by T. K. Lukas
Barleigh followed her stare. It was more than cactus and cattle watching, they both knew. They’d overheard Henry and Jack speak of the growing number of warriors on the ridge each night. Henry had spotted the first hint of a raiding party on Wednesday, the beginning of the time of the Comanche moon, the night Henry and Birdie’s baby chose to enter the world.
“I found these,” Barleigh said, showing Winnie the tintypes. “Birdie looks almost white in this one, don’t you think?”
Winnie nodded, taking the photograph from Barleigh’s hands. “She was beautiful. It’s no wonder your papa fell in love with her, despite the circumstances. I know you loved her, too.”
“Yes. I loved her. She was like a mother to me.”
Looking at Birdie’s photograph, her silky black curls to her waist, her fine features, her almond eyes, was like looking at the negative image of herself. Barleigh had learned at a young age, though, not to ask foolish questions as to why a half-Negro, half-French Cajun slave of her grandfather and she, whose blood was Irish and French, shared a likeness.
The few salvaged items—two tintypes, Henry’s black church hat, Birdie’s Bible, and the Navajo blanket—were placed into the pushcart along with the pears. A small load. Barleigh marveled at how little she now possessed. She thought about things taken for granted yesterday. The day before the attack. The day before her world turned dark. The day before her heart was inflicted with a wound so severe she expected it would never heal.
The canopied road that led east to Winnie’s house was a narrow, rolling, and dusty lane. It was a two-hour ride on horseback, an hour in an emergency. Barleigh had whittled it down to less than that the day she’d galloped for help when Winnie’s midwifery skills had been needed. They walked in silence.
From behind, a noise startled them from their private thoughts. Jumping like frightened rabbits into the woods, pulling the cart, the dog, and the goat in with them, they hid behind a thicket of cedar. Shaking. Waiting. Peering through branches. Each holding their breath.
It was Barleigh’s horse, Deal, with his unmistakable whinny. His was not a high-pitched whinny but a deep, throaty rumble—a rat-a-tat grunting more like the sound of a person clearing their throat. Lame, limping badly, his left foreleg bore a zigzagged gash that tore deep into the muscle. Most of the hair on his right hip was burned away, leaving angry black blisters on his skin. But he was alive.
“I can poultice those wounds,” said Winnie. “The injuries are severe. They’ll take a long time to heal. The scars will be ugly, but they’re not fatal wounds.” She gave Barleigh’s hands a gentle squeeze.
Dark, cloudy thoughts gathered in Barleigh’s mind. Was Winnie trying to convey that the same was true for her? That her heart’s wounds would heal but would leave ugly scars? She doubted that any heart could survive what hers had suffered, fearing instead that her heart would turn to vapor.
*****
Everyone from Palo Pinto to Fort Worth called Winifred and Jack Justin “Aunt Winnie” and “Uncle Jack.” Barleigh pretended she was her real life aunt. Sometimes, she pretended Winnie was more. Sometimes, Barleigh called her “Momma” when she knew Winnie wouldn’t hear, just to see how the words felt falling from her mouth.
She never knew her real mother, and each birthday Barleigh celebrated was a guilty reminder of the loss. But she had Birdie. Though she was like a mother, it was forbidden that Barleigh consider her as a mother, or even as family. A simile was all Grandfather allowed. However, Henry changed all that after Grandfather died.
“I’ve made you breakfast.” Winnie put the coffee kettle on the stove, then sat down.
Barleigh stared at the food on the table, her stomach unsettled. “I’m not hungry. But . . . thank you.”
“At least drink some milk.” Winnie got up and poured a glass without waiting for Barleigh to answer. “You need to put something in there besides coffee.”
“The horses that weren’t burned alive in the barn they stole, except for Deal, who they left for dead. But, why did they have to kill the cattle?” She pushed the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying to rub away the horrific memory.
