her dress.
"Now look what you've done, Caleb Adams,” she said, brushing at the hot stain. She looked up and saw the afternoon stage barreling into town, stirring up a great cloud of dust. “I hope that thing runs you over. You deserve it."
The Kansas sun beat down on the roof of the Concord coach, baking its tired, dusty passengers. Between the heat and the ruts the stage kept hitting, Megan Adams didn't think she had a chance in Hades of making it to Leavenworth alive. Trying to keep her hair from matting to her sweat-dampened forehead, she ran her fingertips through the dark strands. She would surprise her father and brother, all right—when they were forced to drag her lifeless body out of the stagecoach.
Megan shifted slightly on the hard seat, tugging at the front of her blouse to pull the silk away from her sticky skin. She forced herself to smile at the couple in the seat across from her. They had been staring at her, not saying a word, since they all boarded the stage together. It was like traveling with two corpses.
If she didn't get out of this oven soon, Megan knew she would go mad. Her body felt on fire, every layer of her expensive clothing like another log thrown on to build the blaze. Her mother had always filled her closets with dresses, skirts, and blouses made of the finest materials, but she would rather wear a flour sack for a trip halfway across the country. She smiled secretly, reveling in the knowledge that she had thrown her frilly, annoying hat from the train as soon as they'd pulled away from the depot.
"Leavenworth!” the driver yelled. “Comin’ up on Leavenworth, folks!"
Finally, Megan thought, mentally preparing herself for coming face-to-face with her father and brother. It wasn't her father she was worried about so much as Caleb. Papa would be too glad that she was safe to scold her, but Caleb would ream her up one side and down the other—and then threaten to send her home.
Well, she wouldn't go. She just wouldn't. She might be only sixteen years old, but she was certainly mature enough to know she didn't want to live in New York City with Mother any longer. Megan was tired of being treated like her mother's favorite china doll, dressed up and dragged to society parties.
Megan's fingers clenched into a fist around the drawstring of her silken purse. This was all Mother's own fault. If she had been faithful to Papa, Megan and Caleb and their parents could still be living together as one big, happy family.
Megan looked out the stagecoach window at the flat, never-ending horizon. But now Mother lived the life she adored in New York City—and she could do that without Megan—while Papa was happy in Leavenworth, running his stagecoach company. His life seemed infinitely more appealing.
The coach came to a rough halt, and Megan heard the driver jump to the ground. She took a deep breath, hoping she could at least get a little acquainted with the Kansas town before Caleb tied her to the back of the next outgoing stage and sent her home.
Chapter Two
The minute she stepped down from the stage, Megan saw her father and Caleb waiting on the sidewalk. Her father's face seemed calm, but Caleb's was set in a deep scowl, his arms folded across his chest, legs apart in a firm stance. She smiled and tried to pretend he wasn't about to skin her alive.
"Papa!” Megan said, dropping her valise to the ground and running into Holbrook's arms. “Oh, Papa, I missed you so much."
"I missed you, too, Pumpkin. But if you ever scare us like that again—"
"I think this is where I come in,” Caleb interrupted. He hugged Megan tightly, then drew back to look at her intently. “You had Mother in near hysterics, young lady. What do you have to say for yourself?"
"Did I have you in near hysterics, too?” she asked cheekily. Caleb took a deep breath, and Megan saw his nostrils flare. She slanted her eyes away from him, wondering if she had pushed too far.
"I am not amused by your antics or your attitude, young lady. You took off without leaving a note or telling anybody where you were going. For someone who wants to be treated like an adult, that was very irresponsible of you, Megan."
She knew she was in trouble any time her brother called her “young lady.” Megan stared down at the ground, knowing Caleb was right. “Oh, I just couldn't stand it anymore. When you left, there was no one for me to talk to."
Any passerby who happened to hear their discussion might wonder why Caleb was chastising Megan while Holbrook stood by and watched, saying nothing. But it was Caleb who felt responsible for Megan's upbringing. Their mother did her best but was usually more concerned with social functions.
And Holbrook could hardly raise his children from six states away. So Caleb had taken it upon himself to make sure Megan turned out properly.
"What about your schooling?"
"I'm off for the summer. You know that,” Megan answered.
"What about next year?” Caleb asked through tightly clenched teeth.
