Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1)

by T. K. Lukas

  She didn’t pass Eckels on her way to Boyd’s Station. The road was flat and fast and she tried outrunning the lowering, thickening snow clouds. Light flurries changed to fat, wet flakes, which turned to a swirling whiteout as she rode into Boyd’s Station.

  There she changed horses and kept on riding, the lone stock tender a skinny, apprehensive-eyed boy of twelve, pointing her to the next swing station, Willow Springs.

  The boy, Ennis Julesburg, an orphan taken in by the station manager, had been frightened by the worsening blizzard. He had brought all six horses up from the corral and had led them into the boardinghouse, where they were all milling about the sparsely furnished cottage.

  “They all run off once before when Injuns attacked,” he explained with wide eyes as Barleigh threw the mochila over the saddle of a dappled gray mare that stood munching from a pile of sweet oats on the floor in front of the hearth.

  “I don’t want to go out in this storm and have to chase them down,” said Ennis. “What if I couldn’t find them? I might get lost and might not be able to find my way back. Then I might freeze to death and no one would know where to find my dead body.”

  “But it stinks in here.” Barleigh kicked at a pile of manure. “How can you sleep or breathe with the windows closed, the smoke from the fireplace so thick, and all this horse shit all over the floor?”

  “Living with the stink is better than dying in the snow,” said a very serious Ennis.

  Wind blew the snow into deepening drifts, the trail becoming harder to define. Barleigh’s pony leaned into the biting wind, her thick whiskers coated with icicles. Barleigh shivered under the serape—she tried to sip from the canteen, but her hands shook, splashing coffee over her chin. She pulled the scarf up and it froze to her skin.

  She talked to her horse, keeping up a running dialogue to pass time as she looked for signs along the trail that might indicate that she was at the very least still on the correct path. A good guess was all she could offer herself at times. Their pace slowed to a safe walk. Sometimes it slowed to a safer standstill while she reoriented herself in the blinding snow. The midafternoon sun was useless against the thick clouds, offering no help in finding the route.

  One moment, she thought she found the road. The next, it disappeared under a foot of powder. Finding a place that was flatter and wider and then curved down into a gulley, she cautiously picked her way through the snow, following it to wherever it led.

  Twice more losing the trail, she dismounted, circled back, keeping a low and close eye on the hoof prints before the fast-falling snow erased them from view. The prints led her back to what she felt sure to be the trail. Still on foot, she led the weary horse through a steep-sloping gulley, where the wind blew the drifts into waist-deep heaps before they came up the other side.

  “Come on, Blaze, don’t give up.” Barleigh pulled on the reins and tried to coax the exhausted animal to keep moving.

  The horse plodded up the steep slope, her feet falling heavy one at a time. Fatigue and brutal cold sapped her strength. Her sides heaved with each labored breath, and each one, Barleigh feared, might be the mare’s last.

  All of a sudden, with no warning, the gale stopped. It was as if a giant fist punched out the wind’s breath. The snow, once thrashing in a horizontal blizzard, now began to float in a silent, spiraling sway. Disoriented and snow-blind, Barleigh fell headfirst over a cedar-stave hitching post all but buried in the snow.

  A faint light flickered with a pale yellow glow in the window of a small stone lodge just a few yards further to the west. The oaky smell of a wood fire scented the air. A horse nickered a greeting to Blaze—she offered a grunting nicker in return. A front door opened. Steaming black coffee in a thin tin cup appeared. Gloved hands took the reins from Barleigh’s frozen fingers and led her horse away. Another’s hands pressed against her shoulders and steered her into a glowing, warm, open door.

  “My God, we’re here, Blaze. Willow Springs. We almost rode right by it.” Barleigh fought off a tear.

  “Blaze was taken to the barn, if that’s the horse,” said Frenchie Jones, the station manager.

  “Where’s the mochila?” Barleigh asked through chattering teeth, her body shaking so hard that most of the coffee spilled out of the cup and onto the floor. “It’s Lincoln. Lincoln won the election. I can’t stop. Have to keep riding. Keep the mail going.”

