Heresy

by Melissa Lenhardt

  We never wanted to get out of it, least of all me. With the sale there was a subtle shift in the responsibilities at the ranch. Thomas couldn’t deny how good a team Jehu and I were, and he understood that the more horses we trained, the more money we would make. He focused on rounding up the horses, general ranch maintenance, and the other livestock. I still had the housework, as well as the books to keep. I slept like the dead for five hours a night and got up the next day to do it all again. I didn’t care. I felt more alive and significant than I ever had in my life.

  There was another reason I didn’t want to jeopardize our relationship with the outlaw. I was drawn to Spooner from the moment I set eyes on him. Spooner is handsome, as you know, Grace, and there’s a rough edge to him that Thomas never had. I was never disloyal to Thomas while he was alive, and Jed never approached me. Thomas was, and is, the love of my life. He is the reason I never remarried. He saw our marriage as a partnership and knew how integral I was to the success of the ranch. I know I will never find that with another man, least of all Colonel Connolly or Jed Spooner. Not that Spooner has ever hinted at matrimony.

  Thomas was drawn to Spooner, as well, though for different reasons, of course. He saw in Spooner a man he could never be again. Someone daring and whole. You would think that would make Thomas resentful, but it was the opposite. He respected Spooner, despite the fact he was an outlaw and a rebel. Spooner got his start with the James Gang in Missouri, but came west when their brand of outlawing got out of hand. The war was over, and he felt like the James boys were still fighting it, would be until the day they died. Spooner wanted to make enough money to help his friends when they needed it, to work as little as possible, and to gamble, drink, and whore the rest of the time. He knew himself for the libertine he was, and didn’t think other men should have to die so he could partake in his vices. I suspect it was similar to the life Thomas had prior to the Crimea, when he was a young, dashing officer, though his reputation was as no more than a high-spirited man in the regular way. By all accounts, the Crimea changed Thomas. There wasn’t a hint of vice about him when we met, nor was there a bad word to be said of his reputation. He was gregarious, friendly, and charming when we met, and he remained so until the day he passed. But he would fall into a brooding mood from time to time. Was he remembering scenes from battle, or mourning the life he lost when he lost his arm? He never said, and I stopped asking. He lived vicariously through Spooner and his gang. Spooner invited Thomas to go with them on a job, but Thomas refused. He said he would never be so desperate as to steal from another, but I wonder if he wasn’t afraid his deformity would hinder his ability to help. It was of little consequence, as Spooner was a raconteur and would regale us with stories of his exploits so detailed we almost felt as if we were there.

  Soon we had a deal with the gang. They would use our ranch as a hideout, cowboy for us, round up mustangs, and we would always have a ready supply of horses for them to use in their jobs. We went on like that for a few years, made a good living. Other gangs started using us as a way station, too. We sold horses to the army and anyone who would give us a fair price. We bought a thoroughbred stud, and the quality of our stock rose.

  Jehu would leave to haul freight occasionally. He loved us, and having a home, but he also liked his freedom. At least that was what I thought until I realized his hauling coincided with the arrival of Jed and his gang. We’d built a little bunkhouse out back behind the barn for the seasonal cowboys we’d take on, but Jehu never lived in it. Insisted on living in the barn. Still, when the ranch would fill up with strangers, Jehu would get itchy feet, and decide it was time to make a little extra money. He always brought home something pretty for me, a new dress, a hat, soft leather gloves that I had no occasion to wear but loved anyways because they were such an extravagant and lovely gift. He would bring gifts home for Thomas as well. Tobacco, a finely tooled belt, a new dove-gray gambler’s hat, one time a brightly colored vest. Thomas always thanked Jehu, but would tease me in private that Jehu’s gifts to Thomas were only to make his puppy love of me less obvious. I think he was a little in love with me, but that all changed when Hattie arrived.

