Jade's Dragon

by Maren Smith

  Please stay. It was the only thought in his whole head worth saying, and yet Cullen didn’t say it any more than Chin rolled over to acknowledge his presence. Maybe because he’d already said it how many times before this, and it hadn’t done one lick of good. Her mind, it seemed, was locked on leaving. At this point, every attempt he made to change the unchangeable only made him that much more a fool.

  So he didn’t say it. He didn’t say anything. He left her lying in the straw and instead began the laborious process of hitching up the wagon for the trip to town. He was only half done when Garrett finally found his way to the barn.

  “Why?” he’d asked earlier that morning, back when they’d both been sitting at the kitchen table, eating burnt eggs, and Cullen had asked to borrow his brother’s last fifteen dollars.

  “So I can buy Chin a stagecoach ticket to San Francisco,” he’d replied. His face must have looked a lot like Chin’s, because Garrett didn’t say not one thing more. And now, staring from Cullen to her, he still didn’t say anything. When she sat up though, he did offer her a hand up. Then he followed his brother’s lead and readied two of the horses.

  “Mind if I tag along?” was the only thing he asked once everything was set. “There’s a couple things we could stand to get at the mercantile while we’re there. If our credit’s still good, that is.”

  “May as well,” Cullen replied, and that was it.

  They loaded up. Cullen sat to the right of the buckboard, holding the reins while Chin sat on the left and Garrett hopped voluntarily into the back, although the seat was plenty big enough for three. It was the longest, unhappiest eleven mile ride into Culpepper Cove that he’d ever taken, full of bumps and jostles and one tense stretch of field where the ground was still so waterlogged that he was sure the wheels were going to get stuck. Through it all, nobody said one word. Not one.

  Please stay. It was his only thought, repeating in every sound he heard—whispered upon the breeze that rustled the grass and leaves, the plodding of the horses’ hooves, and in the constant knock and rattle of the wagon as it rolled along. Please stay.

  The closer to town they got, the harder Cullen had to grit his teeth to keep from shouting it. His knuckles were white. The reins bit into his fingers from the tenseness with which he gripped them, but he couldn’t for the life of him make himself yank everything to a stop and just say it. Maybe one more time was all it would take.

  Until the next time she got that bee stuck in her tail to up and run off, the devil on his shoulder spat. How much of his life did he really want to spend chasing after her? A man had to have pride, after all. A man had to have pride.

  So he kept going. And the reins kept cutting into his hands, leaving red-raw creases in the calluses of his fingers. And his jaw and teeth began to ache, and the miles rolled by, and the outlying buildings of town came into view, and then it was too late.

  He hated everything he saw. The buildings and people both: the men going about their daily business, each with coins jingling in his pocket, money in the bank, and a family of his own; the women in their full skirts and bonnets, trailed by kids he’d never thought twice about until now and which he’d likely never have now himself—everybody. He couldn’t make himself look at Chin. It felt too much like getting mule-kicked in the chest. His heart was never going to recover from this.

  He pulled up in front of the bank and set the wagon brake. The whole thing jostled as Garrett hopped out of the back.

  “I’ll get what we need,” he said, falsely cheerful.

  Cullen nodded, but didn’t turn around or even wave to see him off. As miserable a drive as it had been coming into town, going home without Chin—he already knew—was going to be a thousand times worse. He just wanted the day to be over.

  Elbows on knees, reins still in his hands, he waited until Garrett was gone. Sitting just as stiffly beside him, Chin stared straight ahead. She made no more move to get down than Cullen. Did that mean something? Or did he just want it to badly enough that he read more into it than was there?

  Cullen tied the reins off. He sat there a moment more, staring at his empty hands. Please stay. He drew an unsteady breath. Suddenly, unable to remain with his elbow bare inches from hers and the hips he’d held onto while he’d buried his face between her caramel-colored thighs on the buckboard beside him, he had to get down. Taking all the money he had in his pocket, he slapped it down where he’d been sitting—Garrett’s fifteen dollars and his own portion, a ten-dollar coin that was everything he had left.

