Ransacker

by Emmy Laybourne

  “I’m glad for it,” Alice said. “Your health is much improved these past few weeks. I’m happy to let out the seams for such a good reason.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sissel said. “Do you want me to help?”

  Alice waved her offer away.

  “You’d only slow me down,” she said.

  Both girls laughed.

  Alice helped Sissel to step out of the dress.

  After Alice had eagerly shown Sissel nearly every bolt of fabric in the store, they had settled on a polished poplin that was a light shade of greenish blue. It reminded Sissel of the fjords—it was just the color of the crest of a wave.

  “Are you quite sure about the keyhole neckline?” Sissel asked. Alice settled the dress back onto her dressmaking mannequin as Sissel dressed.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Alice said. “Especially now that you’re filling out so nicely.”

  “Alice!” Sissel exclaimed. She batted her friend on the arm. “It seems like such a grown-up kind of cut. You don’t think people will think I’m putting on airs?”

  “Oh, Sissel … You’re much lovelier than you think you are.”

  Alice handed Sissel a hand mirror with an ivory handle from the table next to her.

  “Look at yourself, for gosh sakes.”

  Sissel brought up the mirror. She tried to look at herself as a stranger would.

  White-blond hair in a meager bun at the nape of her neck. Her blue eyes on a pale, oval face. There was so little color on her face, even her eyebrows and eyelashes were almost invisible because of her coloring.

  But there were some improvements.

  She found her cheeks more full than she remembered, and her skin rosy on the cheeks. Her eyes, though still pale, had sparkle.

  “There! You see it,” Alice said. “I can tell you do because you’re smiling!”

  Sissel handed back the mirror.

  “Are you in love?” Alice asked quietly.

  “Goodness … what a question,” Sissel said. Alice shrugged.

  “You’ve got your head in the clouds all the time. Your appetite is better. You seem happy, and I thought it might be James…”

  Sissel flushed. She concentrated on buttoning up her boots.

  How she wished she could tell Alice about her Nytte! In the weeks since it had announced itself, she felt better every day. She was sleeping deeply and could feel herself stronger each morning when she awoke. Before they sold the gold flake, Sissel had kept it with her as she slept, and she felt somehow it had made her more healthy. Her bad leg did not ache anymore. It was only now that the pain had vanished that Sissel realized what a constant grief it had been.

  “I’m such a nosy Nellie. I’m sorry,” Alice said. She put her hand on Sissel’s arm. “I say too much. Forgive me!”

  There was genuine concern on Alice’s face.

  “Nonsense,” Sissel said. “You’re perfect the way you are.”

  Sissel gave her friend a hug.

  “I’m not in love,” Sissel said. “I just feel better. Maybe it’s living in town. Or maybe it’s the food at the boardinghouse. Mrs. Boyce is truly an excellent cook.”

  Sissel hated to lie to Alice. Her stomach felt heavy and leaden.

  “To tell the truth, I find James a bit tiresome these days.” This felt better—she could tell her friend a secret, just not the secret.

  “Really?” Alice asked.

  “He’s become, not possessive, but just … persistent. He’s always around, always asking, ‘A penny for your thoughts?’ I want to say, ‘Keep your pocket change and give me some peace!’”

  Alice laughed.

  “Well, if you throw him back, only every single girl at school will be delighted.”

  There was a knock on the door of the fitting room.

  “Girls, James is here,” Alice’s mother called in. “He wants to know if you two are in the mood for a picnic.”

  Sissel and Alice looked at each other and started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Mrs. Oswald said.

  This made the two girls laugh all the more.

  “What should I tell him?” Mrs. Oswald said, irritation rising in her voice.

  “Tell him we’d be delighted,” Alice finally choked out.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Oswald!” Sissel called.

  “Honestly,” they heard Alice’s mother mutter as she returned to the front of the store to give James the news.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The days found their pattern, each filled with work so that at night Hanne and Owen fell into their bedroll exhausted.

  Hanne’s knuckles chapped, then bled, then toughened, until she could scour the cooking pots with sand and feel no ill effect.