  You haven’t spent much time with Jehu, which is the more pity for you. You would know he is the gentlest man you’ll ever meet. He couldn’t abide seeing young girls degrade themselves to eat and would give them as much money as he could and still have some for us. After one trip he came home with a woman and son, her face bruised and swollen (much as Newt’s was). Thomas and I welcomed her into our home, gave her a job cooking and cleaning, and let her heal. Eventually she and her son moved on, took a job in Golden, I think. After that the ranch became known as a safe haven for women, a place they could come, earn some money, and be on their way. Our first priority was helping these women, but their arrival had the added benefit of freeing me up to work outside with the stock. Some women stayed longer than others. Jehu found Stella and Joan in Rock Springs, trying to get money for a train to Frisco, and he found Hattie hiding in our barn.

  I will leave you there, desperate to know what happens next. Maybe I should be writing my story instead of taxing you with the job. But no. I need to be more succinct and remember that after I’m gone, you will have Hattie, Jehu, Stella, and Joan to fill in the blanks. Hattie would probably tell her story better than I would, anyways. Don’t forget to talk to my enemies to get the full picture of my personality. After all, how do you know I’m being completely honest with you?

  August 6, 1877

  Pinkerton,

  The Spooner Gang is holed up in a town in Brown’s Hole called Timberline, Colorado. They arrived in June, and for the last two months I’ve been ingratiating myself with them, working on their ranch, to get information about their next job so we can catch them in the act.

  Spooner and his gang have been working the area for years and deserve to be arrested. But our theory that Spooner and his gang were responsible for two of the five jobs against Connolly and behind the other three was wrong. The women who have been doing those jobs are led by Margaret Parker and a Negro named Hattie. They dressed as men and wore cloth hoods as masks for the first two, and for the last three, which they pulled as women, they were sure to let the men they robbed know that they were there on Spooner’s behalf. When Spooner got word he was being blamed for the big jobs that were happening a thousand miles away but not receiving any of the compensation, he decided to head back up to Colorado and teach Parker a lesson. He’s challenged her to a competition—one heist each, biggest take wins the ranch (which Spooner and his men helped build; he was formerly Parker’s lover), loser has to leave the area and take their trade elsewhere. Parker took the bet and she and Hattie left a few days ago for Denver. Spooner and his gang immediately moved into her ranch.

  As I said above, I’m in with the gang, and it didn’t take long to discover that Spooner has no intention of doing a heist, and he has no intention of giving up the ranch when Parker returns. It was a ploy to get her out of the Hole and set her up to be captured when she tries to pull the job. I’m not sure how he intends to discover what she is targeting to set her up, but he seems confident that information will be readily available when he needs it.

  He isn’t getting much help from the town besides from a blacksmith named Valentine. Spooner and the sheriff, Luke Rhodes, hate each other, and I’m guessing it’s over Margaret Parker. Rhodes wants her, Spooner had her.

  Parker and her girls give a portion of the money they steal to the town, to keep it afloat, and Parker and her girls are well liked. The women are protective of her, and even though their husbands hate taking money from a woman, they don’t want Parker and her family to leave the area.

  I recommend biding our time with Spooner, discovering what Parker’s plans are, and both hitting Spooner in the Hole and catching Parker red-handed when she tries to pull the job. You should ready agents at Rock Springs, the closest railroad town to the Hole, and Denver, apparently where Parker plans to work.

  S
alter

  15

  Margaret Parker’s Journal

  Friday, August 10, 1877

  Cache la Poudre River Ranch

  Fort Collins, Colorado

  Callum and I took the train to Greeley and rode from there. The rail line between Fort Collins and Denver should be finished by September. Connolly’s company has an interest in it, of course. Unfortunately, I’ll be retired or dead and not able to rob it. Maybe Hattie and the girls will. I suspect they will continue with their outlaw ways when I’m gone.

  Connolly had a man at the Greeley station with two horses for us to ride. I was surprised and pleased when I saw the mount he had brought for me: a strapping gray stallion with plenty of life. Connolly had sent me a note the day before we left and told me we would ride part of the way, so I’d dressed appropriately, and smartly. I’ve always filled out a riding habit well, and Callum Connolly looked on me with appreciation and a little astonishment.

