His mother sat in the corner of the dimly lit bedroom, her expression like a mask, her dark eyes glazed as she watched the man grab her son by the scruff of the neck and shove him down. Larson could still hear the jarring crunch of his bony knees as he hit the bare wooden floor, then the sound of the door latching behind him.
“Take off your shirt.” A sickly smile wrapped itself around the man’s voice. Then he’d lit a cheroot and slowly inhaled, the smoldering end flaming redder with each exaggerated draw. . . .
Larson shifted to his side on the hard ground, still able to smell the acrid stench of the cigar, and of what followed. His eyes burned. God, erase it from my memory. Wasn’t it enough to have endured it once? How could a woman—his own mother—be so cruel and void of compassion? What had he done to lose her love?
But Kathryn wasn’t like his mother. He knew that now, and he planned on spending the rest of his life proving it to her.
Kathryn huddled closer to the boardinghouse doorway to avoid the rain pouring off the slanted tin roof. A cold droplet somehow found its way past the protection of her coat and trickled down her back. She shuddered at the chill. The barren land needed the rich moisture to green the brown prairie grasses and nurture coming crops, but the heavy, overcast skies did nothing to lift the gloom in her heart.
She knocked again and smoothed the wet hair back from her face. Her gaze shot up at the door’s creaking, but what she saw wasn’t heartening. “May I speak with the proprietor, please?”
A tall bone-thin woman blew a gray wisp of thinning hair from her eyes and shifted the load of soiled linens in her arms. “I’m the proprietor.” She eyed Kathryn, her eyes narrowing. “We’re all full up on rooms right now, if that’s what you’re wantin’. Check back with me next month.”
She started to shut the door, but Kathryn put out her hand. The thought of spending a second night at the brothel bred uncustomary boldness within her. What she’d heard last night was enough to have kept her slogging through the rain and mud all day. She wouldn’t be easily deterred.
“Please, ma’am. I don’t need a big room, nothing fancy. Just a place to stay.” Kathryn nodded toward the laundry. “And I’ll work for you. I can do laundry and clean and cook and—”
“I said I got no rooms right now. I’m full up. And I ain’t got no money to pay tenants to cook and clean. This town’s hit hard times. Folks have to pull their own—”
“Oh, I don’t expect any pay for it. I’ll do it plus pay you for the room.” As long as it wasn’t more than the scant amount she had left after seeing Mr. Kohlman that morning.
The woman’s gaze traveled the length of her. “You in some kinda trouble, girl?”
Yes. But not the kind you think. Kathryn shook her head. “I just need a place to stay.”
“Well, can’t help you none with that.” She moved to close the door, then must have read the desperation in Kathryn’s face because she paused. Her lips pursed. “You might check across town with the preacher. Sometimes he and his woman take in folks who’s hit hard times.”
Kathryn nodded, feeling a tear slip down her cheek but doubting the woman noticed. She was wet to the bone as it was, and besides, the woman had already closed the door.
She started back down the boardwalk, her pace as sluggish as her hope. This was the last boardinghouse in town, and she’d already been to the preacher’s house first thing that morning. A passerby had said they were away visiting family and had directed her to the boardinghouses in town. Late afternoon relinquished its fading vestiges of light to the laden pewter skies, and though everything within her rebelled at the thought, Kathryn turned back in the direction from which she’d come that morning.
She waited for a wagon to pass, then crossed the muddy street, avoiding the deeper puddles and deposits as best she could. Back on the planked walkway, she stomped the mud from her boots and quickened her pace as she passed the saloon. Kathryn avoided eye contact with two men lurking just inside the doorway. One of them let out a low whistle, which she didn’t acknowledge, but her cheeks burned at the lewd remark that followed.
Minutes later she passed the bank and recalled her meeting with Mr. Kohlman earlier that day. He had laughed—literally laughed— at her suggestion of paying him back the loans. Remembering his flat denial to offer her a payment schedule brought a scowl. But he had acquiesced upon discovering that she’d brought enough for one monthly payment—Mr. Hochstetler at the mercantile had paid her a goodly sum, and Jake Sampson at the livery had been generous in buying back their tackle and gear—but even then Kohlman had accepted the money with a begrudging air.
