by Cynthia Hand
Winnie tore her gaze away from Jane’s face to acknowledge Frank. “Oh, hello.”
“This here’s Frank,” Jane explained.
“Yes, I know. We’ve met,” Winnie said a bit stiffly.
“Right. Well.” Jane stared down at her boots. (Which were really nice—best boots we’ve seen in this book so far, and we’ve seen a lot of them.) But she couldn’t seem to piece together the next sentence in her head. “I, uh— Well, you see— I know I told you I didn’t want— But I was mad as a peeled rattler that day, and not thinking straight— But now I—well, I don’t know how I feel, but I need to ask—I need to tell you. Oh, rocks, why is this so dang hard?” She could feel them both staring at her, Winnie and Frank, Frank like she’d just gone ahead and lost her mind.
“We need to speak with Mr. Wheeler,” Frank explained for her. “It’s urgent.”
Winnie pushed her spectacles back up on her nose. “Oh. Well. I— Mr. Wheeler, he—”
“I need to tell you my story,” Jane burst out at last. “The whole thing, all of it, so you can write about what really happened.” She finally looked up and met Winnie’s eyes. “You’re the only one I’d trust to get it right.”
“Huh?” said Frank eloquently.
Winnie nodded. “Come in.”
Over the next hour Jane told Winnie about everything, from the Canary family being run out of every place they settled on account of her mother becoming a garou and refusing to behave, to her mother’s faked death and her father’s real one at Bill’s hands. She described the years she had spent on her own and Bill finding her, becoming part of the group, learning to perform in the show, to hunt garou on the side, the way she’d kind of accidentally become famous and how those stories had finally reached her mother, who’d recognized her picture in the paper and wanted her back. Then Jane related what had truly happened the night they’d gone to the candle factory, how Jack McCall had been sent by her mother (who was now living as Al Swearengen), to bite Jane and send her along to Deadwood in the hopes that Jane would become Beta to Al’s Alpha and help her fulfill her grand scheme to make as many garou as she could, to form a new country just for garou. She explained how the cure was made to enthrall garou, not to help them, and how Al Swearengen had demanded that Jane kill Bill, who Al saw as her greatest enemy. How, when Jane had refused, she’d forced the cure on her own daughter, but it didn’t take. How her mother had sent Jack McCall to assassinate Bill in Jane’s stead, and how Al’d worked the trial so McCall would be set free.
“Wow,” breathed Winnie when Jane was finally done talking. “Now that’s a story.”
“I’m going to need you to tell the world,” Jane said.
“I will,” said Winnie determinedly. “It will be my honor.”
“Wait, you’re Edward Wheeler?” Frank said at last. He’d been quietly listening to the entire tale, as rapt as Winnie had been.
“Geez, Frank, catch up, why don’t ya?” said Jane.
Winnie’s cheeks flushed charmingly. “Yes. When I write, I do so as Mr. Wheeler.” She turned back to Jane and smiled a bit breathlessly. “And I will write this for you, Jane. Or do you want me to call you Martha?”
Jane thought a minute, then decided. “I think I’ve left Martha behind for good, this time. So it’s Jane.”
“All right. Jane,” Winnie said, and Jane liked the way her name sounded being formed by Winnie’s mouth right then, like Winnie was actually saying an endearment. “I will do my best with your story. I can tell you now, it’s going to be quite the sensation. Al Swearengen a garou, luring and enslaving the other poor garou who come for the cure? That alone will rile up the entire country, not to mention the folks here in Deadwood.”
“We’re counting on it,” said Frank grimly.
“Yeah, so let’s get it printed,” Jane said, slapping her hand down on Winnie’s notebook, which she’d been scribbling in while Jane talked. “Daylight’s wasting.”
But Winnie was frowning. “Printed? What? When?”
“Before tomorrow. We have this plan, that if we can print the story and, at the same time, break the thrall Al has over the garou, the town will turn against her—arrest her—you see where I’m going? So we gotta get this out tonight.”