  —Have you never seen a woman wear britches before, Mr. Connolly?

  —Not one so beautiful as you.

  —It is awfully early in the morning to be so charming, Mr. Connolly.

  —­Please, call me Callum.

  —­Callum. It is quite shocking, isn’t it? I suppose when you know almost the day of your death, what other people think about what you are wearing matters little. I’ve always thought riding was easier in pants, and since I don’t ride sidesaddle, it’s pointless to pretend to be coy.

  We rode through Greeley, and I was shocked to discover it had changed so much in the time I’d been ­gone—­more buildings, though no saloons. I’d never liked Greeley much; it is full of pious teetotalers. You couldn’t fault them for hard work and good business sense, though. But the railroad worked its magic wherever it went, which is why so many small connecting lines were being built to towns off the main line. I wondered how long until the entire country would be accessible by train, and realized I wouldn’t be around to see it.

  These past weeks, I’ve felt my life picking up speed to its destination. I don’t feel appreciably worse, though the doctor told me that in the end the pain will be unbearable. The certain knowledge of the misery that awaits me doesn’t worry me, it frees me to take chances I might not otherwise take. I’ve had to rein myself in more than once; I still want to win this bet, I need to win this bet, to set up Hattie, Jehu, and the girls, to give them a comfortable nest egg and a ranch free and clear, so they can live out their days. It is the thought of and Hattie, elderly and ­sitting on our porch watching the sun rise over Cold Spring Mountain, that keeps me from recklessness.

  But today, nothing could keep me from giving my horse its head and enjoying the wind whipping my hair out of its twist, of leaning low over the horse’s neck to encourage it to go faster, faster, faster. I thought of my mother and grandfather, long dead, and how proud my grandfather would be of me despite the fact that I was an outlaw.

  I outpaced Callum and his horse by at least three lengths. I stopped when I reached the Cache la Poudre River. My horse danced beneath me, excited after the long run. My heart beat rapidly in my chest, but I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. I’ve always felt most at home astride, and always loved more than anything the smell of horse sweat and leather, the feel of the powerful animal beneath me combining its energy with my own, feeling more alive than I’ve ever felt at any other time in my life. The closest I’ve ever come to that transcendental feeling was after I’d robbed my first bank. Callum Connolly must’ve seen something of my thoughts on my face when he caught up to me because he smiled and said,—Dorcas said you were a good horsewoman, but I didn’t believe her.

  —Dorcas complimented me? I can’t believe it.

  —If it makes you feel better, she said it as an insult.

  —Much better. Thank you, Callum, for putting me in my place.

  —I don’t know what I’m going to do now Dorcas isn’t accompanying me to my other businesses.

  I asked Callum why Dorcas wasn’t coming with him as planned.

  —She was attacked last night. Robbed.

  —Was she injured?

  —She has a splitting headache and a lump at the base of her skull. The doctor diagnosed her with a concussion and told her not to get out of bed, let alone travel.

  —It seems working for you is a dangerous occupation.

  —It does seem that way.

  —Do you not have another clerk?

  —No. I had a potential secretary die an untimely death in Gunnison a few months ago.

  —Oh dear. What happened?

  —He was a weak man in a rough town. Come, let’s cross upriver a bit.

  It was a companionable ride. We made small talk about the weather and the beauty of the area, but mostly we were silent. The river was languid, meandering along the valley floor, and we could have easily crossed at any point. I was getting nervous, wondering if this hadn’t all been a ruse to get me away from town. I was alone with a man I didn’t know, but who was rumored to be violent with whores behind closed doors, without my gun. He could do whatever he wanted with me and I had no recourse save Hattie’s Bowie knife secreted at the small of my back beneath my vest. It wouldn’t be easy to get to if he did attack me. I should have put it in my boot.