The barn had been full of mares with foals. Barren mares, stallions, and geldings had been separated and turned out to pastures and paddocks. All in the barn died. A few fleeing horses had been killed in the melee. Hundreds of cattle carcasses were left scattered across the pastures, arrows embedded in their silvery gray hides, their brown-eyed vacant stares going on forever.
“They can gallop away with horses. Cows are too difficult to control. They turn into a dangerous stampede. They may keep one or two for food. But what they can’t take, they kill or burn. Or both.” Winnie stared into her coffee, slipping away to her silent place.
A silent place—Barleigh longed for one. Day or night her mind screamed over the horror—waking, sleeping. She’d open her eyes and see it all again. She’d close her eyes, and the images would remain. If it would’ve made the terrible visions stop, the memories fade, she’d have clawed out her eyes and fed them to the dogs.
Barleigh wandered upstairs to her room, leaving Winnie to her thoughts. Wrapping the Navajo blanket around her shoulders, she sat in the rocking chair next to the window, the photographs of her papa and Birdie displayed on the sill. Outside in the paddock, she watched her horse as he limped feebly toward the water trough, stopping short, the pain from his wounds too much for his effort. The sight was her undoing. It shattered her, broke her apart, and she buried her face in the blanket and wept.
*****
Winnie had taken to wringing her hands when she talked. “It’s been two weeks since I sent word to my sons’ regiment commander. Surely he’ll approve their leave. Jackson and Jonah will bear the news on strong shoulders. I fear it’ll be hardest on little Jeddy.”
“While you’re inquiring at the militia headquarters,” said Barleigh, watching as Winnie fretted with her hands, “I want to pay a visit to Mr. Goldthwaite at the bank.”
“Yes. I understand. That’s another reason to leave your baby sister here. We have too much to do in Fort Worth.”
“But I’m worried—”
“Esperanza is capable. She helped raise my three boys. Now don’t go looking at me like I’m suggesting you leave her for a year. It’ll be one day. She’s better off here with Esperanza.”
“I’m all she has in this world. What if something happens?”
“There’s no need to worry. She’ll be fine,” said Winnie, winding and unwinding her hands.
“It’s no good luck, a baby going this long with no name,” Esperanza said. “To no call her by her own name can no be good.” She bent and lifted the baby from the cradle.
Barleigh looked at Winnie, panicked. She had dreaded the thought of her having been born under a Comanche moon, had feared what bad omen that may have foretold. What kind of misfortune had she added to that, by not naming her? “Have I brought her bad luck?”
“No,” said Winnie emphatically. “But she does need a name, no matter the reason. What have you considered?”
“I haven’t considered anything. You’re a mother. You’re good at these kind of things.”
“I named three boys. She’s your sister. You should have the honor.”
Barleigh tried out a few combinations in her head as she watched Esperanza tease a smile from the baby’s mouth with a warm bottle. She wanted something that would remind her of Birdie and of her Papa.
“Starling, for Birdie, and Henrietta, for Papa. What do you think?”
“Starling Henrietta Flanders. That’s perfect.” Winnie took the baby from Esperanza. “Starling, you now have a beautiful name.”
*****
When they arrived in Fort Worth, the town was an axis of excitement, folks joined in animated conversations about the upcoming presidential election three weeks and one day away. Barleigh once entertained opinions about such matters as politics. They’d seemed important when her papa had engaged her in spirited debates. She’d ha
ve argued that the Republican Abraham Lincoln would make the best leader, even though many in Texas favored the Northern Democrat, Stephen A. Douglas. However, her focus on this day was what she had to do to rebuild her ranch.
Barleigh hurried toward the bank, a hand keeping her hat from blowing away while the gusty wind fluttered her skirts. She reached down to straighten them, and as she did, she noticed a piece of paper being carried aloft on the breeze. It settled at her feet as the wind blew itself out. She saw that it was an advertisement. Picking up the paper, she read:
WANTED. Young, skinny, wiry fellows. Not over eighteen. Must be expert riders. Willing to risk death daily. Orphans preferred. Wages $25 Per Week.