  “It’s all right, son,” said Frenchie. “That was Eckels who took the mochila from you. He got here this morning but the storm kept him from going any further. He’s rested up enough to take it on west for you. Your mochila’s in good hands. And Louis Shoals left not ten minutes ago with the eastbound mail. You no doubt passed him.”

  “If I did, I didn’t see him. Hell, I almost didn’t see this place until the wind just . . .” She tried to snap her fingers but her frozen joints wouldn’t cooperate. “The wind just stopped, just like that.” Taking another sip of coffee, eating a spoonful of lamb stew, Barleigh then crawled over by the fire. Curling up in a ball, she slept for twelve hours straight, her cloths thawing and drying by morning.

  *****

  The sun was well established over the eastern ridge when Barleigh awoke to raw, blistered skin from riding all night and most of the day in wet, frozen pants. Chaffed skin made walking to the coffee pot a challenge, but determination and want prevailed.

  “Here, son,” said Frenchie, “smear this all over your legs and between your butt cheeks. It’ll take a couple a weeks before you toughen up down there and get used to the constant wear and tear.”

  “Thanks, Frenchie,” she said. “What is it?”

  “Lard. And in case Cookie runs out of frying oil, just scrape it off when you’re done riding and give it back to him, nice and seasoned, just the way he likes it.” Frenchie walked out of the kitchen doubled over laughing, no doubt, at the look on Barleigh’s face.

  He was still laughing when Barleigh met up with him at the stables. She selected an easy-tempered looking gelding and saddled up, getting her mind ready for what she expected would be an arduous ride home. Feeling as greased up as a holiday duck, she rode away at an easy trot, butt out of the saddle with her weight in the stirrups, determined not to cry.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  NOVEMBER 15, 1860

  Journal entry: I returned to the Great Salt Lake City late in the afternoon with the east bound mochila and passed it off to Stoney who waited at the stables, horse in hand, as I knew he would when I began bugling my way into town.

  He sported a new brown hat. It was cinched tight under his chin with a braided, leather cord, the hat smaller brimmed, shorter crowned, and more suited to faster riding.

  He still had his sombrero, he had shouted to me over his shoulder as he galloped away. He asked me to keep an eye on his yellow Mexican hat and to not let Mario throw it away like he threatened to do.

  I promised him I would, laughing, as Stoney and Mario threw obscene gestures at one another before Stoney’s horse raced out of site.

  My intention of bathing and washing the lard off my body was sincere, but once I saw my bed, my intention crumbled. I fell asleep before my head made contact with the pillow. Exhaustion must have deadened the sense of smell. I found it remarkable that I slept without my own odor waking me. It’s a good thing all the other riders found reasons to be away for the night.

  After waking from the sleep of the innocent or of the dead, I did take a bath and noticed that my skin felt soft and supple where it wasn’t blistered and chapped. Lard may not be what the fancy ladies purchase for their dainty skin at Leonard’s Department Store back in Fort Worth, but it worked wonders for my chaffed behind.

  Weariness kept me from riding out today to the hot springs. I was afraid I’d fall asleep once there and end up drowning myself. Apparently, death’s not a good excuse for not settling your tax debt with the bank.

  After lunch I strolled around town and made my way to the mercantile. I thought I’d buy tobacco. I wouldn’t use it, but it
fit my public personality, to carry a pouch of Snuff’s chewing tobacco in my pocket like a man. Honing my male persona took practice and observation every moment of every day.

  At the tobacco counter at the far end of the store stood a man who bore a striking resemblance to Hughes Lévesque, the gentleman from Saint Joseph. I watched as he finalized his transaction, and then he turned and exited out the side door.

  I saw him for a brief moment and from a distance, but the likeness made me pause, stare, and forget my own purchase, my pocket remaining tobacco-less.

  I don’t know why, but my heart skipped a beat. Or two. It couldn’t be him. What in the world would he be doing here in Salt Lake City? I thought he said he was from Texas. San Antonio? I remember he was writing to a friend about the Pony Express and he had lots of questions he didn’t mind asking.

  Was his friend a lady friend? Don’t be silly. What does it matter anyway?

