Like a River Glorious

by Rae Carson

  We could be anywhere, I realize with a sinking heart. And maybe we’ve only traveled for a few days, but I haven’t been conscious often enough to be sure. Maybe it’s been a week. Maybe longer.

  The ghostly man approaches. He grabs me by the armpits and yanks me up.

  “Wait!” I cry out. “I need water. Jeff and Tom, too.”

  He ignores me, dragging me toward Peony, who is already saddled up. An arrow of panic pierces my heart. Have they been taking care of her? Have they watered and fed her properly? Rubbed her down? Checked her hooves? How do they know the new saddle isn’t giving her a rub?

  “Please!” I try again. “My uncle wants me alive, right?”

  He pauses, and I take the opportunity to get my feet under me. My legs are so wobbly that even if I got out of these bonds, I’m not sure I could escape.

  “My uncle needs me,” I gasp out, suddenly grateful for this pounding headache because it cuts through the opium haze and helps my mind work. “He needs me alive and hale. If harm comes to me, there’ll be hell to pay, and you know it.”

  The ghostly man’s gaze sweeps the camp until he finds Dilley, who nods once.

  All of a sudden, he lets go and strides away. My wobbly legs give out, and I drop like a stone into the dirt.

  He returns moments later with a canteen, which he lifts to my lips, and sweet mother of Moses, it’s the coolest, clearest, most wonderful water I ever drank in my life.

  I force myself to slow down. No sense drinking it only to toss it back up again. So I take a breath. Another sip. Another breath.

  “Now Jefferson and Tom.”

  “Your lover boys are leverage,” Dilley says. “To keep you cooperative. Nothing more. So I don’t give a rat’s furry arse if they die of thirst.”

  I glare at him. “If they die, you’ll have no leverage at all.”

  He ponders that a moment.

  “She’s right,” says Jonas Waters, sauntering over. He looks me up and down in a way that sends a shiver spider-crawling down my spine. “Frank, she don’t look so good, to be honest.”

  “Fine,” Dilley says. “Water for Bigler and Kingfisher, too, but don’t take too long about it.”

  I’m careful not to show even the smallest bit of relief. It’s my only victory since we’ve been captured, and I won’t risk him taking it away.

  The ghostly man gives Tom and Jeff water, who gulp it down like dogs at a pond.

  Then he returns to me. “Time for your breakfast, boy!” Dilley calls out, laughing.

  As the ghostly man tips the laudanum to my lips, I realize that I’ve yet to hear him speak a single word.

  The moon is a glowing orb in the velvety sky, and a lonely owls echoes low and soft as we reach our destination. My mind is fogged with laudanum, so I can’t see much, just the shapes of buildings, a few tents, the whitish expanse of a steep cliff side. I should mark my surroundings better. I should look for exits, weaknesses, but I can’t make myself focus, and after a moment, I don’t even care. Dear Lord, I’m weary. If I could just close my eyes and sleep for a week . . .

  “I told you to bring just the girl,” says a low, slick voice. I know that voice. A dart of fear penetrates the fog of my mind.

  “You hired me for my improvisational nature, sir,” Frank Dilley says. “We couldn’t have these boys running back to everyone, telling how the girl was taken, now could we? Besides, the girl cares for them. Especially that one right there. She’ll do whatever you want, so long as they’re around.”

  “I see.” A pause. I can’t see the speaker in the dark. Not sure I want to.

  Warm, strong fingers tip my chin up, and I roll my eyes around, trying to focus, but I can’t do it for all the gold in California. It’s so much easier to just close them.

  “Is she drunk?” the familiar voice asks. He sounds like he’s fit to smash someone’s nose. I just hope it’s not mine.

  “We gave her some poppy juice so she wouldn’t make a fuss.”

  “What?”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “Laudanum is a dangerous—”

  “I know this girl. We were six months crossing the continent together. She may be uppity and irksome, but she’s clever as a fox and good with a gun. I wasn’t going to take any chances.”

  Another pause. “If she is damaged in any way, I’ll skin you alive and throw you in a bear cage.”

  Frank must believe it, because his voice is tremulous when he says, “We did our jobs, just as you asked. The girl is fine. I promise.”