  “If you’re still here when I get back,” he said gruffly, still unable to look at her, “we can go home. We can start again… like it never happened. And I swear to you—I swear—I won’t ever lay a hand on you when it ain’t justified or I’m not calm enough to be fair. Not that I’m apologizing. I’m not, but nor am I asking you to either. All I’m asking is, if you can’t promise me you won’t run—” He gripped the side of the wagon hard enough to hurt where the reins had already chewed his hands raw. The pain of it gave him the strength at last to look at her. “—if you can’t promise me that, then don’t still be here when I come back.”

  She turned her face away rather than meet his eyes, not even to say goodbye. Walking away then was among the hardest of all the things he’d ever done in his life. He did it already knowing she wouldn’t be there when he returned.

  * * * * *

  Chin turned her face away. If he saw her crying now, it would only make things worse, although how anything could be worse than this awful pain ripping her open from the inside out, she couldn’t begin to fathom. She waited, tense, unable to blink or breathe until she heard his footsteps climb the wooden sidewalk and carrying him into the bank. The door shut, and life in the picture-perfect town of Culpepper Cove carried on all around her like it was any other beautiful, sunny day.

  She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t.

  Chin bit the inside of her cheek, focusing on that much more preferable pain until the other eased enough for her to finally be able to function. People were looking at her. Some she recognized. Most she didn’t. Some must have recognized her too, because across the street already a man in rough clothes was pointing her way, making whatever ribald comment suddenly made his companion grin. They both laughed.

  She hiked her chin and refused to look at them, either. Sunshine lay across her shoulders like the arm of a comforting friend, but she barely felt it as she found herself staring at the business placard just beyond those two men. A white sign trimmed in black, it read: Adam Barlow, Attorney at Law. Her arms tightened around the pouch that held her belongings—the dress, the dragon, all the money she had earned in her time at the Red Petticoat. She wasn’t sure how much she had anymore, or even if what she had was salvageable. That there should be enough to start over somewhere else was all she cared about… Or so she tried to tell herself. Already that felt like such a hollow sentiment.

  She was so tired of running. So tired of having to start over.

  She looked down at the coins Cullen had left on the seat beside her, her fingers itching to pick it up. Twenty-three…twenty-four…twenty-five, her eye counted. The stagecoach office was at the end of the street, not far from the livery and Bo’s blacksmithy. Twenty-five dollars wouldn’t get her very far, but in her bag she had—or at least, she did have back before the flood—enough to get her wherever in the world she wanted to go. She found herself looking at the sign again, thinking. At long last, she stood up and climbed down out of the wagon.

  Her knee protesting every limping step, her bare feet hidden beneath the hem of her skirt, she ignored the two laughing men as well as the sun-bonneted mother who swept her child protectively behind her as if Chin passed by on the waves of some sort of contagion. Head held high, Chin ignored all of it and walked into that lawyer’s office with her head held high.

  She never once touched Cullen’s money. He would be her one time, her only time, she decided. The only man who would ever touch her without first pa
ying for the privilege.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Now, let’s see what we have here,” Rupert Stowe said, as he assumed his chair. Humming, the bank manager centered the open ledger book before him. Adjusting his spectacles on his nose, he reviewed the columns of numbers and hummed twice more “I see… I see…” He cleared his throat and then looked at Cullen over the top of his glasses. “There’s still an outstanding balance here on the last loan which, if I remember, was a sizeable sum of two thousand dollars at the time.”

  If Cullen grit his teeth any harder, they were going to break. His hat was in his hands, just like he’d known it would be. He hated having to beg. It was all he could do to stay firmly planted in his chair, pretending to be relaxed when he felt anything but. “All of which I’ve paid back,” he replied, “apart from the last four hundred or so.”

  “Four hundred twenty-seven dollars and fourteen cents,” Stowe corrected. He took his glasses off. “Why, may I ask, do you need it? The second loan, I mean.”

  “My cattle caught the cough. I’m looking to replace them. Start again.”

