by Jade London
The stranger unties and unloads his pack mule, unsaddles his horse and gives both animals nosebags of feed. He rummages through the gear on the pack mule, and comes up with a leather pouch, and a clay jug, then takes a seat opposite Conrad and I, his back to the cave mouth. He eyes the meat and then nudges the roasting stone back into the coals to warm it, then he lifts the jug toward us.
“Home brew from back east,” he says by way of explanation. “Care for a drop?”
Conrad shakes his head, and I assume I’m not included in that invitation, so I say nothing. I wouldn’t have taken it, anyway. I don’t have a good feeling about this man.
Silence, then, as the man removes the stone and makes short work of the meat, careful to keep his hands and mouth clean, and then he washes it down with a long swig from the jug. Then he tugs open a leather pouch, and proceeds to roll a cigarette. He extends the bag to Conrad who nods and takes it, sniffs at the opening, seems satisfied, then rolls his own smoke.
More silence except for the crackle of flames, and the spark of fire licking at the tobacco, along with the occasional murmur of the livestock.
“Where’d ya’ll come from, then?” the newcomer asks.
Conrad blows out a plume of smoke. “The Thompson ranch.”
A nod, and a pair of blue eyes fix on me, as if he knows what kind of business happens on Thompson’s ranch. His gaze is speculative, calculating. “Thompson runs some rare fine stock, I’ve heard.” His words speak of cattle, but his eyes speak of woman flesh.
Conrad only rolls a shoulder. “If you say so.” He blows out another stream of acrid smoke, and then peers at the other man. “What’s your story?”
“Oh, not much to tell. Hail from Tennessee. Heard there was more fun to be had and more money to be made out west, so I’m making my way over the Divide. Thinkin’ California.”
“Heard talk about California myself,” Conrad says. “Mostly Spanish out that way, ain’t it?”
A laconic shrug. “Depends on where you go, is what I’ve heard.” The blue gaze flits from me to Conrad, then back to me. “Name’s Charlie Markham.”
Hesitation. “Conrad.” A gesture at me. “This is Hannah.” A flick of fingers sends the cigarette butt end over end into the fire.
“Pleased to make your acquaintances, the both of you.” He stretches out, rests his head on his saddle, and tugs his hat over his eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind overmuch, I’m in need of rest. Long ride up, as I’m sure you know.”
Conrad glances at me, at Charlie, and then returns his attention to the animal skin. “Long day ahead tomorrow, Hannah. You best stretch out, too.”
Within minutes, snores emanate from Charlie, long rattling rips of snorting inhalation followed by grumbling exhales. No way I’m going to sleep with that noise going on, but I lower myself down beside Conrad anyway. A little too close, if I’m being honest. My head is near his thigh, and he shifts now, settling lower against the cave wall, stretching his legs out and crossing them ankle over ankle; his thigh brushes my head. I can feel the motion of his hands as he scrapes the deer hide. Something about his proximity makes my belly lurch and my pulse thrum.
He bought me for a purpose; I know what that purpose is. It’s obvious, after all. But he hasn’t tried anything yet. He hasn’t even touched me. Barely even looked at me, much less spoken to me. But I can’t forget the ravenous burn in his eyes the day he purchased me.
I hate with every fiber of my being knowing that I was bought and sold, that I had had no choice in the matter. He controls my future, whether I want to belong to him or not, whether I believe in my heart that I am Conrad Killian’s “property” or not. I can go nowhere without him. My other choice would be to try to make a run for it, but my chances would be slim to none. And the little bit I know of him tells me I wouldn’t get far enough away to even freeze or starve. He told me he’d chase me down, and that if he had to chase me it wouldn’t go well for me. What would that look like?
I’m not sure I want to find out.
At some point, he’s going to fuck me.
And I won’t have a choice in that either.
Complicating matters is the fact that he’s not unattractive, and my body responds to this. My body is aware of him. I don’t dare dwell on what my heart thinks, or what my mind is telling me. Best to leave those considerations for when it’s safer to dwell on them; like never, if I know what’s good for me.
