The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World

by Shaylin Gandhi

  He waved a hand. “One of your girls, then, at your behest. You’re the one in charge. It’s as good as doing so yourself.”

  She released his arm. “Neither of my girls robbed the NTC. That was the outlaw. The same one who just bought Annie at auction.”

  Connor’s mouth twisted in confusion. “Did you not have your girl dress in costume and rob Henry Burnham on Eighteen Above Mayhem?”

  “Well, yes, but that was after. After we read about the real outlaw in the paper. We only borrowed his identity so Henry and the Reverend wouldn’t burn down the Blossom in reprisal.”

  He inspected her, his jaw set. “You mean to tell me someone stole ten thousand dollars from the NTC the day before the Reverend Gray blackmailed you for the same amount, and yet the two are unrelated?”

  Was that why he’d been so intent on taking her to jail? Temperance raised her chin, daring to hope. “I mean to tell you exactly that.”

  Connor reached out. His fingers feathered against her neck, finding the rhythmic wingbeat of her pulse. “Who is the true outlaw?”

  She studied him. His sable hair ruffled on the breeze while his eyes burned as blue as the nucleus of a flame.

  “I don’t know.” And that was the truth. She had no idea who’d swooped in and won Annie’s auction. She only hoped that, whoever he was, he would treat her with kindness.

  Connor paused. “Miss Hyacinth, I’ve been trained to detect truth and untruth. To recognize outward signs of inward emotions. To read faces, and pulses, and lies.”

  “And when you look at me? When you feel my heartbeat? What does it tell you?”

  “Your pulse beats steady and sure, so it does.” He dropped his hand. “You’re telling the truth.”

  Hope bloomed in her breast like a fiery flower, streaming molten light through her veins. If he believed her…maybe he wouldn’t take her in, after all. Maybe she still had a chance at the Blossom, at changing the Reverend’s mind tomorrow.

  Maybe she still had a chance at saving Connor.

  She leaned toward him.

  As if unable to bear the pain of his mistake, he recoiled, bending double among the swaying wildflowers and propping himself up with his uninjured arm. “I ought to beg your forgiveness. At every turn, you’ve tried to help me, and I…”

  Undaunted, Temperance reached out and gathered him to her, heedless of the blood that soaked his sleeve and seeped through her makeshift bandages. “Shh.” She murmured against the black satin of his hair. “You’re forgiven, of course.”

  “I threatened you.” With his face buried against her shoulder, his breath sifted through the fabric of her gown, warming her skin. “You might have left me to that bear and ridden back to Caribou Crossing, with no one the wiser.”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “But I would’ve regretted it forever.”

  “A pure-hearted woman of the demimonde,” he whispered, his voice full of naked wonder. “Just as Miss Sophia said.”

  Temperance’s entire being simmered with the warmth of his words. Sophia had said that? A smile snuck across her lips, even as she cradled Connor’s head and stroked his hair.

  He melted into her touch, just as he had that day at the lake. “I miss them,” he cried. “I miss Maggie and Justin so much that being torn to pieces by a wild animal would be hurting less than spending one more day inside this body of mine.”

  “I know.” Yet even as she formed the words, she wondered. Did she know? She’d lost a sister, yes, but what of a child? A true love? Was there any return from grief like that? Could a rift so cruelly deep ever be mended—or did the good Lord intend to reunite Connor with his family soon, exactly as he wished?

  “Give me a week,” she said.

  Connor raised his head. “Begging your pardon?”

  “Spend a week with me.” She released him and pulled back, meeting his eyes. “Don’t go back to the Mounties’ barracks. There’s nothing for you there. Come back to the Blossom, instead, where it’s warm.”

  He eyed her skeptically. “Warm?”

  “You know what I mean. Spend a week with me. With my girls. Afterward, if you still don’t believe there’s anything tying you to this life, I won’t stop you from finding that bear again.”

  His jaw worked. “You’re asking me to spend a week in a brothel, so you are.”

  She nodded, unashamed.

  “I’m not the sort of man who would ever consider such a thing.”