  The camp was kept as quiet as possible so as not to startle the longhorns. Any loud sound, even sounds from nature like thunder or branches breaking, could spook a herd. It made for a pleasant camp. Hanne liked the calm of it.

  The cook served not only as the provider of food for the small company but also, Hanne learned, as the doctor, the tailor, and occasionally the arbiter of minor disagreements.

  Her skills as seamstress were in high demand. One cowboy had asked her if she could help him sew on a button. He had said he couldn’t sew on buttons to save his life, and it was true—every one of his buttons was hanging on by tangled, gnarled threads. She’d taken them all off and returned the shirt to him tidy and neat.

  After that, many of the men came and asked her to sew this or that. She didn’t mind—it passed the time when they were riding in the wagon, and the cowboys were so appreciative of her good, careful stitches.

  The cowboys returned her kindness in many small ways. They helped haul water or scrub pans without being asked, and they all said “Please” and “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Witri liked to see the cowboys pitching in; and Owen was proud of her, she could tell it. Hanne found she liked the work very much.

  Mandry and Whistler were the only problem, each trying to outdo the other in provoking Owen. Half the time, Hanne didn’t even understand their barbs, but she could see how they bothered Owen.

  “I wonder, are these beans a mix?” Mandry asked loudly one evening over supper.

  “Mixed beans?” Whistler said.

  “Half Irish, half English.”

  Whistler guffawed at that, while the rest of the men looked puzzled. Owen ate, head down.

  “These beans is beans, you dummies,” Witri snapped. “Keep your jokes to yourselves if they’re not gonna make sense.”

  One morning at breakfast, Mandry sidled up to Owen in the line. “Say, Bennett, don’t you find it ironic that you married a little cook? A foreigner?”

  Owen’s back went straight, but instead of telling Mandry to leave him alone, he tried to deflect the comment. “She’s not a cook. She’s just helping out. Earning a wage.”

  “All the same, though,” Mandry said, in a voice soft enough only Hanne and Owen could hear. “What would your papa and mama say? You and a pretty little foreigner cook…”

  Owen flushed. Hanne saw his hands were trembling holding his bowl. She ladled a heavy portion of oatmeal into it. He nearly dropped the bowl, so focused was he on Mandry’s oily sneer.

  “Mr. Mandry,” Hanne said loudly. “If you have a problem with my cooking, please direct it to Mr. Witri.”

  Mandry looked taken aback. He’d not mentioned her cooking, but Hanne knew Witri would come in a flash if he felt she’d been slighted.

  “What’s this now, Mandry?” Witri said, edging Owen aside. Hanne was set to dollop his oatmeal into Mandry’s bowl, but Witri stopped her arm.

  “If you don’t like Mrs. Bennett’s fine oat porridge, then you can well go without.”

  Mandry looked from Hanne to Witri, who towered over both of them.

  “There’s no problem, sir,” he said. “She’s a delicious little cook. I was merely making conversation.”

  “Well, maybe by the time you catch up with us for supper, you’ll be a little more fo
cused on your food, and a little less focused on chatting.”

  With that, Witri took back Mandry’s bowl and he was pushed out of line, no breakfast. He went off scowling.

  * * *

  A FEW DAYS LATER, they set up camp near the river. It was a nice change, having water on hand.

  In the early morning, all the cowboys had gone off to bathe. Hanne kept close to the chuck wagon, of course.

  Owen had asked her if she wanted to bathe, but she decided against it. She was getting some lovelorn gazes from a couple of the younger cowboys. She didn’t want to risk any of them trying to peek at her and making trouble. Nor, for that matter, did she want Owen guarding her modesty. She wasn’t ready for him to see her bathing, either. Not until they were truly married.

  Being so near to water, though, she and Witri decided to wash the pots and pans out properly, instead of scrubbing them with dry grass and sand, as they usually did.

  She and Witri were at the banks of the river. The water had been churned up earlier by the cowboys, and from the cattle that had drunk upstream, but now that the herd was on the move, the water was flowing clear and calm again.

