Way Back

by Abbie Williams

  Perhaps it was the comforting sound of a man relaxed and sleeping well enough to snore that bumped against a hidden memory –

  Three-quarters asleep, I shifted position, sweaty and restless; the quilt bunched between my legs, pressing insistently against the juncture of my thighs.

  Come closer, angel. I can’t sleep unless I feel you against me.

  My entire body jerked at the sound of his voice. My closed eyes shifted in their sockets, searching for him.

  Stay, I begged. I would rip myself inside out to make this happen. Please stay with me.

  Always. I love you, oh God, Ruthie, I love you.

  Don’t let me go…

  His lips were warm on the nape of my neck, his hands strong and passionate as they caressed my belly and cradled my breasts, his fingers spread wide and thumbs stroking my nipples. I shifted violently, attempting to turn so I could see his face. Desperation swelled to bursting in my chest.

  Stay with me. Please, oh please, stay with me…

  I thrashed, clutching at him, and came abruptly awake to the dimness of the shanty cabin. I sat up and scrambled to my knees, scrabbling through the tangled quilts. The essence of the dream washed immediately away, like water down a drain, and I fell back to the crumpled bedding and sobbed for what I didn’t understand.

  Chapter Five

  ANOTHER WEEK DRIFTED PAST LIKE COTTONSEED ON A lazy breeze, taking us well into August. I continued my daily routine at Rilla’s, living for the promise of an evening’s ride with Axton. In the last month I’d learned firsthand what it meant to have your period while living in a saloon on the territory prairie, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. In fact, it was outright awful. I’d grown accustomed to the unwashed state of my hair and body, to traversing the yard to reach the communal outhouse, but being forced to wrap my lower body with cotton binding which needed changing every few hours was something to which I would never acclimate.

  I kept my thoughts fixed through each hot, endless day upon the moment when Ax would come riding up to Rilla’s to collect me, as he did late every afternoon, and we would canter out to the claim shanty and then beyond. Branch made supper for the three of us every night, usually bacon, sometimes biscuits. We drank water and coffee, sweetened with a pinch of brown sugar; occasionally Branch sipped from a jug of whiskey. When he drank, his stories flowed with vigor. He was a born storyteller and I found a certain amount of joy in his tales, at least enough to sustain me through the next day; I felt happy sitting wrapped in a wool blanket near their fire, listening to Branch’s deep, drawling voice.

  I’d even managed to wash Axton’s hair, a fairly monumental accomplishment. It was the tin bucket of water, sitting alongside the hand pump behind their shanty and warmed all day by the sun, that gave me the idea. I eyed the bucket, then Axton’s tangled hair and unwashed face; the very next evening, I secreted away what the girls at Rilla’s called a ‘soap cake,’ with a plan in mind.

  “Ax,” I murmured, as sweetly as possible without giving away my ulterior motives. Branch checked the biscuits, baking to golden perfection in a covered, cast-iron pan while Axton sat whittling a small chunk of wood near the fire. At my speaking of his name he looked up and smiled, and my heart went twang with love for him; I couldn’t have loved him more if he was truly my little brother. Speaking offhandedly, I murmured, “Maybe I could wash your hair for you.”

  Both men’s eyebrows lofted high, Branch’s in amusement and Axton’s in pure alarm. Ax said immediately, “Well, I don’t much like getting wet,” and Branch snorted, slapping his knee, and then chuckled.

  “Boy, you oughta be so lucky to have a fine gal like Ruthie make an offer like that.”

  Axton lowered his head but his shoulders shook with laughter. Sensing my advantage, I stood in front of his bent knees, hands on hips as I made a show of perusing him.

  “C’mon, Ax,” I wheedled. “If you let me, I’ll…” I tried to think of a suitable bartering tool. Then it hit me. “Ladies like a clean man, that much I can tell you.”

  Branch hooted and laughed. “Darn tootin’!”

  Axton lifted both hands, palms outward. “But I –”

  “No ‘buts,’” I said firmly, catching hold of his wrists. “Come kneel over here by the bucket.”

  Axton dutifully knelt before the bucket I’d dragged closer to the fire. The auburn sun streaked across his hair, creating a gorgeous array of red and copper. With no small amount of satisfaction, I murmured, “Good.”

  With a rough linen towel draped along his shoulders, Ax tipped his head over the bucket. Branch provided me with a tin cup, which I used to soak Ax’s hair, one dip at a time. With the first pour, he sucked a sharp breath and complained, “Aw, it’s so cold…”

  “Hush,” I reprimanded. “It’s worth it, just you wait.” Once his hair was suitably wet, I lathered my hands and scrubbed his scalp. The soap cake smelled like lye and didn’t exactly turn to manageable foam, but I made do, using the edges of the towel to wash his ears and instructing him to scrub his face. Once complete, I wrapped the towel about his head and demanded, “Branch, do you have a hairbrush?”

