Her Outlaw Heart

by Samantha Harte

  Jodee woke abruptly. She’d dreamed of sitting on the sharp points of an iron fence. On one side was a barking dog like the ones she’d passed on her way to school as a child. On the other side was her mother’s washtub, but the clothes in it were frozen. It was snowing and she was cold. The dog had her sleeve in its teeth.

  Struggling to sit up, Jodee remembered falling asleep on the floor, curled up on the carpet. It must be evening. She heard voices below, reminding her of being at her grandmother’s, alone in her upstairs room years ago. Her knapsack lay on the floor near the closed door. On the dressing table lay a tray of food. Someone had placed the shawl across her legs.

  Climbing to her feet, she ate a little of the food and rummaged in her knapsack. Holding her tattered old bed dress to her face, breathing in its musty scent, she summoned a memory of those first few months with her father. Those had been good days, honest days, even if they had come near to starving.

  In the bottom of the knapsack she found her speller and the stones she’d collected over the years. This round one came from the creek behind that first farm. This white one came from the ranch in Texas. Other smaller stones were from camps and hideouts that ran together in her memory over the last two years. She ought to chuck them all. It was time to forget.

  Then Jodee felt a charge of alarm. She rummaged through the knapsack but came up empty. Her locket wasn’t there.

  Seven

  “That smells good!” Jodee exclaimed. The loaf of bread just pulled from the bake oven made her think achingly of home. Having slept well, however, she shook off the memory and grinned at Hanna as she came into the kitchen from the back stairs. “I’m going to town this morning. I’m going to trade my pa’s pistol for better clothes.”

  “That’s a good idea, honey,” Hanna said, pausing in her work, “but you can't go looking like that. Miz Ashton had that rag of a dress in the bottom of her oldest trunk for as long as I’ve worked here. I can see clean through it.”

  Jodee refused to be discouraged. “Maybe if I could keep your shawl awhile, I’ll be all right.”

  She fetched her britches from the clothesline out back. Moments later she was in the sewing room, pulling them on under the thin blue dress. Shopping! she thought, trying not to think how awful she might look setting foot in a store. She was going shopping just like decent folks! She poked her feet into her boots. In a few hours she wouldn’t look so awful.

  With the cook’s shawl clutched around her shoulders to disguise that she wore no camisole or corset under the dress, Jodee waved goodbye to Hanna and hurried out into the crisp morning air. She was so excited she almost broke into a run. She wasn’t hiding with outlaws anymore. She didn’t have to feel ashamed or afraid ever again.

  In less than ten minutes she stepped up onto the jailhouse porch feeling bold as brass. Her heart pattered happily at the prospect of seeing the marshal again. She found him standing in front of the heating stove, frowning thoughtfully at the coffee pot. The sight of him made her heart thrill.

  Hearing her come in, Corbet’s expression blossomed into a smile when he turned. “Jodee! What are you doing here? You look rested.”

  She ducked her head, pleased by his reaction. “I come for my pa’s pistol.” She explained her intention to trade it for new clothes. “It really is mine, you know. Pa had it long before he knew Ma. He didn’t steal it.”

  Looking sympathetic, the marshal pulled Jodee's gun belt with its attached holster from his desk drawer. He took the pistol from his locked drawer. He’d cleaned it for her.

  Oh, it cut her heart to see that big ol’ gun again. She remembered her father teaching her to aim and shoot. Just as her father had done with her, she showed the marshal the scrollwork around the initials TTMQ. “Pa was real proud of this. Best gun he ever owned, he said. He gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. I got good at bringing down jackrabbits. Even got me an antelope once.” She relished the way Corbet watched her with those deep, dark eyes of his. “Am I free to walk around town by myself now, Marshall?”

  “I should go with you, Jodee. Folks might get the wrong idea, you carrying a big shootin’ iron like that.” He gave her a little smile that said he was teasing. “There’s a stop I’d like to make first.”

  With the smile still tugging at his lips, he extended his elbow. She didn’t like him acting so proper-like. It put a nervous scare into her. He was probably still suspicious. He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. With a delicious jolt of awareness, Jodee walked outside with him, arm in arm, her worries forgotten.