Winnie’s hand came down firmly on the notebook, keeping Jane from picking it up. “What’s written here is not the story, Jane. This is just my notes. The story is yet to be composed.”
“So compose it. Fast,” Frank said.
Winnie was shaking her head in horror. “You want me to write it by when? And how many words does it have to be?” (We feel for you, Winnie. We really do.)
“About six words should do,” said Jane. She held up her hand and counted off. “Al. Swearengen. Is. A. Bad. Garou.”
“Oh, no,” gasped Winnie. “Oh, no, no, no. A story like this takes time.”
Frank drew out his pocket watch. “You’ve got, like, two hours.”
Jane snorted. “That’s loads of time. A person could write a whole book in two hours.” (To which we, as the narrators, say no. A person can’t. And now we’re crying a little.)
Winnie’s mouth opened and then closed again. “This could be the biggest story of my career, the culmination of everything I’ve been working on for months. I need to plot it out—how do I begin, in what way can I best hook the reader? I need to choose every word with the utmost of care. You can’t ask me to rush this.”
“You have to,” said Frank.
“We’ve got to stop Al right now!” cried Jane, catching Winnie by the shoulders. “Please!” She realized that she was clutching Winnie too tightly, being too forceful, too strong. She relaxed her grip but didn’t move her hands from Winnie’s shoulders. Winnie met her gaze steadily. Jane wet her lips. “Please,” she said again, more gently. “Do your best.”
Winnie nodded. “All right.” She took her notebook over to the desk and sat down. She stretched her arms in front of her and opened and closed her fingers several times, then rolled her wrists, first one way, and then the other. (An excellent prewriting habit, if we do say so ourselves.) “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try.”
“Excellent,” said Frank. He crossed the room quickly to stand behind her, stroking his chin thoughtfully as Winnie dipped her pen into the bottle of ink on the desk and angled it to write on a fresh sheet of loose paper. Frank leaned over to squint at it. “The. Good choice. Start with the classics.”
Winnie’s delicate shoulders tightened, but she kept writing.
“What does it say?” whispered Jane, coming to stand next to Frank.
Frank leaned again. “‘The town of Deadwood is quiet today.’”
“That’s nice. Sets the mood,” said Jane. (We, as your narrators, might have gone with “Listen up, y’all,” but to each her own style.)
Winnie cleared her throat. “I’d appreciate it if you’d give me some space.” She turned to smile at Jane tightly. “You could sit over there? Quietly?”
“Sure thing.” Jane grabbed Frank by his jacket and pulled him over to the bed, where they plopped down on the edge and sat awkwardly. “These are real quality sheets you have here,” she remarked, sliding her hand over the fabric. “Better than at the Gem, I’ll tell you what.”
“Yes, well, good,” said Winnie.
“Let her work,” whispered Frank.
“You were the one who was reading over her shoulder,” Jane pointed out, but then she kept quiet. The only sound for several minutes was the frantic scratching of Winnie’s pen. Jane could smell Winnie’s lemon perfume all around her. It still made her heart beat fast. And she was sitting where Winnie slept.
She buttoned the top button of her shirt. For propriety.
Frank opened his pocket watch, checked the time, then clicked it closed. Jane started to bounce one knee. Then she bounced the other, and Frank rolled his eyes and scooted farther away from her on the edge of the bed. Winnie’s pen was a flurry of movement, her lips pursed in concentration as she wrote.
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After what felt like an hour (but was really only ten minutes), Jane made a show of standing up and stretching her back, and slowly walked around to stand behind Winnie again. There were many words on the pages now, a sea of words that seemed to roll like waves before Jane’s eyes.
She pointed at a word that started with the letter J. “Is that my name?”
Winnie stopped. “No. It’s the word justice.”
“Ooh, that’s a good one.”
“Thank you.”
“How about that one?” Jane pointed to another J. “Is that me?”
“Jane, you’re bothering her again,” Frank said.
“Am not,” argued Jane. “I’m the inspiration, here.”
Winnie sighed, put down her pen, and swiveled to face them. “All right, get out.”