  Branch, smoking his pipe and watching us with true enjoyment, shook his grizzled head. “A hairbrush? Jesus, I ain’t been in possession of such a thing in my entire life, honey-love. I ain’t even seen one since my dear mama’s.”

  “Branch,” I complained.

  Axton held the towel, gathered in a loose turban on his head, and blinked at an errant drop of water rolling down his nose.

  I observed, “Well, at least you’re clean. How does it feel?”

  “Strange,” he admitted. “And cold. But thank you kindly, Ruthie.”

  I positioned him near the fire and resorted to combing his tangled curls with my fingers and a small, forked stick. He shivered and shuddered, periodically murmuring, “That feels so good,” as I worked.

  Branch said, “Ain’t no one combed your hair since you was a sprout back in Tennessee. I apologize, boy. You ain’t had a woman’s touch in too long.”

  I smiled at these words. “You really do have beautiful hair, Ax. Look at these highlights in the sun.” I caught a curl between my fingers and displayed it for Branch, admiring the gold and scarlet woven into the strands of his hair.

  Branch said, “Don’t rightly know where that red come from. His ma and pa neither one was fair that way. You’re a ‘hop out of kin,’ boy, that’s what Granny Douglas would have said.”

  I ruffled Axton’s hair and then bent to kiss his cheek, with pure affection. “There. All done.”

  Axton grinned and ducked his clean head, muttering, “Aw, Ruthie…” and then his green eyes twinkled with new delight. “Uncle Branch, I believe you’re next.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Branch uttered, spewing a stream of pipe smoke. He was quick to add, “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, dear little Ruthie, but I ain’t had no need to bathe since last spring. And I won’t before winter, likely.”

  Ax grinned wickedly. “But the ladies…”

  Branch flung his hands heavenward. “Well, boy, as you know, I ain’t had to worry about them since far longer than last spring,” and we were all laughing then, as the sun sank in a ruby sky.

  The women at Rilla’s teased me with increasing intensity about my relationship with Axton, until Celia made them stop. While I could have continued to ignore the snide innuendos, there was a certain amount of relief in knowing that someone else cared about me, at least enough to ensure the teasing cease. Celia carried herself with admirable fortitude and though I wouldn’t have said we were friends, exactly, I felt safe around her. As though I could trust her to a certain degree. What’s more, I liked her. She was strong and kind and life had dealt her a shitty hand. I sometimes lay awake envisioning how I’d help her reunite with the marshal, how I’d get them back together – or whatever the equivalent.

  “What do you see in young Axton, if you don’t mind my asking?” Celia said one early morning, when I was getting up j
ust as she retired for the night. I stood pouring myself a tin cup of coffee from the kettle on the woodstove and jumped at the sound of her voice; I hadn’t heard her enter the space. The kitchen was empty and I’d assumed, like usual, no one was awake but me.

  “Good morning,” I responded as Celia approached with a silk shawl drawn around her shoulders. By the early light of day she looked worse for wear and my heart thudded in sympathy, adding fuel to the flame of my anger toward the man responsible for getting her pregnant. Her dark, shining hair hung loose over one shoulder, her make-up beneath her thick lashes rather than upon them, her lipstick smudged. Her beauty mark was in place upon her cheekbone; I wondered if she’d found the one she’d flicked away, or if this was one of many. Her breasts appeared swollen and uncomfortable in her tight costume. Her irises were a rich, deep gray that exactly matched her silk shawl.

  “There’s a sad look in your eyes again, girl,” she observed, sitting on a wooden chair at the small table near the stove. She sighed, cupping her lower belly, and then asked with a surprising amount of gentleness, “You sweet on him?”

  I replaced the kettle on the stove and sat across from her. “No, not like that.”

  “Axton Douglas is kind, I can tell, and handsome, which ain’t a usual combination.” She reached and curled her right hand around my left. Her hands were soft and warm, and it felt good to be touched by a woman, so good to have a woman listening to me. I curbed the desire to snuggle into her plump arms and be comforted. “You could do far worse, believe you me. Ain’t any life out here for a lady, Ruth, I know this. You’d do well to marry that sweet feller, sooner than later.”

  “I don’t…” I despised my inability to explain what I felt. “I care for Axton very much, but I just can’t…”

  Celia supplied, “Do you think you’re already married? Maybe a widow?”

  A sharp-edged sob cut my chest from the inside, obliterating words. Even though I didn’t answer, Celia’s mouth softened.

  “I don’t know what’s been in the past for you, girl, but I do know Axton Douglas would make a good husband. He’s young, but so are you. Mark my words, you could do worse.”

  I changed the focus to her, whispering, “How are you feeling these days?”

  She blew out a breath with lips pursed, before pressing her tongue against the space in her gums where she was missing teeth. “Tired, mostly. I plan to tell Rilla about my condition this afternoon. No use keeping a secret that won’t improve with time.”

