The Bride Lottery

by Tatiana March

  Jamie felt warmth spread in his chest and feared the sensation was becoming all too frequent in Miranda’s presence. He’d been right to get Nora away from Mrs. Van Cleef. The old harridan had scolded the child for talking about animals having a spirit, or anything else that went against the most puritan interpretation of the Christian faith.

  When they reached the saloon entrance, Miranda gripped his arm to halt him. “Can we go upstairs the back way?”

  Jamie saw her strained expression and felt another rush of guilt over how he had teased her. For a gently bred female, she had handled the saloon crowd well, but now the drunken miners might call out rude comments if they saw her leading her husband up to the bedroom. If he could spare her the embarrassment, he owed it to her.

  “Sure,” he said. “Let’s go round the back.”

  They left the boardwalk and took the narrow passageway between the buildings. When Miranda stumbled, Jamie offered her his arm. “Hold on to me. I can see in the dark. There’s a pothole ahead, and a shovel leaning against the wall, and a broken chicken cage.”

  He steered her safely through the alley and up the rickety back stairs, through the balcony door, into the upstairs hall. When he tried the door to her room, it swung open.

  “I don’t lock the door when Nora is alone inside,” Miranda whispered to him. “It allows her to come out and call for me from the landing, in case she needs me while I’m downstairs.”

  Jamie went in. In the bed on the left, a small shape lay tucked beneath a brightly colored quilt. The light through the open doorway fell on the soft features of the sleeping child. Then the quilt rippled, and the big brown eyes flared open. No whoop of joy. No bounce up on the bed. Just quiet words, carried on a mere rustle of breath.

  “Uncle Jamie. I knew you’d come.”

  Terror seized Jamie at how weak his niece appeared. He turned to Miranda, who had tiptoed in behind him. “Should we let Nora sleep?” he asked quietly.

  Miranda shook her head. “You talk to her. I’ll go and make a pot of herbal tea. There is always hot water on the stove at the end of the upstairs hall.”

  She held his gaze for a second, their positions reversed now, the light from the hallway falling on him and leaving her face in shadows, and yet in Miranda’s expression Jamie could read the words she could not speak. Talk to the child while you can, for she might not be with us in the morning.

  Jamie nodded. Tears stung in his eyes, an alien sensation he’d almost forgotten, for it had been almost two decades since he’d allowed himself the luxury of weeping. He turned toward the child on the narrow cot and waited until Miranda’s footsteps had faded away.

  “Everything okay, Skylark?” he asked. “Is she looking after you well?”

  “Miranda is the best Mama you could have brought me. She can do everything she promised. Magic tricks, and she knows how to tell how fast the wind is blowing. It is measured in something called knots, did you know? But it’s not the same as a knot on a string, or a knot in my hair.”

  “I didn’t know that, Skylark.” While Jamie had been listening to the child, he’d taken a tin box of matches out of his coat pocket, and now he lit the pair of lamps in the wall brackets and took a look around.

  The room had been transformed since his last visit. By the door, clothes hung from pegs. On a shelf above each bed, toys and books and ornaments jostled for space. Beneath the window stood a table, and on it sat a selection of crockery from the kitchen and a bundle of folded cloth. Pictures tacked to the walls completed the bright, cozy atmosphere.

  “Miranda can draw, just like Mama could.”

  Jamie settled on the edge of Nora’s bed and studied the artwork on the opposite wall. He recognized some of his sister’s drawings, animals and Indian symbols. The oil paintings were new. Nora reached out to point at a picture, but her arm fell back to the covers, her strength depleted.

  Jamie smoothed her glossy black hair. “Don’t wear yourself out, Skylark.”

  He heard footsteps, turned to see Miranda walk in with a clay teapot balanced in her hands. She didn’t say anything, just gave Nora a tender smile and knelt on the floor. Moving with easy grace, she took two mugs from the table and poured tea into them.

  Miranda handed Jamie a mug, then gestured for him to scoot along the bed. He moved up and she took his place. Using some kind of tiny beaker carved out of wood, Miranda gave Nora small sips of tea, first tasting each measure to make sure it had cooled enough.