“Sorry. I’ll be good. I promise,” pleaded Jane.
Winnie shook her head, a tumble of pale curls. “I can’t do this with you watching. It’s too much pressure. You need to get out.”
“But—” Frank and Jane said at the same time.
“It’s dinnertime,” Winnie informed them firmly. (Which, at this juncture in our history, meant that it was lunchtime, as they called lunch dinner, and dinner supper, back then. Super confusing, we know.) “Go get something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” Frank and Jane said at the same time.
“Okay. Then go sit outside somewhere. I will come find you when the story is done.” Winnie stood up and ushered them both to the door.
“But when will it be done?” asked Jane.
Winnie gave her a tense smile. “It will be done when it’s done.”
An hour passed. Or maybe it was another ten minutes. Either way, Jane announced that sitting on the stairs made her butt hurt—it wasn’t made to sit so long on a hard wooden step. Plus, she had to pee.
“Again?” said Frank.
“Yeah. I do it regularly,” she snapped.
They went on a quick walk to find the nearest outhouse, which happily wasn’t far. Then they walked around the block a few times, because walking felt good; it felt like doing something besides waiting. They kept close to the hotel, though, because they didn’t want to be seen parading around the town by Al Swearengen’s wolf minions, who mostly stayed nearby the Gem but a few of which were spread out around other parts of Deadwood.
“How many of them do you think are under the thrall?” Frank asked Jane as they slunk back toward the Checkmate with their hats pushed low over their eyes.
“Most of them, probably. The only one I know for sure ain’t being directly controlled by her is Jack. So when we get that cure for the cure that will free all the thralls, it’ll be all the thralls but Jack McCall.” She grinned.
“Good,” said Frank. “I want him to be held accountable.”
Jane nodded, her smile fading, and the two of them fell silent until they reached the Checkmate again. They sat down on the steps without further complaint.
After a while Frank said, “This is a brave thing you’re doing, Jane.”
“Eh, my butt’s okay now,” she said.
He snorted. “No. I mean, this. Telling your story. Putting yourself out there.”
She shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s everything,” he said. “You’re telling the world your biggest secret.”
She looked up at him gravely. “It’s not my biggest secret.”
He met her gaze for a minute, then looked away and scratched the back of his neck. “I won’t tell. About who Edward Wheeler really is, I mean.”
“I love her,” Jane confessed. “At least I think that’s what it is.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I never felt like this before. My little sister Lena used to get spoony about boys, but me, I never saw the point. But with Winnie, this feeling’s been building up inside of me so long, for months now, and I want to shout it from the highest hills, you know, how wonderful she is, how it feels like she really sees me, how I’m walking on wings whenever I’m around her, but—” She propped her elbow on her knee and then put her head in her hand. “What do you think Bill would have said, if he knew? Do you think he would have been ashamed of me? Would he call it unnatural?”
Frank looked thoughtful. “I think he would say something like, ‘Oh, well. Love is love.’”
“Love is love,” she repeated softly.
Frank nodded. “That’s what he would say. And he did know something about love.”
“So do you,” Jane said. “Because you love Annie.”
Frank muttered something like, “Yeah, well, that’s complicated,” and started to stand up, but Jane grabbed him and hauled him back down next to her.
“You do. You luvvv her. Your eyes go all mushy every time you look her direction. And your voice changes—it goes all soft like, ‘Oh, Annie, fine weather we’re having today,’ and what you’re really saying is ‘I adore you, my darling. Won’t you be mine forever and kiss me and hold me tight?’”
Frank shoved her, almost knocking her from her spot on the steps. His face was blotchy. But then he shook his head and sighed. “Okay, so maybe you’re right. But it’s still complicated.”
“Tell me about it,” said Jane.
The door then opened and Winnie peeked out. “I have a draft,” she announced. “It’s rough, but if we run down to the printer now, I’ll revise it as we go. We can have it out by tonight if we hurry.”