  “We’ll see. Tie up the boys behind the stable. Girl goes in the cabin. Second bedroom.”

  Peony lurches forward. After a short distance, the ropes tying me down are loosened, and strong hands grab my waist and slide me from my horse. I’m half dragged, half carried across a porch, through a doorway, and into a dark place that smells of fresh-chopped wood and linseed oil and dried tobacco.

  That tobacco smell. Sweet, and a little bit spicy. Familiar.

  Someone guides me to a bed and pushes me down until I’m lying on a straw tick. A bit of straw pokes at my armpit, but I don’t care because it’s a bed. Not hard ground or muddy ground or rocky ground. A real bed.

  No one bothers to untie my wrists, which niggles at my brain. Something is wrong. And Jefferson . . . The fog takes over. I sink into the prickly mattress, and then I keep sinking, so deep it feels like darkness swallows me whole.

  I wake to the smell of frying eggs and tobacco smoke. Sun shines through a single east-facing window. It’s too, too bright, like a spear of light lancing my mind. In fact, my whole head feels like it’s going to split open.

  My belly roils with nausea. I try to sit up, and the binds on my wrist tighten, bringing more pain. Blinking to clear my vision, I stare at the rope. It leads to the footboard.

  I’m tied to the bed.

  Using the rope, I pull myself forward on the mattress, scanning the floor for a slop bucket, a wash bin, anything I can use to throw up in. My stomach lurches, and I pause to breathe deeply through my nose, willing things to calm down.

  I’m in a small room with log walls and plank floors. Beside my small bed is a nightstand, displaying an issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book and a lantern. Along the other side of the room is a set of four empty shelves. Next to it is a doorway. A patchwork quilt hangs in the doorway like a curtain.

  The quilt curtain is whisked aside, and a tiny lady in strange clothing barrels through, carrying a breakfast tray. Steam curls up from two fried eggs, a mess of bacon, a fluffy round biscuit, and a tin cup full of hot coffee.

  It’s too rich, too much, and I bend over and vomit onto the floor.

  Frank Dilley didn’t give me near enough food and water, so there’s not a lot inside me, and it’s over quick. My face burns, and I’m about to apologize, but the lady’s hand darts out quick as a snake to mop my mouth and chin with a handkerchief.

  “Thank you,” I manage, looking up at her.

  She’s Chinese. Her eyes are different from mine, but they’re not squeezed shut like in all the newspaper drawings. She has shining black hair pulled into a single thick braid down her back. The skin of her face looks as soft as a cloud. No, she’s wearing some kind of powder to make it appear so. Still, her skin doesn’t seem the least bit yellow to me, any more than the Indians I’ve seen appeared red.

  “My name is Lee,” I say. “Thank you for bringing me breakfast. I’m sorry I . . . made such a mess.”

  She gazes at me as if taking my measure, and I realize that she’s just a girl, no older than I am.

  She carefully skirts the puddle on the floor and sets the tray on my bed. Then she points at her chest and says, “Mary.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mary. Do you work for my uncle? Hiram Westfall?” Now that I’m awake and alert, the laudanum no longer swimming in my blood, I’m sure I remember his voice. His scent.

  The girl’s gaze drops to the rope at my wrists, or maybe the sticky, raw skin beneath. She frowns slightly. A flurry of
speech comes out of her mouth, but I have no idea what she’s saying.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Chinese.”

  Mary points to the puddle, says something else, and walks away. Her bright blue tunic drapes softly over wide pants, and her platform shoes make a steady clump-clump sound as she goes. The quilt curtain swishes closed behind her.

  I stare after her, wondering what to do. Eat some of this breakfast, maybe. I’m weak from my journey with Dilley and his men, and I’ll need a store of strength for whatever’s ahead. But the puddle on the floor smells something awful, and my belly is still churning like a fish in a trap. Maybe the coffee is a good starting place.

  My bonds force me to grab the cup with both hands. I sip carefully at first, wary of putting too much in my stomach. It seems to go down okay, so I sip a little more.

  Once I have some food in me, I need to think about escape. No, first I need to find out where Jefferson and Tom are. A vague memory from last night indicates they might be in a stable.