  What matters is this yawning tiredness that’s washed over me, a tiredness like I’ve never felt before, yet it rewards me in ways I can’t describe. I’ve earned this exhaustion. A deep sleep will be my immediate reward tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the hot springs and enjoy a warm soaking bath in the mineral spa. I’ll take along some fine soaps and oils, and if for a brief hour or two, I’ll remind myself that I used to not smell like a filthy Billy goat.

  Good night.

  *****

  “Don’t soak too long in those hot springs,” said Mario as he forked a thick slice of ham dripping with runny egg yolk into his mouth. “I heard those minerals will shrivel up your pecker to smaller than your little finger. Course, I’ve seen you in your long johns. You don’t have much there anyway.”

  Barleigh shoved her middle finger in the air like she’d seen Stoney do, then walked out the door to the laughter of Mario and the other riders who had returned at dawn from a night of drinking and card playing. She readjusted her imaginary privates and spat on the ground.

  “You bastards can go to hell.” She tried not to think of what her papa would say if he heard her talking like that.

  “Careful you don’t wake up a hibernating bear in one of them caves,” shouted Big Brody, the part-time rider when he was sober enough to sit in a saddle. “Or surprise a band of outlaws stowing away their loot. They hide out in them caves, too, you know.”

  She ignored the jokes and kept walking, giving another readjusting scratch and a sideways spit for good measure.

  There were four mineral baths close to town. The nearest and largest was patronized by tourists and high-paying guests. Not too far away were the deepest and hottest, which were favored by the locals. Emigrants and vagrants pitched their tents and camped around the furthest and most sulfuric.

  The fourth, which was hidden away and known to only a few locals, was in a secret location. Down a steep path and tucked away in the belly of a cave, its entrance was camouflaged by giant boulders covering the gaping mouth. Mario shared this secret with the Pony Express riders to use on their days off.

  Barleigh guided the high-stepping chestnut gelding down the snow-packed lane past the mercantile. She cast a sidelong glance in the window as she rode by, wondering if the gentleman at the tobacco counter might make another appearance. After a second glance, she chided herself for entertaining dangerous thoughts.

  An easy hour’s ride outside of the busy city found her at the secret cut-off for the springs. The trail was empty, with Barleigh the lone rider despite the nice break in the weather. Snow covered the ground, but the sun glowed in a clear blue sky, and the wind seemed content at a soft breeze.

  Leaving the main trail and heading south where the three stacked stones marked the way, the secret path became narrow and steep. Barleigh dismounted, leading the horse further down until coming to a large pine tree growing in a small, flat glade hidden behind a stand of mountain red cedars. She tied the horse and removed her saddlebag, giving the gelding a piece of peppermint and a pat on the neck.

  Slipping and sliding further down the narrow, precipitous grade, Barleigh finally came to a cluster of massive granite boulders that the earth long ago shook together to form a low, tapered opening into the hidden cave.

  Inside, she heard the hollow echo of water dripping. A tinge of sulfur caused her to sniff and wrinkle her nose. Through a jagged crevasse overhead, a narrow beam of sunlight filtered into the cave. It cast the semi-dark scene of steam rising above a languid pool, the lush green ferns growing in random tufts along the slick, wet granite walls into an ethereal oasis of beauty.

  Throwing her saddlebags to the side, she heard it slide to a stop against the cave’s wall. She felt her way with her hands and feet, moving with caution until her eyes adjusted to the near-darkness. She propped her shotgun between the bag and the wall, her pistols within easy reach of the pool’s ledge.

  Boots and socks were shed. She crept to the water’s edge, easing her feet into the steaming pool, quick to yank them out.

  “Ouch!” She listened to the echo of her voice, a surprised smile on her face.

  “Ouch!” she hollered, louder, laughing at the sound of her voice disappearing into the belly of the cave.

  Removing her clothes, she laid them next to the pool for washing, then laid out her clean clothes on top of her saddlebag, keeping them off the damp floor to stay dry. Then began the slow process of unbinding her breasts from the tight swaddling cloth Aunt Winnie had given her and shown her how to wrap herself in order to flatten her curves.