But…just laying on a cave floor within touching distance of him has my body buzzing, my mind whirling, my heart flipping, my entire existence upended and confused. Because…part of me wants him, and part of me hates him.
I’m glad for Charlie’s presence, though. Having him here puts off the inevitable, for a while, at least.
But I don’t trust Charlie. Not even a tiny bit. He might be playing the role of a newcomer from back east, but he knows exactly what happens at Thompson’s ranch. And something in his eyes…I don’t know what it is, I can’t quite place it, but it’s a gleam that makes me uncomfortable. And there’s a false note in his genial, friendly voice. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.
For the second night, sleep doesn’t come. I manage to relax a little at best, a floating not-quite-sleep, hovering just over the edge of consciousness. My eyes crack open at one point, and while Conrad has set aside his plaiting and has let his head rest back against the cave wall, he’s no more asleep than I am. His gun belt is still around his waist, holsters tied down, and his rifle is across his knees, one hand on the stock.
Resting, but alert.
He doesn’t trust Charlie either.
* * *
Dawn arrives, frigid and gloomy. The sky is leaden, the sun obscured by a thick layer of gray clouds. Fat flakes of snow swirl in the air, whirling in eddies at the entrance to the cave, and beginning to drift on the knife-sharp wind.
Conrad is packing his gear, Charlie doing the same. Saddling, tying down, adjusting.
Conrad hands me two canteens. “The stream is fifty yards in a straight shot from the cave mouth. Fill these both for me, please.”
I tug on my hood, wiggle my fingers in my mittens and take the canteens. I find the stream easily; ice is beginning to form near the edges. I find a spot, then remove my mittens and fill the canteens. I pick my way back through the trees and up the slight hill, back to the cave. It’s not so cold this morning, and the air is fresh.
As I approach the cave I can see that the animals have been moved outside in preparation for departure, but voices stop me—the words in particular catch my attention.
“How much, Conrad?”
“For what?” This is gruff, disinterested.
“Don’t play stupid. Thompson ain’t sold a cow or a horse in his life.”
A silence, except for the creak of leather being adjusted. “If you say so.”
“So my question is…how much?”
“Nothing of mine is for sale, Markham.”
“You just bought her, so you can’t be too attached. I’ll make it worth your while. How much?”
“Not for sale.”
“You bought her.”
“And I’m not reselling.”
“Double what you paid.”
“Clear off, Markham. You heard me.”
“I want her.” His voice is hard, sharp, threatening.
“Don’t rightly care what you want. I said clear off.”
“Come on. Triple, then. How much would that come to? Six thousand? Ten? I got means, Conrad. I can make this worth your while. Don’t need to be a problem. It’s just one girl. Thompson’s got more.”
I creep closer. I can see them, now. They’re separated by a dozen feet or so, facing each other. Conrad has one hand resting on his horse’s rump, but the other is loose at his side. Charlie is just standing there, looking angry and spoiling for a fight. The air is tense, thick, still.
Conrad lifts his chin. “I said no. Ain’t gonna change my mind. Clear off.”
Charlie raises hi
s hands, then backs up a step and digs in his saddlebag, moving slowly, deliberately. He withdraws a stack of cash. “Look. Everything I got. Count it. It’s all yours.” He cuts his eyes to the side and sees me. He grins, a slow leer spreading across his face. He turns back to Conrad. “Come on, man. Be smart. Last chance.”
“Don’t want your money, don’t give a shit about your last chance. I said clear off. Hannah is not for sale.”
“Not again, you mean.” This time he cuts another glance at me, insulting, derisive.
Fear blasts through me as Charlie fixes his gaze on me. Dressed as warmly as I am there’s not much of me to see, but his eyes seem to undress me, raking over me, making me feel naked. I resist the urge to huddle deeper in my coat; I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
Conrad jerks his head at me. “Time to go, Hannah. Mount up.”
I’m forced to walk past Charlie to get to Conrad; I skirt wide, avoiding Charlie by a good five or six feet, and even still my flesh crawls from the leer on his face, from the itching burn of his hungry stare.