  They strolled to a shop with a sign reading “Watches & Fine Jewelry” painted on the window. As she passed beneath the tinkling bell over the door, Jodee heard the marshal say softly, “I thought you were going to call me Corbet.”

  At the closeness of his voice, a thrill went through her. “What are we doing here, Mar—” She swallowed hard. “—Corbet?” It delighted her to say his name as if they were friends.

  The jeweler appeared from the rear of the store. “Marshal, I have your item ready.” The man took a wooden tray lined in green cloth from behind the counter. In it lay Jodee’s newly polished locket, its chain repaired.

  Jodee’s eyes went dry staring at it. He’d gone and had it fixed, she thought. Why would the marshal do such a thing?

  “This is a fine old piece, Marshal, maybe fifty years old,” the jeweler said. “Quality workmanship with a lovely miniature inside. Yours, Miss?”

  Jodee ached to touch it. She thought the marshal took it to keep. Fifty years old—did that mean her grandmother had owned it first, and gave it to her mother? She could sell it, too, but could she part with something so special? This was all she had left of the mother who had defied an entire town in the name of love.

  When Jodee accepted the locket, Corbet tried to fasten it around her neck. She drew away. Unable to trust her voice, she closed her fist around the gold and tucked her fist beneath her chin. Of all the things her mother might want for her, surely it was for her to have a new start. Could Jodee give up so much?

  “What do I owe you?” Corbet asked the jeweler.

  “No charge, Marshal. Just a broken link.”

  “Thank you,” Jodee whispered. Blinking away tears, she hurried outside.

  Corbet caught up to her as she stepped blindly from one boardwalk and crossed to the next. “Are you all right, Jodee? You’re not angry with me for taking it and having it repaired?”

  She shook her head, still unable to trust her voice.

  “Well, then. Which store would you like to try first?” He smiled with exaggeration as if hoping to cheer her.

  How could she think? Her heart was in pieces. When she woke she’d been so sure that selling her valuables was the right thing to do. But she couldn’t part with her father’s pistol and her mother’s locket.

  Corbet’s smile wilted. He searched her face. “Have you changed your mind? You must value this locket an awful lot.”

  “I do, but I need a new start." She looked down at the threadbare dress she was wearing. She couldn’t go through the rest of her life living off other folks’ charity. “I need cash money for my new start.” She dashed away a tear.

  “And a ticket home,” he said gently. “I know how hard this is, better than you can imagine.”

  Tarnation, Jodee thought. He thought she wanted to go home. He didn’t understand what it had been like for her there. He didn’t know she’d never go back.

  But he looked so optimistic. She let him lead her into a small general store. The moment she stepped through the door, she felt her new life beckoning. Just the smell of the place gave her hope.

  “Jodee, this is Smithfield Quimby, new to Burdeen City a few months ago. He comes to us all the way from London. Smithfield, this is Miss McQue. She’d like to trade two items of great value to her for some necessities. Would you be willing to accommodate a trade, as a favor to me?”

  The slender man in sleeve garters regarded Jodee in her homely sha
wl and threadbare calico dress. “My dear girl,” he said in an unfamiliar accent, “you are in dire need of a new bonnet. I know just the thing, shipped from Boston just last week and on sale for a remarkably low price of twenty-five cents.”

  Relishing the smell of leather, split pine packing crates and peppermint sticks, Jodee looked around with rising excitement. Hearing nothing of what the man was saying as he headed for a stack of untrimmed braid hats, Jodee could imagine how wonderful it might be to wear clothes of her own. Clothes that were clean. Clothes that fit her slim frame. When she met the storekeeper’s eyes, she knew he was assessing her worth. She had no worth, she thought, momentarily flagging in confidence. Part of her wanted to run away.

  The storekeeper glanced uncertainly at the marshal.

  Gently, Corbet placed Jodee’s battered gun belt and holster on the counter. He held the pistol out of sight behind his back.

  “What have we here?” Mr. Quimby asked, going behind the counter. He regarded the leather belt with the extra holes gouged in it to make it buckle around a small waist. “I’m afraid I cannot offer more than seventy cents for this. Is this yours, my dear? Are you a shootist?”