Jane and Frank jumped to their feet. Jane took off her hat and gazed up at Winnie. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you would—”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Winnie said. “I don’t know if it’s any good.” She pulled a satchel over one shoulder and moved quickly down the stairs.
“If it’s the truth, then it’s good enough,” Jane said.
A sharp whistle pierced the air. They all tensed as a horse galloped toward them up the street, but then Jane saw that it was Charlie’s horse, trailed by George. Annie slid off the horse’s back before he was even all the way stopped, and Frank caught her before her feet hit the ground. “Thanks,” Annie breathed as he set her down gently. “Have you got the story from Edward Wheeler?”
“Right here,” said Jane, pointing to Winnie’s satchel.
“I don’t know if we’ve met,” said Annie, staring in confusion at Winnie. She extended her hand. “I’m Annie Oakley.”
Jane and Frank exchanged awkward glances, and then Winnie laughed in a kind of resigned way and shook Annie’s hand. “We have met. I’m Edward Wheeler, you see. But you can call me Winnie.”
“Oh,” said Annie. She looked at Jane. “Ohhhhh.”
I already knew that, George said proudly in Jane’s mind.
“You did?” Jane said. “How?”
She smelled like a girl. I don’t know why it took Frank so long to figure it out. He never did know how to use his nose.
“Hey!” Frank protested. “I know how to smell girls just fine, thank you very much.”
“Hey!” exclaimed Annie.
“Well, good for you, George!” Jane said. Then she became aware that Winnie was staring at her strangely.
“Are you talking . . . to a dog?” Winnie asked.
“It’s a garou thing,” Jane mumbled.
“Frank does it all the time,” added Annie.
Jane glanced at her sharply. “Icks-nay on the arou-gay, Annie.”
“What?” Then Annie covered her mouth with her hand, horrified by her slipup. “Oh, Frank! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tell—”
“It’s all right,” Winnie assured her. “That can be off the record.”
“Thank you,” Frank said. “I guess it’s a day for revealing our biggest secrets.”
“Moving on,” Jane said quickly. “Do you have the cure for the cure, Annie?”
Annie nodded distractedly. “Yes, and I have a better idea of how to free all the thralls.”
“Good, we’re on our way to the printer’s now.” Frank offered Annie his a
rm.
She clapped her hands. “I’ve always wanted to see a printing press. Is it true that you have to line up every single letter of the article individually?”
“We. We’ll have to do that,” said Winnie. “And then we’ll have to proofread it before we print out all the copies.”
“I’m excellent at spelling,” said Annie. “The best in my whole family.”
Jane groaned. She was not going to be remotely useful for this next part, she could tell. “All right, daylight’s wasting. Let’s go.”
“I take it back,” Frank said as the sun was going down. He and Annie walked Jane toward the Gem. They’d stashed George back at the Marriott. The next part of the story was no place for a dog. “This is the most nervous I’ve ever seen you.”
Jane tried to stop her hands from shaking. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she admitted. “I’ve never been what you’d call an actress.”
“You’ll be fine. You’re giving Swearengen what she wants,” Annie pointed out. “Most people believe it when you tell them what they want to hear.”
Jane nodded and then yawned. They’d been working nonstop for hours printing Winnie’s article, which had felt unbelievably tedious to everybody but Annie. The papers were stacked and ready. Jane’s story was about to be out there for the world to read, and there’d be no calling it back. Her stomach burbled nervously at the thought.
“This is where you better leave me,” she said as they were about to turn the corner and come in sight of the Gem. They all stopped, and Jane took a few deep breaths.
“You got this,” Frank said. “You have the cure for the cure?”
She nodded shakily and patted her sleeve, where the thin vial was tied to the inside of her arm, the cork against her wrist. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” said Annie warmly, and reached to squeeze Jane’s hand.
“We’ll be waiting for you right here,” Frank said. “Just get in, do what you got to do, and get out.”
“Get out,” Jane repeated. “Right.” Then she flashed them what she hoped was a confident grin, tipped her hat back on her head, squared her shoulders, and marched toward the Gem.