  “Ahh.” Barleigh breathed in a deep, satisfying breath, rubbing herself with brisk hands to get the circulation going. “That feels good.”

  Filling her lungs with deep breaths again and again, she languished in the unrestrained freedom of an unbound woman. From inside the saddlebags, she removed a soft towel, lavender bath salts, lilac shampoo flakes, and oil of lilac she’d borrowed from the Bath and Bakery, placing the jars on the towel next to the water’s edge. Her picnic consisted of a small flask of watered brandy and a pouch of dried apricots and walnuts.

  Holding her breath, she eased into the steaming pool, taking a seat on the sloping stone ledge a few feet below the water’s surface, the steamy water feeling much less hot the more she became accustomed to it.

  After scrubbing her skin, washing and oiling her hair, then pounding and soaking the dirt out of her clothes, she sat up to her neck in the mineral pool. Sipping brandy and eating walnuts and apricots, she tried to think of what to do next besides just sit and enjoy the simple pleasure of smelling like a woman again.

  As the sun changed position overhead, the light entering the cave through the crevasse glittered and sparkled off the crystal quartz in the wet granite, appearing like pink, black, and white diamonds embedded in the cave’s walls.

  Barleigh climbed out of the pool and crept to the far side, running her hand along the warm surface of the sparkling wall. The idea of exploring further into the depths of the cavern piqued her curiosity, as she wondered how far back it might go.

  Uh . . . ? She drew a quick breath. What was that? She remained still, holding her breath, trying to discern if the noise she heard came from within the cave or from outside.

  Pressing her back against the wall, she inched closer to where she remembered throwing her saddlebag and placing the shotgun next to it. She moved with slow, quiet, deliberate movements, stretching her arm, reaching out her hand, extending her fingers as far as they would go. She touched warm metal, wrapped her fingers around it, but the barrel was slick from the humidity of the cave and slipped from her grasp, clattering to the rocky floor.

  Shit!

  Dropping to all fours, she crouched on the ground. Then, reaching for the gun and crooking it in one arm, she crawled to the water, slipping into the hot bath. Like a silent snake, she floated to the opposite side, the gun in her hands and her eyes grazing just above the water’s surface. She sat perched on the submerged ledge with eyes and nose inches above the water line, the barrel of the gun resting on the edge of the pool, her
finger on the trigger, waiting, watching, listening.

  How long must she stay submerged? She felt like she was turning into a boiled prune. Maybe there was nothing—she just thought she heard something. She was being jumpy. Ten minutes must have passed. She would wait five more, then get dressed and get the hell out of the water, leave the cave, and get back to town.

  Taking a deep breath, she eased out of the pool, gathering up the towel, wet clean clothes, the jars of soap and shampoo, her pistols, and shotgun, and then carried her belongings to the saddlebag laying against the side wall. She began repacking everything for the trip back up the trail, where she’d left her gelding tied not too far away.

  The swaddling cloth laying on top of the clean, dry clothes, the binding that would turn Barleigh back into the boy Bar Flanders, would go on first. She began the wrapping process, but stopped. The feeling that she was missing or forgetting something toyed with her mind.

  Ah, yes.

  She put down the swaddling cloth and felt her way back to the water’s edge to retrieve Mario’s brandy flask that he’d loaned her. Barleigh had sworn an oath to guard it with her life. As she reached for the flask, the quiet darkness was pierced by the sound of a horse’s whinny very close to the entrance, the noise reverberating and echoing deep into the cave.

  The sudden and loud whinny startled Barleigh, stopping her in her tracks.

  “Pardon me, ma’am, but isn’t it unsafe for a woman to bathe way out here, all by herself?” The man’s voice was smooth and deep.

  Leaping into the pool, Barleigh pressed flat against the ledge she’d had been sitting on earlier. She’d heard that voice before. It sounded like Mr. Lévesque, the nosy man from Saint Joe. Maybe it had been him purchasing tobacco in the mercantile.

  “Have you drowned? Are you all right?” the deep voice asked.

  “I haven’t drowned,” she said, the heat from the steaming pool no longer registering on her skin. She wished her guns were within reach.