  “I reckon I am,” Jodee said softly, ashamed suddenly of the way the old belt and holster looked. Lee Rike had given it to her, years before. Stolen, most likely.

  She fought discouragement. This was hopeless. How was she ever going to get a new start, trading such worthless stuff? She spied a small pistol in a nearby glass case but spun away. She didn’t need to defend herself any longer. Her life with outlaws was over.

  “Shall I show him the pistol, too, Jodee?” Corbet asked. “You’re sure about trading it?”

  Her father’s pistol, she thought with her heart thudding. She put her fist to her chest. Her dead father’s engraved pistol. His gift to her on her birthday. She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t part with it. What was she thinking?

  Without waiting for her reply, Corbet placed the pistol on the countertop in front of Mr. Quimby’s startled gaze. Jodee heard the man’s sharp intake of breath. Glancing back, Jodee caught him hefting it, taking aim with it, turning it this way and that just as she had done on her sixteenth birthday—she had to look away again. She couldn’t stand to see him touching it.

  She made her way over to a brown paperboard box on a shelf labeled “Ladies Underdrawers.” Dazzling white lawn drawers filled the box to the top. The topmost pair had wide lace around each leg. The price was two dollars. She began to worry in earnest. She couldn't even afford to buy herself a pair of drawers? How could she start over?

  Mr. Quimby regarded her with skepticism. “This is also yours, Miss?” he asked of the big pistol.

  “It was my pa’s. Do you have any drawers that aren’t so fancy?”

  He laid the pistol aside as if it meant nothing and climbed a rolling stepladder to a top shelf. He brought down a box. “Simple, economical. I recommend a half dozen.”

  “Will you take my pa’s pistol in trade or not?” she asked, fighting tears. Her voice sounded anything but gruff.

  “Jodee is interested in a complete outfit, Mr. Quimby,” Corbet put in. “Because you had a difficult time getting established with two other mercantile stores in town already, I thought you might offer a good price.”

  Quimby went back to the pistol and scowled at it. “Five dollars.”

  That sounded pretty good, Jodee supposed, trying not to let on that she was considering his offer.

  Corbet moved closer. “Look at the engraving, Quimby. Do those initials bring anything to mind, something you might have read about in the newspaper recently about an outlaw gang?”

  The man squinted more closely.

  “Some might pay a lot more than five dollars for T. T. McQue’s own pistol. Miss McQue can’t buy a complete outfit for five dollars. I see Wilson’s Mercantile is open.”

  “Six and a half,” Quimby said with haste.

  “I mean to buy a few presents, too,” Jodee said, her throat still tight, but she was feeling a glimmer of hope. At Corbet's quizzical expression, she added, “Hair washing paste for Avinelle. A hair comb for Rella.”

  “Ten dollars. No more.” Quimby gave her a firm nod of his head.

  Jodee felt giddy. Ten? With a trembling hand, she held out the locket. “What about this?” She couldn’t hide the quiver in her voice. “It’s real gold.”

  Snatching it from her, Quimby carried the locket to the front of the store where the light was better. “Four dollars and seventy-five cents. Not a cent more. It’s old.”

  “An heirloom,” Corbet put in, but he was smiling. “Tell Quimby everything you need, Jodee. You have a room back there where she can try things on, don’t you?”

  “Have we a deal?” Quimby asked.

  Jodee hesitated. “Let’s see what fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents will buy.”

  “My dear,” Quimby said, “for some, that is half a month’s pay. If you prefer simple things, I can outfit you from head to toe and leave you enough for gifts, hair pins, and a bar of my best Mother’s Crème Toilette Bathing Soap. Gentle to the skin, and fragrant, too.”

  By the time Corbet returned from his morning shave, Jodee was nearly done with her shopping. Quimby had boxes open on every surface, displaying everything from handkerchiefs to toothbrushes.