  “I put honey in the tea,” Miranda said to the child. “It will give you strength.”

  “I don’t need it anymore,” Nora replied. “I’m ready to die.”

  Jamie bolted up to his feet, splashing hot tea onto his fingers. He couldn’t do this. Part of him wished he had been delayed along the way. That he’d been injured, or his horse had gone lame. He, who dealt with death every season of the year, could not handle watching a child slowly slide toward her passing.

  “Show Uncle Jamie the picture of us on Alfie,” Nora said.

  Miranda shot Jamie a glance he couldn’t interpret. “Here,” she said, reached up to take a small painting from the shelf above the bed and handed it to him.

  It was an oil painting on a wooden board, and it showed a gray Appaloosa horse and a fair-haired woman in black boots and a short, vaquero-style coat. A little girl wearing a similar outfit sat in front of the woman. The saddle and bridle had silver studs.

  “That’s us on Alfie when we go out riding,” Nora said.

  “Does the livery stable rent out the Appaloosa?” Jamie asked. He had sold the horse and had expected it to be resold at once. Appaloosas were in decline since the Nez Perce War ended more than a decade ago and were rarely offered for sale.

  “I bought it back,” Miranda replied.

  “Bought it back?” Jamie stiffened. “But I sold it for two hundred dollars.”

  Miranda didn’t say anything, and Jamie knew he couldn’t press for an explanation in front of the child. He made a quick mental calculation. Five dollars a night. The most Miranda could have made while he was away was around a hundred dollars.

  His eyes roamed the room, noted the details he’d failed to appreciate before. Expensive toys. Brand-new picture books. Clothes in a child’s size—denim trousers and small boots, and a fringed leather coat that would turn a little girl into a miniature bandit princess.

  “What have you done?” he growled then fell silent. It would have to wait.

  Sensitive as always, Nora reached for his hand. “Don’t be angry with Miranda. I love her. I want you to love her, too.” Small fingers curled around Jamie’s callused ones. “Say you’ll love her. Promise you’ll love her.”

  “I’ll love her,” Jamie muttered through clenched teeth.

  “Good.” The child sighed and closed her eyes. “Now I am ready to die.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Miranda woke up to a bright summer dawn. She thanked the Lord for another sunny day, in case it might be Nora’s last. She wanted to get up, visit the privy, but she didn’t know how to get past Jamie, who slept on the floor between the two beds.

  Last night, after Nora had drifted off to sleep, a morose mood had seized the bounty hunter. He’d gone out, not to the Carousel, but to the rough, restless Purgatory a few doors down the street. Hours later, he’d returned, reeking of whiskey, and had settled on the floor without a word.

  It had been Miranda’s plan to tell him about her sisters, but Jamie had set her temper on edge, the way he had suddenly acted full of suspicion when he had understood she’d been spending money. What did he think? That she’d robbed the bank?

  Her eyes swept over the man on the floor. He seemed to be sound asleep. The long duster was spread like a blanket over him, boots peeking out beneath the hem. She couldn’t see his guns, or the knife he carried in his belt. His wa
rnings rang through her mind. If you need to wake me up, don’t creep up on me and touch me. I’ll most likely slit your throat.

  Needs must. The privy called. Miranda folded the quilt aside. She slept in a baggy gown made from an old flannel shirt with a length of fabric added to the hem. The garment skimmed her toes and served as a day dress as well as a nightgown. Unless she was going out into the town, she kept it on until it was time to change into her stage costume.

  Miranda eased one foot down to a vacant spot by the hip of the sleeping bounty hunter. Then the other foot. He didn’t stir. She couldn’t see his face, for he had propped his hat over his eyes. Gingerly, Miranda picked her way past him. When she was at the door, she heard him speak in a low voice. “Can you bring coffee?”

  Miranda nodded her agreement and darted out, unease coursing through her. He must have been awake all along while she crept past him. How could a person wake up like that, making no sound, not moving at all, not even a flinch? And how could he talk as if he could see through the crown of his hat?