  Callum rode with his masked profile toward me and his black Stetson pulled low over his eyes. A cloud drifted across the sun, throwing us in shadow. A chill went down my spine. I was opening my mouth to say I was crossing the river when Callum said,—We’re here.

  Ahead of us, around a slight bend in the river, was a copse of trees. Beneath the largest tree, a cottonwood of course, were a table and two chairs. The white tablecloth fluttered in the gentle breeze. A wagon with two mules in the traces was parked a little ways off. A Chinaman stood off to the side of the table, hands folded in front of him, waiting.

  —I thought we’d have a picnic, Callum said.

  —How lovely. Thank you.

  We dismounted, and Callum took the horses upriver to drink. The Chinaman bowed as I approached the table. I smiled, greeted him, and asked his name.

  —Bohai, madam.

  —Pleasure to meet you.

  He bowed again and went to the river. Bohai pulled on a rope that led into the river, and a bottle of white wine bobbed on the surface. The table was laid with china, silver, and crystal, with a bowl of floating flowers as the centerpiece. There were a silver platter with a large ham, a plate of rolls that looked soft as air, deviled eggs, a bowl of grapes, a wedge of red-rind cheddar cheese, and a smaller glass next to the wineglass, which foretold a bottle of port or sherry miraculously appearing.

  Bohai poured a glass of wine and handed it to me, bowing yet again.

  —Thank you.

  The wine was crisp, dry, and fruity. Bohai showed the label; it was from France.

  Callum returned, clapped his hand together, and said,—This looks wonderful, Bohai.

  —Thank you, sir.

  —This is more feast than picnic, I said.

  —Dorcas told me you were royalty. I couldn’t very well have you sitting on the ground eating hardtack, could I?

  —Ah, is that what Dorcas said? She said it derisively, didn’t she?

  —Of course.

  He held out a chair and I sat. Bohai carved the ham.

  —I’m not royalty, you know.

  —I didn’t imagine you were, but Dorcas was ranting and raving, so I didn’t ask her to elaborate. It’s usually best to let her vent, then ignore her. Why did she think you were royalty?

  —My husband was the second son of a duke. The Duke of Parkerton. In England, the first son is the heir, the second son goes into the military, the third son goes into the church.

  —What about the fourth son?

  —Law most likely, possibly a doctor. But they’re all libertines. They marry plain heiresses who silently suffer their peccadillos and watch their fortunes evaporate in the London gambling halls. My husband, as a second son, went into the army. Was a hero
of the Crimea.

  —The Charge of the Light Brigade?

  —Yes.

  —My father told me in one of his letters. He liked your husband very much.

  —Hmm. Well, turned out my father-in-law and his heir, Edward, were the gamblers. By the time we married, there was very little Parker fortune left, and Thomas’s brother had risen to the dukedom. Thomas was determined to strike it rich in the West, to help refill his family coffers.

  —He didn’t, though?

  —No. His brother died without issue, and the title went to Thomas. By the time we got the letter, Thomas had died as well, and with him the line. So yes. Technically for three months I was the Duchess of Parkerton. But not according to any official records. Thomas hadn’t returned to claim it, you see?

  —If he had, would you have inherited the title?

  —No idea, though it’s highly doubtful. I made the mistake of telling a friend of the title, and Duchess has become somewhat of a mocking nickname.

  —May I call you that?

  —I’d rather you not. Garet is fine.

  —I will stop peppering you with questions. Eat. Please.

  I did, and it was delicious. For his part, Callum ate the rolls and the deviled eggs, avoiding the ham, though it was succulent and tender, and drinking half of the bottle of wine before I’d finished a glass. I ignored Callum, though I felt his eyes on me, and focused on my meal, the sound of birdsong, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the gentle bubbling of the river, the stomp of a horse’s hoof. My senses have been highly attuned to the world around me, as if longing to take everything in so the memory of it will stay with me, manifest itself in the afterlife. As if I deserve to be surrounded by things I love. As if I deserve heaven.