I mount up, adjust my skirts, and tug my mittens back on to warm up my tingling fingers. Conrad mounts then, too, and swings around, not sparing a single glance for Charlie.
We’re almost around the curve of the mountain, almost out of sight when I hear Charlie shout.
“You’re making a mistake, Conrad!”
Conrad ignores the shout, and I don’t turn around either. But my spine prickles.
“Don’t pay him no mind,” Conrad murmurs to me, after a while.
I do, though. I pay Charlie Markham a lot of mind. His leer is burned into my mind. His hunger for me is obvious, and there’s a gleam of something dark and malevolent in his look.
His last warning echoes in my mind for hours. You’re making a mistake, Conrad. Not a warning, not a threat, but a statement of fact.
Conrad seems unconcerned with the likes of Charlie Markham.
I, however, do not possess that peace of mind.
..
The higher we climb up into the pass, the harder it becomes for me to breathe. The temperature drops markedly and the snow drifts higher and higher, making it difficult for the horses. On one side of the trail the ground falls away and around us the mountain peaks tower over our heads, their craggy bulk leaning menacingly into the gray sky. We’re long out of the trees, so there’s nothing to stop the wind from whipping around us and battering us and carving up our faces with icy knives.
It takes all I have within me to stay atop my horse and keep breathing. I want to weep. I want to stop. I want to bury myself in the snow and go to sleep.
But we don’t stop, not even to share jerky and hardtack while riding. We straddle our horses, duck our heads out of the wind, and continue moving.
Countless hours of sheer hell.
And when the snow gets too high, even for the horses, Conrad dismounts, and then gestures for me to do the same. He leads the horses ahead of me, breaking a trail. I stumble through the snow behind him, focusing on the swaying rumps of the horses.
Darkness falls, and finds us back among the trees, on the other side of the pass.
Finally, Conrad stops near two huge fallen pines, their trunks crossed and their branches drooping, creating a natural enclosure. The branches break the fall of snow, and their bulk helps to reflect the fire and stop the wind. Another tiny fire, and this time it feels too small, too little light against the encroaching darkness, too little heat against the onslaught of the dropping temperature.
He seems to read my thoughts. “Can’t risk a bigger fire. The Utes don’t generally bother me, as long as I keep to myself and pass on through. But still, best to not take chances.”
“Cold.” It’s all I can manage through my chattering teeth.
He sits with his back against the tree trunk. He extends his arm toward me. “Lean in, then.”
I eye him warily. “Not that cold.”
He chuckles. “Suit yourself.” He glances down at me. “I won’t hurt you.”
“You own me. You could do anything you want to me.”
“So I do, and so I could. Don’t mean I’m going to hurt you, though.”
I don’t move any closer, but I want to. His body would be a further block against the wind and the icy cold. He would be warm. Solid. Something to curl up against.
I curl up on the hard ground near him, but not too near, shivering. I let my eyes close and let sheer exhaustion pull me under.
When I wake up, he’s in the same position he was when I fell asleep: sitting up, rifle near to hand, resting but alert. I don’t think he has slept in more than two days.
I’m curled up against him. My head is on his thigh, and one of his big, gloved hands is on my back. Proprietary. Comforting.
I don’t remember moving in the night, and now that I am awake I hate myself for not immediately shifting away from his touch. I am a traitor to my own freedom, to my own dignity. To my own self.
But his body is warm against mine, and the dawn is cold.
* * *
Another day’s ride, another campfire in the darkness, another night spent fighting the urge to get closer to him, just for the warmth. Only for the warmth.
By midday the fourth day we crest a rise, the mountains lie miles behind us, and before us the land rolls away in gently rolling tree-carpeted hills. Everything is blanketed in snow. Ahead is a U-shaped valley, a long narrow piece of land sandwiched between high rocky hills. There’s a frozen lake partially surrounded by a dense cluster of aspen, and in the far distance, nestled in the belly of the U of the valley, is a small cabin. The ground above the cabin is utterly inaccessible, surrounded by sheer cliffs. There’s only one way into the valley—via the mouth. Horses roam the valley freely, pawing at the snow, looking for the grass beneath.