  Downstairs, Miranda crossed the backyard to take care of her needs, then came back inside and went to fetch coffee from the kitchen. She paused to talk to Moses Freeman, the powerfully built but gentle cook who had sharpened her parasol for her.

  In his fifties, Moses took great pride in his breakfast biscuits and the spicy Southern flavors of his cooking. When Miranda first got to know him, she’d asked him why he had left the temperate climate of Louisiana to settle in the Wyoming Territory.

  Moses had replied that when he gained his freedom, he had wanted to get as far away as he could without leaving the country. He’d planned to keep going all the way to Alaska, but had stopped in Wyoming when he discovered Canada lay in between.

  “How’s the little one doing?” Moses asked in his deep rumble, his fingers busy pinching the biscuit dough into balls.

  Miranda gave a slow shake of her head and blinked away the tears. “Maybe today. Maybe another day. Maybe two or three.”

  Moses nodded, arranged the uncooked biscuits into a pan. “I have the grave all dug out where you shown me, next to where her mother rests in the cemetery.”

  Miranda touched the back of his huge gnarled hand. “Thank you, Moses.”

  The former slave, who’d seen more suffering in his childhood than most people saw in a lifetime, felt no shame in showing his grief. Bright trails of tears ran down his weathered face. “The girls is ready for it,” he said. “The undertaker’s gonna give you no trouble.”

  “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Moses, and everything Eve and Jezebel have done.”

  Moses turned to put the pan of biscuits in the oven. There was weariness in the rigid set of his broad back—the weariness of a man who was getting on in years and had seen every chance of happiness pass him by. He didn’t turn toward Miranda again, and she got the impression he needed a moment alone.

  “Thank you, Moses,” she said softly and picked up the steel jug she’d filled with steaming coffee from the big copper pot on the stove. “Please thank Eve and Jezebel for me when they come down.”

  The Carousel only had two saloon girls, and they had carved up the market, as indicated by their names. The small, fair Eve dressed in girlish, demure outfits, a picture of virginal innocence. Jezebel had dark hair and striking gypsy features. She rimmed her eyes with kohl and wore low-cut sequined gowns. The arrangement worked well. Each girl had their regular clients, and the men who craved variety could alternate between them.

  The undertaker, Mr. Jones, a tall, officious bachelor, had been adamant that Nora couldn’t be buried in the church cemetery, since she had never been baptized, her parents hadn’t been legally married and Indians had their own burial ground. That Nora’s mother had been buried in the churchyard failed to sway him.

  Eve and Jezebel had resolved the situation by threatening to withhold their favors permanently if Mr. Jones failed to cooperate. Reluctantly, the undertaker had agreed to turn a blind eye, pretending not to notice if Moses dug a grave and helped Miranda to bury the child in the early-morning hours.

  Miranda returned upstairs with the coffeepot, her mind busy figuring out how to explain the situation to Jamie in such a way that he would not be tempted to put a bullet in the unfortunate Mr. Jones.

  * * *

  Jamie had kept still on the floor while Miranda scrambled out past him. His head throbbed and his mouth tasted like a sewer. It was not so much the whiskey, although last night he’d drunk more than he was used to. It was the stale air at the Purgatory, full of tobacco smoke, and the night slept in a warm, stuffy room instead of outdoors.

  Once Miranda had padded out in her bare feet, he waited a few seconds before getting up and going to the big cauldron of water on the stove at the far end of the corridor. He rinsed his face and teeth and ran a hand over his jaw. Shaving could wait another day. He didn’t care much for his Indian heritage, but the weak growth of beard came in useful.

  Back in the room, he opened the window and filled his lungs with the crisp morning air. The northerly aspect would be chilly in the winter but it was a small price to pay for the view of the snowcapped mountains in the distance.

  His eyes fell to the bundle of fabric on the table. He shook it open. It was pretty fabric, the kind one might use for curtains or to cover parlor cushions in a wealthy home. Tiny birds in bright colors—hummingbirds, he decided on a closer look—hovered on a cream-colored background.

  “You’ve found my hummingbirds, Uncle Jamie.”