  Hanne scrubbed one of their three large cast-iron Dutch ovens with a brush. Witri swished out their coffee kettle and set it to dry upside down on a rock. “Say, would you mind if I went off a ways and had a bath myself?” he asked her.

  She was amused to see him blushing.

  “Of course not,” she said. “I’ll finish up with these and then bring them to the wagon.”

  “Much obliged,” he said. “You know … I think I’ll even use soap!”

  Hanne laughed.

  Witri walked off to get his soap and his spare shirt from the wagon.

  Hanne bent over the pot. There was a ring of dried stew clinging to the top that she couldn’t get off. She set the worn brush aside and gathered a handful of river pebbles. Maybe they would work better.

  She made a mental note to tell Witri they needed a new brush. They’d be passing within five miles of a town in the next day or so, and he was going to have a cowboy make a run into town for supplies. There would be mail, too. Anyone who wanted to send a letter to one of the cowboys had been told to send their letters to Albee, which was about halfway along the drive.

  Hanne knew Witri meant to get more dried apples, and they were low on precious coffee. He’d kept her laughing the day before, telling her about the many hats he planned to buy himself. He’d taken to wearing a flour-sack towel tied on his head to keep his scalp from sunburn.

  All at once Hanne’s whole body prickled awake and alert. Her Nytte came pounding into her mind and body.

  There was a man sneaking up on her.

  She didn’t even need to turn her head to find him. The sounds gave him away. Fifteen feet downstream, hidden behind an old ponderosa pine.

  It was the worm Mandry.

  He was breathing heavily. She could smell the lust on him.

  Hanne reached for prayer. She did not want to kill this man. She needed to get control of her Nytte.

  “Ásáheill,” she murmured. She withdrew her hands from the pot and crossed them over her chest. With her fingers she traced Uraz—strength, and Algiz—protection, on her forearms.

  “Hey there, little filly,” she heard him whisper.

  He stepped out into the water, letting it run over his boots. He came up toward her.

  “You need some help?” he asked, pretending to be relaxed, but the way he held his arms gave him away. They were out, his shoulders leaning forward. He was ready to pounce.

  The Nytte was raging in her body. She trembled to hold it in. “Gods, to me!” she prayed.

  If they did not come, she would kill this man. She could not hold out against the Nytte much longer. Not when she was in danger this way. Her Nytte would force her to protect herself, or anyone she loved, this she knew.

  “Don’t be scared, little missus. I just thought I’d help you, is all,” he lied.

  She brushed her hands on her shirt and slowly stood.

  He was but two paces away now.

  She raised her eyes to his, saw the malice glittering there. There was a telling bulge at the front of his trousers.

  He lunged forward, thinking to lay her flat on her back.

  Damn the Gods—they had not arrived in time. Hanne let the Nytte possess her, and her mind went blank with the joy of it.

  She brought her knee up and drove it into the attacker’s groin. She slipped her hand up, knocking his hat into the water and grabbed him by the hair. As he screamed in pain, contracting to protect his privates, she wrenched his head back.

  He swung wildly and his fist connected with her eye. She saw stars and laughed at them.

  “Mandry!” she heard a man shout.

  Hanne saw a narrow rock cleaved in two on the ground. It was shaped like a spear point. She reached for it, dragging the man down by his hair so she could reach it. She’d poke it through his temple.

  “What the hell is going on?” She was being hauled off her prey. She fell down onto her seat.

  The newcomer was someone she did not want to kill. A fat man with a shining head. Part of her tribe. He had separated them.

  “You son of a bitch!” the tall, fat one yelled at the man on the ground. “Did he hurt you?” He turned to Hanne.

  There was a barking and here rushed her dog. It came leaping at her, licking her hands and her face.

  She knew the dog. It was beloved to her. It licked her and wriggled all over her lap so that she did not immediately get up.

  * * *

  THE RAGE DRAINED AWAY. Hanne came jerking back into her body.