  But even if we could escape, where would we go? I have no idea where Frank has taken us. I suppose fleeing in any direction is better than sticking around and waiting to see what my uncle has in store.

  Just thinking about my uncle brings such a cramp to my belly that I set the cup down and clamp my hands over my mouth. This is it. The thing I’ve dreaded for so long. The man who killed Mama and Daddy has gotten me alone and defenseless. Maybe he’s right outside that door.

  The quilt is whisked aside, and I jump, almost spilling my coffee. But it’s just Mary again, with some rags to mop up my puddle.

  She drops the rags in front of me and makes a wiping-up gesture. When I don’t do anything, she mimes it again, more vigorously. Not knowing what else to do, I strain against the ropes at my ankles and reach for the floor with my still-tied hands. I try to wipe up the puddle, but the angle is all wrong and I mostly just smear it around.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her again, even though I’m not sure she understands.

  She doesn’t bother hiding her disgust as she gathers the soiled rags. “Eat,” she says. Her voice is high and musical, and I wonder if she’s even younger than I thought, maybe fifteen.

  “I’ll try,” I say. “It’s hard with . . . this.” I hold up my wrists, indicating the ropes and screaming red burns on my skin beneath them.

  Mary scowls, and I’m not sure what she’s scowling at: that the bonds are on my wrists in the first place or that I’m complaining about them. She puts her hands together like they’re tied and makes an eating gesture, as if I’m too addled to figure it out myself.

  She leaves me to try it, and I give it a splendid effort, poking at the eggs, nibbling the bacon, smearing bits of biscuit around my plate. I feel better than I did before, and I manage to keep a few bites down.

  I look around the room again, for my things this time, and I spot a small chest at the foot of the bed. Maybe my knapsack is inside. I suppose it would be too much to ask for my guns to be there, too.

  The curtain is whisked aside again, and I look up, expecting Mary, but oh, dear Lord, it’s my uncle Hiram, dressed all in fancy black, bearing down on me like a storm cloud.

  I spider-crawl backward on the bed until my spine hits the wall.

  “Hello, sweet pea,” he says in that sleepy Milledgeville drawl.

  Chapter Twelve

  It’s like nails on a slate, hearing my daddy’s name for me out of my uncle Hiram’s rotten mouth. It makes me so angry I almost forget to be afraid. “Where are Jefferson and Tom?” I demand.

  He frowns. “Wasn’t my plan to bring them here, but don’t worry. They’re fine. I expect they’ll be put to work soon enough.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’ll have Mary heat up a bath for you. I want you clean and dressed like a proper lady.”

  “I’ll dress however I want.”

  “You’ll dress how I tell you. Or your friend, the Cherokee boy, will regret it.”

  “If you hurt him, I’ll kill you.”

  He cocks his head and folds his arms across his chest, studying me. Up close, I can see that he’s not quite so fancy as he was before. The elbows of his fine jacket are wearing thin. His black leather holster is now scratched and dirty. A not-quite-matching patch is sewn into one knee of his trousers, and his boots are scuffed and flecked with mud. He had a hard journey to California, just like the rest of us.

  “You have a great future here, sweet pea. With me. Reuben let you run wild as a colt, but no more.” His voice turns sympathetic and soft. “I know how hard it is to change your ways. But I promise, you will be happy here. We just need to give it time.”

  He leans down and grasps my arms, peering at my raw, welted wrists. I try to wrench them away, but he is too strong.

  “I’m sorry about this, my girl,” he says. “I did not intend for any harm to come to you.”

  Rage makes a red curtain of my vision. “Of course you did. You’ve intended nothing but harm from the beginning. You killed my parents. Stole everything that was mine. And now you’re worried about a few little rope burns? Go to hell.”

  He releases my wrists, sighing. “Not everything is as it seems.”

  “True. I mean, here you are, standing and talking like a human being, when the truth is you’re a venomous snake worth naught but the sharp edge of a shovel.”

  The blow is so sudden and vicious that my neck snaps to the side and funny lights flash in my eyes. It’s a moment before I can get a breath, and when I do, I realize that blood is collecting on my tongue.

  I spit it out onto the quilt; it’s going to stain, for sure and certain. “I thought you didn’t intend harm.”