Megan shuffled her feet, her head down. “I thought maybe I could go to school out here next year."
"You want to walk three miles into town every morning for school, then turn around and walk back every afternoon?” Caleb asked in a dissuading tone.
"Of course not,” she answered. “I'll just come into town with you and Papa each morning."
They both turned at the sound of their father clearing his throat. “She has a point there,” Holbrook said.
Caleb could tell his father was trying hard to keep from smiling. Caleb stood even straighter and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. “Megan, think about this. What future could there possibly be this far west for a young lady like yourself? There are no fine schools, no society functions, and certainly no decent young men would come this far looking for a wife."
Megan put her hands on her hips and threw Caleb a glare. “Who said I wanted to be a belle of society or catch myself a rich husband? If I wanted any of those silly, superficial things, I would have stayed home with Mother. God knows she's already started a list of guests to invite to my wedding—provided she finds the proper husband for me soon."
She twisted one foot back and forth on its heel. “I'm only sixteen, Caleb. I don't want to marry and start a family. I want a chance to see the rest of the world; I know it can't all be like New York. I want to see what Papa does. It must be big and important if he asked you to come out here to help him.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “Most of all,” she sniffed, “I want to be where my family is."
Caleb looked at Holbrook, whose own eyes had clouded. He wanted to argue with Megan that Leavenworth was no place for a gently reared girl like her, but he knew it would do no good. And besides that, several people had started to gather, listening to Megan's theatrical speech.
Caleb put a gentle hand on Megan's arm and led her into the Adams Express office. When they were all inside the back office, away from curious onlookers, he turned to his sister once more. A smile lit her face, and he knew she was thinking she'd won the battle.
"This isn't over, Megan. We'll discuss it further when we get home tonight.” She nodded, but Caleb could tell she wasn't concerned. It was difficult for. Caleb to admit he really had no intention of making Megan go back to New York. Oh, he would argue with her, try to convince her that it was best, but he knew Megan would stick to her convictions. He was counting on it. Neither he nor his father could bear to send her away if this was truly where she wanted to live. She might be young, but Megan knew what she wanted; she always had. And once she set her heart on something, she went after it with a passion few people possessed.
Caleb shook his head and gestured for Megan to have a seat until the office closed.
It was just getting dark outside when Rebecca dropped a cinnamon stick into the teapot, removed it from the stove, and carried it to the kitchen table. She let it steep while she brought lamps to set around the rocking chair she usually sat in to sew. She had a lot of work to do before the Wednesday Group came to call.
With all the lamps lit, the area around her chair was quite bright. She brought the tea and a cup and saucer to the table beside the rocker and sat down, putting on her spectacles and picking up the pink calico dress she was trying to finish for Anabelle Archer.
Outside, the noises of the town crept through her closed windows. Friday and Saturday nights were Leavenworth's busiest, and Rebecca's most unsettling. The playful—and sometimes not so playful—gunfire, the tinny music filtering out of the Dog Tick Saloon, the raucous laughter of drunken cowboys and the girls they hired for an hour or the night all made Rebecca sickly uncomfortable. That was why, even on the hottest of evenings, like tonight, Rebecca kept all her doors and windows closed.
Memories, that's all they are, Rebecca tried to tell herself. But it didn't matter. They were bad memories, things she couldn't seem to forget, things she had a hard time putting behind her.
A woman's scream ripped through the air. Rebecca jumped, stabbing herself with her needle. She stuck the bleeding finger into her mouth, cursing silently before pushing the spectacles back up the bridge of her nose with the back of her wrist. A series of shorter, more frantic screams followed, taking Rebecca back to a night long ago. A night she would give anything to forget.
She had been only ten years old, desperately trying to fall asleep on the small, hard cot that passed as her bed, but the noise was too loud, too distracting, as usual. Her bedroom was nothing more than a back storage room in the Scarlet Garter, the most prosperous whorehouse in Kansas City.
Rebecca had just turned over, hoping a new position might help, when the first scream tore through the darkness. She sat up straight, tilting her head to hear better. She heard it again and knew it was her mother. Jumping out of bed, still dressed in the shirt and trousers she always wore, she ran out of the room toward the screams.