  Jodee stood in Mr. Quimby’s back room with her feet encased in agonizingly tight high button shoes. She wore a white muslin chemise at twenty-five cents under her snug “comfort-style” corset that cost fifty cents. She had on plain muslin underdrawers. They felt wonderfully soft after years of wearing only britches next to her skin. Over the drawers was a cotton belt with dangling button-garters holding up black ribbed stockings at ten cents a pair. Her muslin petticoat was a bargain at forty-seven cents and even had pin-tucks around the hem. Her blouse had twin pleats on either side of the band and long sleeves with a plain collar. It cost ninety cents. Her skirt was made of blue and white Olympia poplin, Mr. Quimby said. That didn’t mean a thing to Jodee but seemed quite special to him. He let the item go for ninety-eight cents.

  The high-button shoes reminded Jodee of long ago Sunday mornings struggling with her grandmother to get her shoes fastened in time to walk to church. She selected the cheapest pair at a dollar twenty-five. Since living with her father, she’d worn only men’s boots. She felt quite the lady, sashaying in a circle, whispering, “how do” to a pile of blankets.

  Before she chose a drawstring bag and wool shawl at forty-five cents, Mr. Quimby totaled her items. She had enough left to buy a bed dress for forty-two cents, a bonnet, hair pins, hair washing paste for herself, and a tablet to list her debts on. The tablet cost three cents. Mr. Quimby threw in a penny pencil for free.

  She was done.

  All her doubts were gone, her anguish forgotten. She felt as happy as a new puppy. She spun around and said, “If only you could see me, Pa.” She knotted her hair and pinned it in place. Plopping the hat on her head, she went back into the main room. Customers took no notice of her. With breath held, she approached Corbet, who was thumbing through a mail-order catalogue while he waited.

  When he glanced up, he sprang to attention. His eyes grew wide and his neck reddened. “Is that you, Jodee?” His smile spread across his face in a dazzling display. “You take to shopping like every female I’ve ever known. How do the shoes feel? Are they the right size?”

  Doing a jig, she nodded happily.

  Mr. Quimby busied himself wrapping her old things in brown paper for carrying home. He finished Jodee’s tally and counted out her change, four dollars and sixteen cents.

  Jodee could not remember being happier.

  She looked decent. She felt decent. She was about to say so when Hobie trotted in, his eyes pinned on the marshal. Jodee held her breath, hoping the lad would notice her and exclaim, too.

  As if she were a stranger, Hobie tipped his cap but said to the marshal, panting, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Marshal. A telegraph mess
age.” He offered a folded paper.

  Jodee’s heart gave pause. Was it about her?

  Hobie looked away. “And I’m s—sorry, Marshal, but I can’t sweep up for you no more. Got to go. I’m late for school.” He fled the store before Corbet could ask for an explanation.

  Hobie hadn’t noticed her. Jodee felt crushed. She was about to ask what the telegraph message was about, but Corbet left the store without speaking. She felt abandoned.

  “I am proud to have been your outfitter, Miss McQue,” Quimby said. “I will keep your father’s pistol in my own private collection. You will tell folks you purchased your wares from my store, I hope.”

  “Where’d the marshal go? Why’d Hobie have to quit working for him?” Jodee asked without thinking the storekeeper would know.

  “A lad that age should not be exposed to the rigors of a lawman’s life," Quimby said in a sanctimonious tone. “His mother is a widow, you know. She probably let the lad work for the marshal in hopes of attracting his interest. Women are clever creatures. Yourself included, no doubt. You needn’t worry. The marshal will find another helper.”

  Hobie had lost his job on her account, Jodee was certain, and she felt ashamed. She might look decent now, but the change was only on the outside. She was still unwelcome outlaw trash cluttering up the town. Nothing had changed. Corbet was still a marshal, and Burl was still out there somewhere. She might walk out the door in her fine new duds but she might run straight into Burl. Or she might look out her bedroom window some night and see Burl waiting for her in the dark. Burl might come after her, and she’d have no pistol to keep him at bay. It wasn’t too late to take everything off and put her rags back on, she thought. She’d been born to an outlaw after all.

  Setting her jaw, Jodee sidled over to the counter where she’d seen the little two-shot pistol displayed under the glass. “How much for that there little pistol?” she asked in her old gruff tone.