  “Mm hm. And for collateral you’re wanting to use…”

  “The ranch.” Cullen ground into his chair, fighting hard not to fidget like some recalcitrant schoolboy under the teacher’s switch. Or worse, lose his temper.

  “But the ranch is already collateral for the first loan.”

  Cullen’s temper slipped. He tightened his grip on the leash. “My spread is worth far more than four hundred and twenty-seven dollars.”

  “And fourteen cents,” Stowe clarified. Folding his glasses, he lay them on the open ledger. “Mr. Drake, what you don’t realize is this—”

  “My spread is worth more than I’m asking for,” Cullen repeated, his tone rising over the top of the bank manager’s. “I’ve never been late on a payment—”

  Snatching up his glasses again, Stowe popped them back on his nose. “Except for that once—”

  “Two years ago!” Cullen exploded. “When we were under half a foot of water!”

  “Which makes a house on a spread such as yours a very difficult sell,” he spat back. “I’m sure you can see my problem. We at Culpepper Savings and Loan cannot operate effectively if we allow ourselves to fall into the habit of granting charity loans to—”

  Cullen hit his feet. “I don’t want your damned charity, and I ain’t asking for it, damn it!”

  “—and washes are fickle things!” Stowe stubbornly concluded.

  “So are women and bank managers.” Planting his hands on the desk between them, Cullen leaned over him. “Tell me, Mr. Stowe, should I come back when you aren’t on your menses?”

  Eyes bulging, the bank manager stood up too. “Now see here—”

  A brisk knock snapped his mouth shut before the door to his office swung open and in walked a tall, reedy man in a tan suit. Brown leather briefcase in his hand, he cast both frowning men a bright smile. “Excuse me. Pardon the intrusion. Adam Barlow, attorney for one Mr. Cu—”

  “If you don’t mind,” Stowe snapped, color rising fast to his cheeks. “We are in a meeting, sir.”

  “Yes, I’ve been made aware,” Barlow replied, waving the objection aside as he came in anyway. “Or rather, if you’ll forgive the correction, you were in a meeting. Now we are in conference, because, as I was about to say, I represent one Mr. Cullen Drake.” Turning from the bank manager, the lawyer stuck out his hand. “I take it that’s you.”

  By sheer habit of good manners, Cullen shook his hand. “I don’t recall hiring a solicitor.”

  “You didn’t.” The lawyer gave him a brisk pat on the arm, set his briefcase on the desk and unbuckled the clasp. “I was retained on your behalf by one Miss Chen Chin. Lovely young woman. No shoes, very dirty feet. Lovely nonetheless.” He withdrew an envelope. “Here. This is yours.”

  Cullen’s startlement at hearing Chin’s name was replaced by dread the minute that envelope was pressed into his hand. No writing on either the front or the back gave hint to the contents within. The urge to simply hand it back itched up his spine, spreading across his shoulders. Developing a will all their own, his rebel fingers opened and removed the deposit slip from the envelope.

  “What is this?” he asked, not at all comprehending what he was reading.

  “Your new account balance,” Barlow said. “At first I thought simply to give it to you, as she did me, but most of the bills she presented me were…quite… filthy, actually. Forgive my presumption, I decided to let the bank clean them.”

  Cullen stared at the sum totaled at the far right of the slip. “This here says fourteen thousand dollars.” He looked at the lawyer, waiting for the punchline, though he couldn’t quite figure out the joke.

  “Yes, it does,” Barlow agreed. “It was a little more than that, but my services aren’t entirely free.” Cullen’s expression must have darkened, because the attorney promptly surrendered his hand and declared, “Five dollars. That was all I charged to draft the proper paperwork and trot myself first to the tellers and then dutifully in to stand before you. I’d have been here, what?” He consulted with his waistcoat watch. “Eleven minutes sooner, but there was a line. Oh!” Tucking the watch back into its pocket, he withdrew another folded slip of paper from his inner coat pocket. “Here. She also asked me to give you this.”

  Cullen all but snatched that paper from Barlow’s outstretched hand. It unfolded into a full page, with the lawyer’s official letterhead across the top and only two words written in a flourish of black ink: Thank you.