  Nora had woken, and she was looking up at him, her eyes bright and alert. For an instant, hope flared within Jamie. She seemed so much better now. Then the truth flooded into his mind, cold and unwelcome. It had always been like that—small spurts of vitality when the child had taken care to rest and preserve her strength.

  He bent to Nora, gathered her in his lap. “It is very nice fabric. What is it for?”

  She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “It’s for me, for when I die.”

  Jamie’s heart wrenched as he watched the child smile. Ten years old but as wise as someone who had lived to a hundred.

  The small, frail hands stroked the brightly colored fabric. “The hummingbirds will guide me when I sail up to heaven. Heaven, or Seana, like my father did. Mama told me he traveled the long fork of the Milky Way, even though he was killed in battle. He died a good death. Miranda says that Seana and heaven are the same place really, so one day she’ll be there, too. Will you be there, Uncle Jamie?”

  “If I die a good death.”

  Jamie frowned as he heard his words. Where did that come from? He’d been baptized Christian, he was only a quarter Cheyenne and he took no interest in the Indian legends.

  He didn’t believe that if you died a good death your spirit traveled up the long fork of the Milky Way to Seana, and if you died a violent death your spirit went up the short fork to some other place, or remained stuck on earth. If he did believe that, he’d have one more thing to worry about.

  “Mama told me that when I’m ready to die, a hummingbird will come and call for my spirit. That’s why Miranda ordered this fabric. We looked together in a big book and chose. It was called a cataloo.”

  A hummingbird, Jamie thought. They were rare this far north but he’d occasionally seen them. Hummingbirds came in May and stayed until September. They were at the end of August. If he kept Nora indoors, away from the flowering plants... Jamie shook his head. What was wrong with him? He didn’t believe in all that Indian mumbo jumbo.

  A bright, feminine voice came from the doorway. “It was a catalogue, Skylark, from a big store called Montgomery Ward.”

  Jamie turned and saw Miranda walk into the room. How had it happened? All his finely honed instincts had failed to warn him. She’d walked right up to him, and he’d not heard her footsteps, nor had he sensed her presence. If she had been
a wanted man and he on the hunt, he’d already be dead, and it would not have been a good death.

  Miranda was holding up a steel coffeepot. Her gaze searched his, and Jamie could read uncertainty in her expression. She lifted the pot higher, as if offering to pour. “I hope this is all right. I’ll go back downstairs for biscuits in a few minutes.”

  Jamie met the question in her eyes. “It’s fine,” he said. “It’s good.”

  He could sense Miranda’s anxiety ease. Both of them knew her question had not been about breakfast. She’d been asking him about the hummingbird fabric—if he minded how she had been preparing Nora for the end.

  The child did not seem to notice the tension but continued her chatter. “When I die, Miranda is going to line the coffin with the hummingbird fabric, and she is going to put all my favorite toys inside. It might be a few days before I get to Mama in Heaven, and I’ll have something to play with while I travel. I’m going to wear my new clothes. Will you stay, Uncle Jamie?”

  Nora fell silent and looked up. The naked plea in her eyes was the first time Jamie had seen the child reveal her fear. “Will you stay and help Miranda put me in my grave?” Nora went on. “She is going to do it early in the morning, just when the first rays of sunshine come over the hill. Will you stay, Uncle Jamie? Will you stay?”

  Jamie felt as if a heavy weight was crushing his chest, suffocating him. “Yes, Skylark,” he replied, his voice rough with emotion. “Of course I’ll stay.”

  * * *

  Jamie watched Miranda stack away the dirty plates and cups. They’d had biscuits with blueberry jam for breakfast. Nora was already getting tired. He tucked her back into bed with a promise of an outing in the afternoon if the weather held.

  “I’ll take these downstairs,” Miranda said.

  He followed her into the hall and closed the door. “We need to talk.”

  She peered down at her bare toes beneath the hem of the baggy dress she wore and gave a small, uncomfortable shrug. All morning, Jamie had sensed an undercurrent of hostility from her, and he knew it stemmed from his angry, unreasonable reaction last night. How could he explain? For a second, he’d believed she had found a way of contacting his mother’s family in Baltimore to ask for their help.