  “Are you all right, Hanne?” Witri asked.

  Hanne could not speak a word. She was too shaken. She dropped the rock she found in her hand. She had clutched it so hard it caused a shallow cut.

  She rose and walked away. She walked briskly, Daisy at her heel watching her anxiously.

  Hanne went to the chuck wagon and began to eat a loaf of the sourdough bread for dinner without realizing it.

  Owen came up, riding hard. Hanne turned her back to him. She could feel the blow Mandry had dealt her rising around her eye. Her heart beat a wild rhythm. What would Owen do once he knew what had happened?

  “Everything all right?” he called.

  Hanne nodded.

  Owen slid off his horse and came over. He reached down and scratched Daisy behind the ears.

  “Daisy ran off and I got worried,” he said.

  Witri came into the campsite, Mandry limping behind him, head downcast.

  Owen put his fingers on Hanne’s chin and raised her face. He saw the rising black eye, and she saw understanding crash over his features like waves on a cliff.

  “You son of a bitch!” Owen roared. He crossed the campsite and had Mandry by the collar. Before Witri could wrench him off, Owen got one, two, three solid punches in. Mandry fell to the ground, bringing his hands up to shield his face from further abuse.

  “I didn’t do nothing,” the man spat.

  “You hit her!” Owen shouted.

  Owen aimed for a kick, but Witri pulled him away.

  “All right, all right,” Witri said. “Hanne’s all right. She held her own and then some.”

  Owen’s eyes flashed for the first time to check Hanne’s expression. Only at that moment did he seem to realize what might have happened.

  “We’ll take it up with Tincher at the end of the day,” Witri said.

  “It’s all a misunderstanding,” Mandry said. “I was offering to help her!”

  Hanne put her hand on Witri’s arm. “I don’t want to tell Tincher,” she said. “I just want to forget about it.”

  “You gotta tell him,” Witri said. “He should know what kind of scum he has working for him.”

  “No, no,” Hanne said. “I don’t want to make a fuss.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you afraid of Mandry?” Witri said.

  “Please,” she said. “I don
’t want to make trouble. It’s better if we all get along.”

  She sent a pleading look to Owen. He must understand that it would be bad for her if Mandry started talking about how strong she was. How she’d nearly killed him.

  “I suppose … it’s up to my wife,” Owen said. “She’s the one who got attacked.”

  Witri looked all three of them over. Owen had his arm around Hanne. Mandry sat on the floor where he’d fallen. He was poking at a broken tooth, spitting out strings of bloody drool.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I gotta tell Tincher. He’s gonna know there was a fight. Look at Mandry’s face, for God’s sake…”

  “Could you tell him that Mandry and I had a fight?” Owen said. “Leave Hanne out of it.”

  Witri sighed and spat. “I guess so. If that’s really how you want it.”

  Hanne nodded.

  “You’ll keep your fool mouth shut about this?” Witri asked Mandry. Mandry cussed and spat out more bits of tooth.

  “Yeah, sure,” Mandry said. “No helping.”

  “You pull anything like that again and I’ll fix you myself,” Witri said. “Now, God’s sakes, let’s get back to work.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sissel’s chance to revisit the stream came two nights later, when Stieg was asked to dinner by two men on the school board in Helena. He’d fussed about her, and asked her if she’d mind terribly taking supper alone, or if she’d like to go to the Oswalds’, perhaps. She had shooed away his concern—telling him she’d be fine.

  Sissel took a pail with her, lined with a piece of homespun. If stopped, she was going to say that she was looking for blueberries. There were bushes by the stream—the berries were mostly gone, but that didn’t matter.

  She thought she’d use the pail to dip her hands into once she’d pulled the gold to her. Then she could release it into the water and strain it through the cloth. She was pleased with the plan.

  Sissel nearly held her breath as she crossed through the lobby. Just behind the glass doors, Stieg was supping with the men from Helena. With Stieg out of the way, she had only to avoid James. He would no doubt insist on accompanying her if they crossed paths. Lately he was everywhere.