  “Excellent penmanship, isn’t it?” the lawyer asked, peering over his shoulder. “I wrote that. She doesn’t seem able to read or write English. Had quite a bit of difficulty finding just the right thing to say, too,” he added when Cullen finally pried his gaze from the note to stare at him again. “It was her third attempt, to be honest.” Eyes narrowing in thought, he reached back into his briefcase for two more crumpled balls of paper. “I seriously debated whether I should give you these or not.”

  Cullen took them. Snatched came closer to describing it, and he accidentally tore the first page trying to unfurl it enough to read. Again, two words: I’m sorry.

  The stomach fell out of his world.

  He turned his back on both the lawyer and the sputtering bank manager. He managed not to tear the second paper, although he opened it with less care than the first. I want to

  It was incomplete, but his mind had no trouble finishing the sentence for her: Stay.

  His stomach fell out of him.

  Cullen stood frozen, reading it over and over far more times than any three words required. She wanted to stay.

  “Where is she?” he asked, barely recognizing that hoarse choke as his own voice.

  “Last I saw?” Snapping his briefcase shut, Barlow pretended to think about it. “Still in my office, but I do believe she said something about the afternoon stage. If I were you, dear fellow, I would hurry.”

  “Now hold on just a minute,” the bank manager blustered, but Cullen was at the door before he could finish and all the way out of the bank before he realized he didn’t have his hat.

  Wadded up crumples of legal letterhead clutched in each hand, he ran up the sidewalk, boots clumping heavily against the weathered boards. He found the law office, but none of the three people leaping up from their desks at his violent entry was Chin.

  “Chinny!” He checked both the water closet and the second floor loft, lined with bookcases and more law books than he imagined any one business required, and that included Congress. By the time he got downstairs again, one of the lawyers had recovered enough to point out the window. Toward the stage office.

  Shit.

  The door hit the wall in his burst back out onto the street. Cullen ran, off the walkway and down the middle of the street. He dodged two wagons and a cowboy on horseback, and was almost to the stage office when he heard the scream.

  Two women coming out of the mercantile—Garrett walking beh
ind them with two burlap sacks of grain slung over his shoulder, making his way to a pillar post where he’d stacked up a small pile of the same—had just been seized by an exuberant blonde. Had he not been a soldier, he likely would never have known their profession by the state of their dress. Brightly colored, all three wore gowns that were at once modest enough to walk down a public street and yet which showed more cleavage, ruffles and underskirt lace than any decent woman would have been caught dead wearing out about town.

  “She’s alive!” the blonde woman shrieked, jumping up and down and laughing. “Gabe’s got her back at the Red Petticoat. Oh, Madame Jewel, she’s alive!”

  All three broke into a run, dashing straight past Cullen and across the street. They narrowly missed two miners on horseback and ducked into a narrow side alley that led to the next street over.

  Gabe had Chin at the Red Petticoat? Changing direction, Cullen raced after them. He was very nearly run over by the same two riders, one of whom almost lost control of his mount.

  Gabe had her. Cullen couldn’t think anything else. Gabe…

  He overtook all three women and passed them, aware of nothing but the thundering beat of his temper as it came unleashed. Pure burning heat lit the blood in his veins, beat at his temples, crackled up under the back of his skull and exploded there. He hit the swinging saloon doors, a place he’d never been in before, knowing somewhere in this den of drink and philandering that Chin was standing undefended against the very man who had filled her fevered delirium with nightmares.

  Except that she wasn’t here, not anywhere that he could see. Standing in the doorway, unwilling to shout lest he alert Gabe and somehow make whatever situation she might be in worse, he searched the organized chaos of the saloon. Though early morning, the Red Petticoat was still a busy place. Half a dozen patrons were bellied-up to the bar or relaxing at individual tables. One of the gambling tables was in use, with a lady faro dealer calling the hands, smiling at winners and losers alike, and keeping the easy money flowing. Everywhere he looked, women in scanty states of dress were mingling, all seemingly in such a state of excitement that no one noticed him.