Apply: Pony Express Stables, Saint Joseph, Missouri
It’s too bad I’m not a fellow, she thought, folding the paper and tucking it into her pocket as she stepped through the bank’s heavy, barred doors.
Mr. Goldthwaite was cordial, escorting her into his office, offering sincere condolences on the death of her father and of Jack Justin. He never mentioned Birdie. Then, he propositioned her.
“Your father,” he explained, tobacco juice staining the corners of his mouth, “was no businessman. He was a breeder of fine equines, a knowledgeable cattleman, but he lacked business acumen. Myself? I’m an astute businessman, quite clever with stretching the dollar.” He winked.
She remembered from what seemed a lifetime ago, although it had been only five years past, her initial encounter with this man the first night they’d made it to Fort Worth. She, her papa, grandfather, and Birdie had left the Gulf Coast behind, had spent three long weeks in a covered wagon before reaching the Fort, and she recalled his inclination at expressing significant meaning through the dramatic blinking of one eye. She still found the peculiar habit annoying.
“I came to you for advice, Mr. Goldthwaite,” she said, her hands folded in her lap. “My plan is to rebuild the ranch.” She envisioned a small barn to start, then a serviceable house, adding a few breeding animals as she could.
“My dear girl,” he said. “When I heard about your tragedy from Captain Goodnight, I straightaway inspected your father’s account and I went over his legal papers. Via his will, you’ve inherited outright all of your father’s estate. That means all of the debts as well as all of the assets.”
“I don’t believe my father had any debts. His custom was to pay cash for everything.”
“He owned the ranch outright, free and clear. However, he let accrue the taxes on the property. Last year it was to offset the purchase of breeding heifers. This year it was to offset the purchase of those fancy thoroughbreds your late grandfather was so fond of and your father, er, late father, liked to use for brood mares.”
A weedy panic began to take root. “Can’t you use the money that’s in the account to pay the taxes? Get them caught up until I can find a way to earn some money?” Let the taxes accrue? Why would Papa do that?
“I have an idea on how we can take care of the taxes.” Mr. Goldthwaite, in his wrinkled gray suit with silver watch fob dangling too low from his vest pocket, waddled from his desk and stood behind her chair. His stumpy, liver-spotted hands massaged her shoulders in a fashion too familiar for casual acquaintances.
“I’m a lonely man. I miss having a wife, God rest her soul. I miss the pleasures that a wife affords a man.” He massaged harder, his fingers working forward and downward from her shoulders, brushing over her chest.
A red-hot blush blossomed on her face. “Mr. Goldthwaite! Please stop what—”
“If you’d consent to my proposal of marriage,” he said, plunging ahead, “well then, I’m sure I could persuade the board of trustees to grant you an extension on the taxes, in light of your recent tragedy.”
Her body shuddered with the absurdity. “Marriage? As in, me marry you?”
“Of course once married, I’d transfer your land to my name in order that you’d not have to worry about the taxes in the future. As your husband, I’d take care of all that business nonsense for you. I’d give you a handsome allowance, of course, to buy yourself pretty little things.”
She unfolded her hands from her lap, clutching the arms of the chair in a white-knuckle grip. “Mr. Goldthwaite, your offer is generous, but, I prefer to take care of matters my own way. Now, please remove your hands from my shoulders.”
“Miss Flanders, take some time to think about my offer. You’re still grieving. Give serious consideration to the options and the consequences.”
“Consequences?”
“Particularly to the consequences.” He leaned in, whispering his sour breath in her ear. “Take until the beginning of the year when taxes are due. January may come around and cause you to see things in a different light. By the way, your father’s account has a little over two hundred and fifty-seven dollars left in it. Taxes past and present amount to four hundred and six dollars, give or take.”
Barleigh’s heart felt as if it might pound from her chest. Her throat constricted and burned as she swallowed, trying hard to push down the rising swell of panic. “I pledge all the money in my father’s, I mean, in my account, toward taxes owed. I’ll have the rest to you by the end of January.”