It seemed Kohlman actually preferred to see her default and lose the land. But why?
A sign in a store window caught her attention. She slowed as she read it.
Shielding her eyes from the heavy droplets, she looked up. Hudson’s Haberdashery. Feeling as though this might be her last chance, she glanced down at her rain-soaked skirt and muddied hem and hoped that, whatever kind of man this Mr. Hudson was, he would be forgiving when it came to first impressions.
That evening, Kathryn crept through the back door of the brothel and into the small room—more like a closet—off the kitchen that Annabelle had shown her earlier that morning. She lit the nub of a candle left on the cot and closed the door behind her, nearly stumbling over her trunk. Gabe must’ve brought it sometime during the day. She looked forward to seeing him if only to ask him what on earth he’d been thinking in bringing her to a place like this!
After fumbling for a lock for a moment, she realized there wasn’t one—as though she would get a good night’s rest here anyway. She shed her damp dress and hung it from a sagging nail. Though the lack of privacy bothered her, she couldn’t very well sleep in wet clothes.
She puffed out the anemic flame and crawled beneath the blanket that smelled faintly of dust and storage, all the while promising herself that she wouldn’t cry. But her flesh proved stronger than her will. One more night and she could leave this horrible place.
Mr. Hudson had indeed been a gentleman who looked past initial impressions and, being satisfied with her mending skills on a pair of trousers, he’d agreed to give her a chance as well as accommodations in the back of the store, where the pressing was done— starting the following day. Not her own room exactly, but it was enough. Far better than where she was now. She’d come close to telling him where she was having to stay tonight but thought better of it. No need to tempt the limits of his benevolence.
Curling herself into a ball, Kathryn tried to ward off the chill and sense of loneliness pressing close in the darkness. The gnawing in the pit of her stomach reminded her that she’d forgotten dinner, but her hunger bothered her far less than the sounds of what was going on around her and above on the second floor.
An image flashed through her mind, and her heart ached again for Larson. Was he still alive? It’d been so long since Christmas Day. Though she had wondered about it many times, she’d never fully understood what it had been like for him as a child. Even her worst imaginings couldn’t match the brutal truth of this life. How could anyone treat a small boy with such—
Kathryn’s breath caught as footsteps sounded in the kitchen just beyond the door. A burnished glow shone through the crack beneath the door.
“Kathryn?”
Her heart regained its normal rhythm. “Annabelle?”
The door creaked open. Annabelle’s shoulders were bare, and Kathryn wondered if she wore anything beneath the thin shawl she held gathered about her chest. The material of her skirt invited the eye as well. Surely this woman couldn’t have—wouldn’t have— intentionally chosen a path of easy virtue for her life. What had brought her to this end? Kathryn drew the blanket closer around her and questioned, again, why Gabe had ever delivered her here.
“I’m in between clients so don’t have much time, but I wanted to make sure you got back all right. That nobody bothered you when you came in.”
Unexpected concern
softened Annabelle’s voice, and the sound of it made Kathryn feel less alone. “No, no one bothered me. I made it fine.”
“Just checkin’, cuz I saw Conahan head back here a bit ago. He’s a creepy sort, that one. Just plain mean if you ask me.” Annabelle cringed. “He normally asks for Ginny, and that suits the rest of us just fine. So, did you find a job today?”
Astonished at how casually Annabelle changed topics, Kathryn nodded. “I saw a sign in the haberdashery window and stopped in. Mr. Hudson hired me after I demonstrated my work. I start tomorrow, and he’s letting me stay in the back room of his store.”
The glow of lamplight illumined Annabelle’s face enough for Kathryn to detect a slight narrowing in her eyes. “He said you could stay in the back, did he? And did he happen to tell you how you’d be payin’ for those lodgings?”