  Temperance watched him carefully. He looked desolate and desperate and wounded, but even so, a glimmer of hope revealed itself in the way he studied her face. And, despite his protests, he hadn’t actually said no.

  “Please,” she said. “Let me help you.”

  48. Annie.

  Lying on her back, Annie looked up through a frame of wildflowers. Jeweled blossoms nodded in the breeze, framing a lavender sky.

  She rolled onto her side and considered the outlaw. “How in Sam hell am I ever gonna repay you?”

  The dying sunlight warmed Palmer’s pupils to that luminous, red-earth glow. Black grease paint still coated his long hair and dark smudges garnished her dress—a map of all the places he’d touched her. “Don’t,” he said. “I didn’t bid to buy you. I bid so you could have your freedom.”

  Plain words, but they lit a flame inside her. All around, the world wove a tapestry of waltzing wildflowers and high, arching, violet-crystal sky.

  A single slice of perfection, if not for the awful, throbbing ache that rose when she considered what they’d done. Now that the auction’s thrill had waned, cruel dread crept in, trailing her like a shadow.

  “He’ll come for me.” The words tasted rotten. “Samuel ain’t the type to surrender.”

  “Samuel. The man who thinks he’s your husband?”

  “The man who is my husband, sugar. Sure as hell wish he wasn’t. But once upon a time, I was young and dumb and, after my Pa died, sad enough to bring tears to a glass eye. Tried to cheer myself up by getting hitched. Stupidest thing I ever did.”

  Palmer blinked, quiet.

  Her insides twisted. “That don’t change things between us, sugar.”

  “Good.”

  But did it? The law bound her to Samuel St. Clair. Sure, Palmer had bought her time—hours or days, maybe, but not enough. In the end, Samuel had the law on his side. He’d drag her back to proper, stifling Dallas, not even caring whether her soul ripped right from her chest in the process.

  Desperate, she reached out and smoothed an oiled lock of Palmer’s hair. Arctic sun speckled his baked-brown cheeks with tattered scraps of light. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

  “Oh.”

  “I gotta ask, though. Who taught you to rob company storehouses?”

  “No one. I planned that myself. To keep you safe.”

  To keep you safe. “Seems like something Irene would’ve done. She’d be proud.”

  “I hope so.”

  Silent, Annie tried to memorize every crooked line of his face, the perfect berry swell of his lips. How many more chances would they have to lay like this?

  “I miss her,” he said. “She taught me so much. How to read faces. How to tolerate a room full of people. How to talk without acting strange.”

  “You’re still kinda strange.”

  He sighed. “I know.”

  “But Irene was your friend.”

  “Very much so.”

  “And little ol’ me? What am I?”

  “You aren’t little,” he said. “And you are the most important person in the world.”

  She laughed at that first part, even as the second found every shadow inside her and bathed it in shine. She ached to capture that feeling indefinitely, to seize the flowers and sunlight and Palmer’s glistening skin and tuck them all in her pocket, where she could savor them forever.

  Knowing she couldn’t was the worst kind of torture.

  Unless…

  A breeze rose, pushing through the blossoms to deliver a whisper straight into her ear.
Do something reckless.

  She sat up. “Sugar.”

  “Yes?”

  She rose and buttoned her dress, moving with jerky haste. They’d have to clean the paint off Irene’s horse before heading back to town, but… “I just got myself a real crazy idea.”

  49. Kendall Blumen’s Diary.

  I’ve always thought killing a man would be difficult.

  It isn’t.

  In the end, it simply happened. No plots, no schemes. Just simple luck—one of those rare and priceless moments in which desire and fate seem to align.

  The morning dawned gray and wet, as Oregon mornings tend to do. At breakfast, Kitty came downstairs to show off her new bonnet. Though I’d never have said so, it was a hideous thing—vivid red, with a taxidermied bird on top. The poor creature’s beak yawned wide, eternally frozen in either a serenade or a shriek. I couldn’t be sure.

  But Kitty’s grin was warmth itself, and I derive great pleasure from bringing her happiness. I pressed another coin into her hand, told her to go find another treasure. I made certain Pliskin saw, of course, and smiled. Or bared my teeth—a close enough approximation.