As we descend toward the mouth of the valley, it becomes obvious that distance played tricks on my sense of scale: the valley isn’t so small after all, it is easily three or four miles across and a dozen miles deep. It takes us the rest of the day to make the entrance, and then Conrad nudges his heel against his horse’s flank, clicks his tongue, and breaks into a trot. My horse follows automatically, and now we’re winding between occasional copses of trees, passing the lake on our right, then suddenly we’re surrounded by horses, dozens of them, then more and more. Too many to count. All paints, white and brown and red and black, patched and smeared, most small and lean and lithe like my mount, a few others a bit larger. All have thick and shaggy winter coats, but even my untrained eye can see that these horses are prime stock.
Conrad is silent, but somehow the herd knows he’s here. There’s no whooping or hollering, just him leaning forward, wind buffeting his hat brim, and then he snarls a gruff hiii-ya! and his big black and white horse blasts into a wild gallop. I’m left behind, but I don’t mind. It’s a glorious sight, a hundred or more head of horses milling and wheeling and galloping, snow bursting from scything hooves, shoulders roiling, heads bobbing, manes fluttering, tails whipping. And him, leaning forward in his saddle, shoulders broad as the mountains around us, his hat in hand, thick black hair wind-blown. It is a sight of complete and utter freedom, wild and powerful.
When I catch up, he’s dismounted in front of the cabin, surrounded by the horses. He whispers to them, rubbing between their ears here and a nose there, nudging. It’s as if he’s one of them, greeting old friends. They nudge him with their noses, brush against him, whicker and whinny at him. He moves through the clustered herd to the porch, leading his mount. He unsaddles his horse, tossing the saddle on the porch. Then he leans into the horse’s face, whispers something, and then gives the animal a friendly, playful shove on its front flank. A toss of its head, and the horse is gone, absorbed into the herd.
“Unsaddle her,” he says to me. “Leave the saddle with mine and come on in.”
I do as I’m told, and as soon as the saddle and the saddle blanket are off, my horse is prancing away, nipping at a pair of white and brown mar
es, tossing her head, looking for all the world like a young girl excitedly greeting friends she hasn’t seen in a while.
I set the saddle with his, and hang the reins on a nearby nail.
The cabin is tiny. Crafted from thick pine, it’s sturdy and solid. There’s an outhouse a stone’s throw away, and a couple of lean-to shelters scattered a hundred feet from the cabin, up against the side of the hill.
Instead of a wood and metal latch such as you might see on most log cabins of this type, there is an actual doorknob, out of place in this otherwise rustic dwelling. It’s familiar, somehow. Glass. Delicate. Fragile. Multifaceted. I reach for the knob, but before I can grasp it, the door swings open. Conrad stands in the opening, gesturing brusquely for me to come in.
“An odd choice of doorknob,” I say as I enter.
He shrugs as he brings the gear inside the house and stacks it in a corner. “The only keepsake from my life before I built this place,” he says this gruffly, brusque, dismissing the topic. He sweeps his arm at the interior of the cabin. “Welcome home, Hannah.”
It isn’t much. A dozen paces across, perhaps twenty paces deep. Low ceiling, maybe a foot over Conrad’s head. Dark, as there is no window. A fireplace on the back wall, a bed on the left-hand wall when facing the fireplace, a table on the right. A couple of chests in the corner near the fireplace, their hasps secured with padlocks. A shotgun on the lintel above the door. Not much else.
He’s already got a fire going, using wood stacked beside the fireplace. A big fire, hot and orange and blazing brightly, illuminates the room and quickly banishes the cold. Conrad is shucking his coat, his gloves, untying the holsters of his gun belt and unbuckling it, hanging it off the back of one of the two chairs at the table. His rifle rests on the bed.
I don’t know what to do.
I stand in the center of the cabin, watching him as he kicks off his boots with a contented sigh, tossing his hat on the bed, ruffling his fingers through his hair. He plops into a chair, the one with his gun belt hanging from it. Even at rest, in his socks, in his home, there is a weapon within easy reach.