“No, Annabelle, it’s nothing like that. I assure you, Mr. Hudson is an honest—”
“All men are like that, Kathryn, if given half the chance.” She shook her head. “Mark my words, you better sleep with one eye open.”
Kathryn started to respond but then paused. Apparently Annabelle had never known any other kind of man, and Kathryn doubted that she would be easily convinced otherwise. Not by words anyway. Then the irony of Annabelle’s word of caution struck her and she smiled. “I’ll be careful—I promise. And you be careful too. All right?”
Grinning, Annabelle tossed her red hair over her right shoulder in a saucy move. “I’m always careful, honey. You don’t have to worry about me.”
On impulse, Kathryn reached out and took hold of her hand. “I’m serious, Annabelle. Please look out for yourself.”
Annabelle’s grin faded. Her eyes flicked to Kathryn’s, then away again. She gently pulled her hand back, and Kathryn got the distinct feeling that she’d overstepped her bounds.
“Well, I need to get back to work.” Annabelle’s voice came out soft at first, and higher than usual. Then she took a deep breath and Kathryn could see the fac ade slipping back into place. “Heavy crowd tonight. The miners just got paid, and that always means good business. Things’ll quiet down around three o’clock or so; then the gals always sleep till around noon. Hopefully you’ll get some sleep too.” She turned to go.
“Annabelle?”
She paused, her silhouette softened in the warm yellow light.
“I don’t know where I would be tonight if you hadn’t helped me. Thank you.”
Annabelle nodded once, then noiselessly latched the door.
Kathryn lay awake long into the night, trying to block out the raucous laughter and occasional high-pitched squeal by reliving every memory she had of Larson. There were so many good things she’d forgotten that had been glossed over by her selfish desire for more. More from Larson, more from life. Some recollections brought tears, others a smile. But one thing stood out above all the rest—her fault in not appreciating what she’d had at the time.
What she wouldn’t give to turn back the clock and relive every moment of those years—both the good and bad—with him again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
KATHRYN QUICKENED HER pace, glancing back at the clock on the front of the Willow Springs Bank building. Ten minutes to get to her next job. Her hands ached from sewing all morning at the haberdashery, and the space between her shoulder blades burned with muscle fatigue. She reached up and massaged the tightness, reminding herself to be thankful despite the fatigue and long hours. The past week had seen her gain not only one job, but two, and a safe place to live. For the time being anyway.
The bell hanging over the entryway to Myrtle’s Cookery jangled when she entered, and as they had more than once in recent days, her thoughts turned to Matthew Taylor. Wondering how he’d been faring, she slipped out of her coat and shook off the droplets of water clinging to the wool before hanging the garment on the hook. Tying an apron loosely about her expanding midsection, she paused, realizing her condition would soon be evident to all. Still, somehow it felt right to keep it to herself for now. She wanted Larson to be the first to . . .
The bell above the door sounded, and she spoke without turning. “We’ll be serving lunch in about an hour. Today’s special is fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Can you come back then?”
“Well, that depends on who’s cookin’ today . . . you or Miss Myrtle.”
Kathryn turned at his voice. He stood in the doorway, his customary smile softening his eyes. Matthew Taylor removed his hat and slapped it against his thigh.
“Mr. Taylor.” The delight in her own voice surprised her, as did the warmth she felt at seeing him again.
He crossed the room. “I’ve been wondering how you are . . . Mrs. Jennings.”
“I’m fine.” She quickly decided by the eagerness in his eyes not to divulge she’d been wondering the same about him. “Did Jake Sampson at the livery give you—”
“He gave me your note. Yes, ma’am. And the money. But I came to tell you that I don’t feel right takin’ the money from you like this. I don’t feel like I did right by you.” He glanced down at the hat in his hands, his voice growing soft. “Or by your husband.”
The sincerity in his tone, coupled with the earnest look in his eyes, caused Kathryn’s heart to skip a beat. Such a fine man. “Mr. Taylor, you did everything you could to help me keep the ranch.” She swallowed against the tightening in her throat. “And you did right by my husband. Never doubt that. You’re an honorable man and I appreciate your friendship.”