  Afterward, I passed the morning reading in the parlor. When the fire died, I rose to stir it. The log rack stood empty, prompting a trip to the woodshed out back.

  For reasons unknown, I took the poker with me. It wasn’t a conscious decision. I simply forgot to put it down.

  At the shed, I opened the door on a grim scene. Pliskin had Kitty thrown over the stacked logs, her back wrenched at a horrifying angle. His pants were down, his sick lust bobbing around like a stiffened worm. She’d fought back—a bloody scratch grooved his cheek.

  Lost in the grip of his frenzy, he didn’t hear me arrive, and he struck her right in front of me. Not a slap, or a warning, but an uninhibited fist to the mid-section that doubled her over and made her spit blood.

  To my utter amazement, she made no sound, even as he ripped the bonnet from her head and tore it to pieces. The stuffed bird’s bones snapped in his hands.

  I understood, of course, the true source of his rage. He wished the bird—wished Kitty herself—to be me.

  “All these fancy baubles,” Pliskin snarled. “You think Kendall cares for you? You think Kendall will protect you?”

  I spoke behind him. “She knows I will.”

  I’ll always cherish the way he turned, treasure the raw fear that jumped the distance between us. His excitement shriveled, a maggot withering to a pitiful, dried-up husk.

  In that moment, the world sharpened, outlined in blinding clarity. I saw everything: the blood dribbling down Kitty’s chin, the quivering lift of Pliskin’s jaw, the glistening dewdrops on the spider web fogging over one corner of the window. Past superimposed over present. I remembered the merciless injustice of Pliskin’s body invading mine, the way he’d laughed afterward.

  Fury rose like a war cry, pouring into me in an unstoppable crescendo.

  My first blow caught Pliskin upside the head. The poker’s wicked talon caught his ear, nearly tearing it from his skull. Red wetness fountained out, and he screamed—a lovely melody to accompany my opus of revenge.

  With the second blow, I broke his arm. Then his leg. When he tried to crawl away, Kitty dragged him back and propped him against the wall of the shed.

  “Fucking die,” she said.

  Now, Kitty may be many things, including a prostitute and a laudanum addict. But she carries herself like a lady. She never curses, and that single act moved me more deeply than my own vivid hate.

  I hit Pliskin in the face.

  Just before the end, his fear seemed to drain away. Maybe that’s a natural precursor to death.

  He spat at me through broken teeth. “You’ll go to Hell for this.”

  Hell. What an absurd concept. I simply smiled. “I’ll see you there,” I told him, and drove the poker through his eye.

  Pliskin died messily, in a series of great, wracking convulsions. Milky fluid drained from his ruined eye socket and his bladder released, filling the shed with the stench of piss.

  Poor Kitty threw up in the corner, then spat on the ravaged corpse. She helped me drag Pliskin into the street, where we left him with his pants still around his ankles. I intended that as a message, lest any of the neighborhood pimps suffer delusions of poaching our house for themselves.

  So there you have it. I killed a man, and I don’t regret it. In fact, all I feel is a grim sort of relief. Does that make me a monster? Maybe. I can’t help but think, though, that monsters never stop to ponder their own depravity.

  I’d already burned my clothes and combed the gore from my hair by the time Mother came home. She wanted to know, was I responsible for the mess outside?

  Why, yes. Yes, I was.

  She treated me to a hateful sneer. “You’re no child of mine.”

  I’m glad we finally agree.

  Later, I gathered the girls and laid down new rules. They’re welcome to stay, of course, provided they contribute. That doesn’t mean what it did with Pliskin—there’s a far better path to riches, I told them.

  Halfway through, Mother rose and stormed out, dripping with recrimination. In hindsight, I never should’ve included her, but I wished her to understand that the house is firmly in my control.

  The other girls remained, every one. Of all of them, Kitty seemed most enamored with the prospect of keeping her legs closed. Moreover, she hates Lord William Gray, which works to my advantage.

  “Teach me,” she said.

  I will. I already know exactly what to do.

  50. Temperance.

  In the last hours of evening, Connor stepped into the deserted parlor amid slanting wedges of ruby light. He looked uncomfortable the moment he crossed the threshold. “Where is everybody?”