She came to a halt at the corner of the hallway when she saw a crowd of onlookers gathering. Slowly, on her hands and knees, she crawled forward, slipping between pairs of booted and bare feet. She got to the doorway and peered around its edge.
The sight that met her far-from-innocent eyes made bile rise in her throat. Her mother was lying on her back, a big, bearded man on top of her. Both were naked. Her mother was still trying to scream, even though the man had one hand locked around her throat. He raised his fist over and over again, bringing it down with a sickening thump on her mother's face. “Goddamn bitch!” he bellowed.
Lilah, the house's proprietress, stood next to the bed, hitting the man on the back with his own cane. “Let go of her, you bastard! Let go of my girl!” Every few seconds Lilah would holler for one of the bouncers.
Finally one came. Dexter, a huge, red-haired seventeen-year-old pushed his way through the crowd and stomped into the room. He grabbed Kate's abuser by the scruff of the neck and tossed him off the bed. Dex stood, feet apart, hands on hips, over the customer's still form, waiting for him to fight back. The man didn't move.
Lilah went to Kate, holding her and trying to wipe away a little of the blood covering her face. Laying Kate back against a pillow, Lilah signaled one of her other girls to come sit with Rebecca's battered mother.
Lilah grabbed up every article of the bearded man's clothing, including his cane, and went to where he was slumped on the floor. She threw the things at him violently. “Take your clothes and your money and get your fat ass out of my place.” She gave him a kick in the side for good measure. “And don't ever come back.” Turning to Dex, she said, “Get that worthless bastard out of here."
Dex grabbed the man's arm, hauling him to his feet. The man tried desperately to cover his lower body, but to no avail. Dexter pushed through the crowd. “The show's over,” he said in a thick Irish brogue. “Get yer butts back ta work, girlies. Yer not makin’ any money standin’ out here."
Rebecca could still see her mother. Her face was clean of blood now, but she was moaning, and Rebecca could tell she was in pain. She wanted to help her, so she inched into the room. “Mama?” she said softly.
Kate finally glanced her way and said, “Get the hell out of here, kid."
"You'll be a mess in the morning, Katie,” one of the girls said, squeezing a cloth over the water basin. The water turned dark red.
Rebecca didn't move, frightened and confused and wishing both to comfort and be comforted. Again Kate glanced her way but only to snarl, “Didn't I tell you to get lost? Christ, you're always in the way, you dumb little bastard."
A gunshot sounded, snapping Rebecca out of her daze. She jumped out of her chair and closed the curtains, as if that would miraculously keep out the horrible memories Leavenworth's night soun
ds evoked. Back in her chair, she resumed stitching a piece of white lace on the almost finished day dress.
A strained sound came from Rebecca's throat as memories continued to flood her mind. She'd crept back to her room, lying awake the rest of the night thinking about what she had seen. Rebecca swore to herself that she wouldn't stay in the Scarlet Garter, in her mother's way, a minute longer than she had to. And she would never turn into a woman like Kate, so used to unfeeling whoring that she hadn't an emotion to spare for her very own child.
The next morning, her mother's entire face was covered with ugly, dark-blue bruises, her eyes swelled almost completely shut, her mouth so abused that she could barely talk, except, of course, to periodically chastise her “little bastard.” Rebecca swore again that she would get out as soon as she could.
And she had. The very night she overheard Lilah telling Kate that Rebecca was old enough to start working—and heard Kate agreeing without compunction. Three years after her mother had been beaten so badly, Rebecca had stowed away with the baggage on the back of a stagecoach, and she hadn't gotten off until it stopped. She had heard the driver announce that they had arrived in Leavenworth, and she had lived there ever since.
Only because Octavia Fitzgerald had found her and taken her in, though. Widow Fitzgerald was about the kindest person Rebecca had ever known, even if she had been a bit stuck in her ways. She'd given Rebecca a warm, comfortable bed for the first time in her life, and she hadn't let her young guest go to sleep dirty or hungry, either. For that, Rebecca would always be grateful.
But the widow had done more than put a roof over Rebecca's head. Octavia had practically adopted her, walking Rebecca around town as if she were her very own daughter, allowing her to use the name Fitzgerald whenever necessary. And the widow had taught her to sew, little by little preparing her to take over the seamstress shop Octavia ran out of her front room. When Widow Fitzgerald died, Rebecca had done just that.