He stared at her for a long moment, a muscle working in his jaw, looking as though he were weighing his words. “Yes, ma’am,” he finally answered quietly, and his soft brown eyes conveyed emotions that Kathryn prayed he wouldn’t give voice to. “If you need anything. Anything at all . . .” His gaze locked with hers. “You let me know.”
Unable to speak, Kathryn nodded and managed a smile. When the door closed behind him, she let out her breath.
Kathryn skirted down the darkened boardwalk toward the brothel, unable to keep from glancing behind her every few seconds. Though she’d stayed at the brothel for only two nights and had moved out several days ago, she was acutely aware of how her being seen there again would easily be misconstrued. And as much as she’d come to care for Annabelle and some of the other women in that short time, truth be told she didn’t want to be associated with what they did.
The boisterous shouts coming from the front parlor told her that business was going well that night. Clutching the cloth bag in her hand, she stopped just inside the back alley and tried to imagine what Jesus would do in this situation. He had befriended prostitutes and social outcasts, had loved them despite the vicious rumors that accompanied his befriending them, and then paid the price for it. Not a comforting thought at the moment.
With one last glance, she edged her way toward the back porch stairs.
Surprisingly, she’d moved past the point of merely being sickened by what went on here to feeling an ache so deep inside her she knew it was one only God could heal. She’d quickly come to recognize a depth of loneliness in Annabelle’s painted eyes, and in the diminutive dark-haired Sadie, that could only be filled by the Lover of their souls. God desired to fill them to overflowing with His love, while the evil lurking here sought to ravage their bodies of innocence and rape their souls of hope.
Kathryn opened the back door to find Annabelle seated at the kitchen table. Perfect timing. “Annabelle, just the woman I wanted to see.”
Annabelle turned, and Kathryn’s smile faded.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m all right.” Holding a bloodied cloth to her head, Annabelle waved Kathryn away when she came closer. “One of the men got a little rough is all. I was handling him fine until he threw that right hook.” She cursed softly, working her delicate jaw. Her tongue flickered to the left side of her mouth, where purpling flesh bordered her swollen lips. A dark circle was already forming around her left eye. “I didn’t see it comin’ this time.”
“
This time?” Kathryn gasped.
Annabelle sighed and shook her head, her eyes mirroring disbelief. “You really are an innocent, aren’t you? Didn’t your husband ever hit you?”
The question took Kathryn by surprise. Though she and Annabelle had talked on several occasions, she’d not spoken of Larson yet. “No,” she whispered, laying the cloth bag on the table. “My husband never laid a harsh hand to me.”
“What about when the stew was burned or his clothes weren’t washed?” Annabelle’s eyes flashed with anger and a pain so raw that Kathryn felt sure few had been allowed to see it. “Or when you didn’t please him to his liking?”
Kathryn’s eyes watered and she shook her head. “No, not even then. We had our disagreements, don’t get me wrong, but . . . he never hit me.” She remembered Larson’s sullen moods. “He would withdraw and wouldn’t talk to me, sometimes for days. I wondered what was going on inside him and would’ve given anything for him to let me in.”
As soon as Kathryn said it, she regretted it. Seeing the bruises and cuts on Annabelle’s face, she knew there was no comparison between the existence Annabelle endured and the life she shared with Larson. Had shared. Her heart beat faster. No, not past tense. She would share it again. He would come home; she felt it inside her.
“What happened to him?”
Kathryn blinked.
“To your man.” Annabelle’s focus dropped to Kathryn’s abdomen. “Does he know about the child?”
Kathryn’s jaw went slack. “How did you know?”
Annabelle gave her a look. “I’ve seen lots of it through the years—the start of it anyway. So it’s not really so hard to tell.” Her smile grew wistful. “The full cut of your dresses and skirts, your visits to the water closet. And the way you’re shieldin’ the little one right now.”
Kathryn looked down to see her hand resting over the gentle swell she’d thought well hidden by the gathers in her skirt. She smiled and shook her head. “And here I thought I was keeping a secret.”
Rekindled Page 12