  Temperance led him to the settee and patted the lavender cushion beside a sleeping Riley. “We’re closed. Wait here. I’ll get Doc Banks to come see to your arm.”

  Connor sat next to the dog. “All right.”

  Surprised at his cooperation, she offered an encouraging smile. She’d be quick. Doc Banks’ office was only a few blocks away.

  As she turned away, Connor said, “I left the lamp burning in the window.”

  Temperance halted. “Excuse me?”

  As the mantel clock chimed eleven, a parade of emotions marched over Connor’s face: shame, regret, despair. “Back in Ottawa. It was a lovely summer night, to be sure, and I only had to walk a few blocks to the stationhouse while Maggie and Justin slept. So I left the lamp burning on the sill in the kitchen, with the window open. Even knowing our fool cat jumped in and out through that window all the time.”

  Silence reigned, filling the cavernous parlor. Burning sunset pierced the windowpanes, painting the mute stage the color of blood. Drifting sparkles filled the empty space above—the same pinpricks of gold dust that saturated the carpet.

  “Oh, honey.” She ached to reach for him, but leashed herself.

  “I was standing in the stationhouse when I heard the alarm, smelled the smoke.” Screwing his eyes shut, he hunched his shoulders, as if escaping into the darkness behind his closed eyelids. “And yet I knew, even before I sprinted home. I knew Maggie and Justin were already gone. And so they were.”

  Temperance closed the distance between them. When she laid a hand on his shoulder, he clutched at it with gloved fingers.

  “That goddamn cat escaped the fire, somehow. I even throttled the life from him afterward, hoping it might bring them back.” Shame and despair rolled off him in waves, a tangible force that somehow intensified the searing red light. “It didn’t.”

  Heart bursting, she leaned in, but the front door swung open, shattering the moment.

  Riley woke and shot off the couch like a bullet. He stopped in the doorway, his back end wriggling.

  The Professor appeared. Freshly scrubbed, his braid still wet, he cradled a laughing, radiant Annie in his arms as he stepped over the threshold. And Annie’s dress was…r />
  …white.

  Only two words escaped from Temperance’s mouth. “Did you…?”

  “Did we ever.” Annie hopped down and tossed a heavy, clinking sack. “Here’s ten grand. Or near enough. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, but I spent some on a wedding dress. Figured we could rustle up the difference somewhere.”

  Then Annie stopped, catching sight of Connor. “What in Sam hell is he doing here?”

  “He’s going to stay with us for a while.” Temperance didn’t mention her near-arrest—now wasn’t the time.

  Annie’s eyes narrowed at the lawman.

  Temperance took the opportunity to change the subject. “Aren’t you married already?”

  “Back home, maybe. But not in Canada. Least not ‘til now.” Abandoning her glaring, Annie planted a kiss on Palmer’s cheek.

  “I’m…not sure it works that way.”

  Shrugging, Annie dug a piece of paper from her bodice. “The Reverend married us, real legal-like. I figured a fake preacher wouldn’t bat an eye at giving me a second husband. Turns out I was right.”

  That nearly bowled Temperance over. “Reverend Gray married you?”

  Annie colored, but the blush vaporized within moments. “Surprised the bejeesus outta me, too. But he was real nice about it. Almost like it amused him.”

  Temperance reeled, even as Palmer, stoic and plain-faced, locked eyes on his new bride.

  He’s happy.

  She couldn’t say how she knew, only that the air around him vibrated with joy, even though he never cracked a smile.

  Annie’s grin stretched. “C’mon, husband. You wanna find some place dark and quiet?”

  “With great pleasure, Miss Marigold.”

  “Ain’t Miss Marigold no more. It’s Missus…well, lemme see.” Annie squinted at the marriage license. “Barman? Seriously? That ain’t your real last name.”

  Palmer blinked. “It is.”

  “Palmer Barman…the barman? And now I’m Missus Barman?”

  “You are.”

  “Holy buckets.” Annie laughed until tears leaked from her eyes. “Well, Mister Barman, whattya say we consummate this thing?”