“Miss Flanders, you do realize that this bank can foreclose on your property for delinquent taxes and sell the land to satisfy the debt? Consequences.” He kneaded her shoulders harder.
“Mr. Goldthwaite, you do realize that you can die a miserable death and rot in hell?”
She shoved away from the chair, sending him tottering and stumbling backward, and then marched out of his office. Between his embarrassing actions and her own surprising words, a prickly heat blushed her cheeks. With as much dignity as she could muster, she left the bank, head high, and elbowed her way down the crowded sidewalk, somehow managing to reach the alley before losing the contents of her stomach.
Reaching into her pocket for a handkerchief, her hand instead came out with the advertisement she’d found earlier. With the paper unfolded, she read the words again, the writing seeming to jump of the page. She was young, skinny, and wiry. Only slightly over eighteen. An expert rider since a child. Willing to risk death? For such generous wages? Yes. She qualified as an orphan, in the technical sense that both parents were now dead. There was only one conspicuous concern. She was not a fellow.
Refolding the paper and tucking it into her pocket, she set off to find Winnie.
Deep within, where pretense and truth come together in a battle of wits, she knew this waybill was meant to find her. The gods who govern the winds deposited this paper at her feet. Angels scooted it toward her via a gentle current from their fluttering wings. Some invisible force in the universe slowed the earth’s orbit long enough for this to catch up to her. Any theory, plausible or not, fit, because she knew this was her answer. This was her hope. She knew, without a doubt, this was her destiny.
*****
Clutching the paper tightly in her hands, Barleigh reviewed her thoughts, getting her ideas in order. The kettle of coffee she’d made earlier as she waited for Winnie to come down for breakfast was half gone, as were her chewed-off fingernails.
Winnie yawned as she shuffled into the sun-filled kitchen. “Good morning. You’re up early.”
“I haven’t slept.”
“Are you hungry? I can fix pancakes.”
She shook her head as she held out the paper, releasing the breath she’d been holding. “I want to show you what I found yesterday, or what found me. This is how I’m going to save my land.”
On their return from Fort Worth the day before, Barleigh had disclosed to Winnie what she’d learned from Mr. Goldthwaite about her financial situation, the taxes due, and her father’s apparent mishandling of his money. She’d purposely omitted the things that induced her to blush.
Winnie took the paper, studied it, and then handed it back. “It says they’re looking for young skinny wiry fellows. Fel-lows,” she said, elongating each syllable as she puttered around the kitchen, Starling
sound asleep in her crib by the window. “You, Barleigh, while young, skinny, and wiry, could never pass as a fellow. It’s a crazy idea. Put it out of your head. We’ll think of something else. I’ll sell another cow.”
“You’ve only four cows left and still have dairy customers to think of.”
“With all the men and boys leaving to join the army, my dairy business has all but dried up. For crying out loud, we’ll come up with something more logical than you passing yourself off as a fellow.”
“Logic be damned!” Barleigh threw a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Aunt Winnie. I didn’t mean to curse at you.” She ran over and wrapped her arms around Winnie. “We’d need to sell a whole herd of cows to come up with enough money. This is all there is.”
“I wish I had a herd left to sell. I’d give them all to you.”
Barleigh held the advertisement up, reading again the words that were written for her. “It’s destiny, this paper finding me.”
Winnie pointed to the sleeping baby. “Your destiny’s curled up in that crib. It’s folly to think that that advertisement is your destiny. Folly. Pure and simple.”
*****
Later that evening as the dark house grew quiet, Barleigh lay in bed in the disconcerting arms of another sleepless night. Tossing and turning, a gauzy vision crept in. Stealthy, it settled against her like a secret friend. Wrapped around her. Took shape. Formed. Warmed her. Urged her. Inspired her. She understood what she must do.
She slid out of bed and tiptoed downstairs to where Winnie kept her midwifery kit. Taking the scissors in one hand, the other hand holding her hair out straight, she cut. Chopped. Whacked. Made another cut. The growing pile of chestnut curls on the floor looked like a small sleeping animal.