  “Spare the rod, spoil the child.”

  I hate him. God forgive me, but it’s the truth.

  “And now,” he drawls lazily, “I’m going to give the exact same blow to your friend Jefferson. Except he’ll get my fist instead of the back of my hand.”

  My belly heaves, and the tiny bit of breakfast I was able to get down threatens to come back up. If he’s willing to wallop me, his own niece, what would he do to Jeff? “No,” I gasp out. “Wait.”

  He cocks an eyebrow, waiting. Oh, he looks so much like my daddy it’s an actual pain in my chest. Except when Daddy looked at me that way, it was because I had amused him, or made him proud.

  “I’ll wash up. I’ll wear whatever you want.”

  He smiles, looking smug as a cat with a helpless rat. I’ve revealed too much, I realize with a sinking gut. Jefferson is my greatest weakness, and now Hiram knows it.

  “Glad to hear it. Once Mary fills your washtub, I’ll untie you. Don’t even consider trying to run. You’re to stay inside this cabin at all times, unless accompanied by me or Wilhelm. This camp is well guarded, and everyone knows you are not allowed to wander. If you try, Jefferson and the other one will be shot. Do you understand?”

  I have a thousand questions—What is this camp? Where are we? Who is Wilhelm?—but more than anything, I want him away.

  “I understand,” I whisper.

  “Good. Finish your breakfast. Mary will be back shortly.”

  I stare after his back as he departs.

  I’ve killed deer, squirrels, a few pheasants, and more rabbits than I can count. Could I kill a person? The idea doesn’t set right with me, but if I’m ever going to do it, I know just who to try it out on.

  The breakfast tastes like grit in my mouth, but I gradually force it down. Mary drags an oval-shaped copper washtub through the doorway while I eat. She returns every few minutes with a kettle of hot water, which she dumps inside.

  A bath. A real bath. Inside the finest cabin I’ve seen in months. Becky would trade her red-checked tablecloth for a bath like this.

  True to his word, my uncle returns when the tub is full and cuts the ropes with a long knife. For an instant, the cool skin of his fingers slithers across my wrists, making bile rise in my throat.

  “Now wash up,” he says. “Thoroughly. I’
ll have Mary bring some new clothes.”

  I’m not too keen to undress in this place, even if I’m given my privacy. I wait until his boot steps fade. Then I shuck my clothes as fast as I can, step over the edge, and sink into the hot water. It’s so hot my skin turns bright red, and there’s barely enough room—I have to bring my knees to my chest to fit inside. But after days of riding tied down with little more than laudanum for sustenance, it feels like I’m absorbing the hot water into my thirsty bones.

  Mary left me a bristle brush and some soap, and I get to work scrubbing everything, paying special attention to my face and dirt-encrusted fingernails. I soap down my hair and dip beneath the water to rinse, then finger comb it as best I can. Strands of hair come away from my scalp and float like water bugs on the surface. I keep combing, and more hair comes away. Then more. I decide to leave my hair alone.

  I’m scrubbing my armpits when Mary strides in again. I whip my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them to cover myself, sloshing water over the side and onto the floor. But Mary keeps her eyes averted. In one hand is a bucket of rinse water. In another is a heavy bundle of clothing, which she dumps onto the bed.

  Without a word or glance, she leaves.

  As lovely as the hot water feels, I don’t like being naked in this place, and I need to finish up. Carefully I wash the rope burns on my wrist. The skin is open and weeping, and soaping it up stings something fierce, so I go about it gently but quickly.

  I listen to make sure no one is coming. Then I grab the rinse bucket and stand. I pour half the water over my head to get excess soap out of my hair, the rest over my neck and shoulders.

  When I step from the tub, my skin turns to gooseflesh and the floor is icy cold on my feet. I stare down at the floor for a few seconds, marveling. Real plank floors instead of hard earth. A real bed instead of a bedroll. A real glass window. A copper washtub. Spare linens and clothes.

  Sure, my uncle stole an awful lot of gold from me before he left Georgia, but I can’t figure how he managed to put together such a fancy place so quickly. Or how he can afford to keep a servant. Or hire men like Frank Dilley.