  “What will you do with the baby?” I whispered, truly concerned.

  She released my hand and swept both palms over her belly. “I aim to send it back east, soon as I can make arrangements. I can’t keep it.”

  “But it’s your baby.”

  “It’s trouble is what it is,” she said, though not without a note of pain. She seemed to be studying my eyes for answers. “You’re a softhearted girl. I saw that from the first. You must toughen up, Ruth, there ain’t no other choice out here.”

  “There’s always another choice,” I said, and then as quickly wondered, Is there?

  Celia said, “Not for ladies or whores, either one.”

  It began raining less than an hour later, while I was busy lighting the kindling pile beneath the laundry cauldron, prepared to start the first load of sheets. I hadn’t heard the sound of raindrops since my arrival in Howardsville many weeks ago and peeked out from the canvas cloth that functioned as a door to the laundry shack, surprised. The sky had been clear only a few minutes ago. The air was refreshing, cool and damp, and I stepped all the way out, lifting my palms toward the dripping heavens.

  A fast-moving storm blew in from the west, broiling with tall gray clouds. I watched, unfazed, as people scurried for cover while lightning sizzled across the sky. Thunder soon made the ground tremble and the rain progressed swiftly into a downpour, but I remained standing in it, letting it soak my body and my hair. Perhaps it was nothing more than a basic instinct to be clean but I tilted my head back, scraping my long hair away from my forehead, letting the dust and grime wash away. On inspiration, I darted back inside the laundry shack and grabbed a soap cake, and then proceeded to scrub my scalp. I prayed the rain would continue until I had rinsed, and was lucky.

  When Axton rode up to collect me later that afternoon, under a true-blue sky, the first thing he said was, “I didn’t know your hair was so curly.”

  I had not braided my hair, as I usually did, because it felt so good on my back, hanging loose and clean. After the storm I’d changed into my riding clothes and finished the laundry, and now here was Axton, ready to ride.

  “It’s just washed,” I replied, a little self-consciously.

  He nodded without saying anything else, studying me with a somber expression. Since the night I’d spoken so openly about women and their periods, Axton had grown increasingly comfortable asking me questions, about anything that crossed his mind. He was possessed of a curious, intelligent nature and I enjoyed our honest talks, but an uncomfortable twinge gripped my gut as I thought of Celia’s words from this morning. What if Axton misinterpreted my attention?

  No, you’re only imagining that, I thought.

  He shifted in the saddle and offered such an engaging grin that the twinge in my gut sharpened. His very next words were, “Me and Uncle Branch got a surprise for you.”

  “You do? What’s that?”

  Axton’s grin widened. “Just down the street, yonder. Come look, Ruthie!”

  With true wonderment I stepped out into the dusty street (the rain had dried up almost the moment it fell), peering in the direction he was indicating. Upon seeing nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to suggest a surprise, I looked back at Ax.

  He shook his head in pretended annoyance, dismounted and handed me Ranger’s lead line, then walked ten paces away, gesturing to a dun-colored mare tethered to the hitching post in front of the saloon next door. At last it dawned on me and my mouth fell open. I continued to stare in stun as he unwound the mare’s reins and walked her to me.

  “How?” I whispered. “When?”

  Axton was so pleased by my delighted reaction it seemed his face would split with a grin. “Dang, I wish Uncle Branch could see how happy you look.”

  “But…” I’d been reduced to one-word utterances. I stretched out my right hand and cupped the dun’s square jaw. She was shorter than Ranger by a couple of inches, the color of a wheat field. Her brown eyes were gentle and watchful, her mane and tail both a rich golden-blond. I stroked her hide and tears slid down my cheeks.

  Axton explained, “Uncle Branch got her for nothing a’tall, from Doc Turn. Doc needs a new horse and planned to get rid of her.”

  “She’s beautiful.” I was crying and laughing. “She’s for me?”

  Axton nodded. “She ain’t even got a real name. Doc always called her Girl, or Girly. You can pick a new one, if you’d like. She’s fifteen years, near about, but she’s a good girl. He didn’t sell his saddle with her, though, so we’ll have to get one for you.”

  I could not wait to ride my horse. My horse, a gift as amazing as it was unimaginable. I threw my arms around Axton, startling him; Ranger tossed his head and snorted, but my horse simply flicked her tail.

  “I don’t have any money,” I told Ax, drawing away. “I don’t have a place to keep her!”

  “She can stay with us, for now,” he said, still giddy. “And she didn’t cost a thing, Ruthie, truly.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” It seemed I could never thank him, or Branch, enough.

  “What’s this?” a new voice asked, and we both looked up at the porch to see Celia emerging, wearing a dress as yellow as freshly-sliced lemon cake, her beauty mark adorning the bountiful top curve of her right breast this afternoon. She looked tired and uncomfortable but her gray eyes were alight with curiosity.

  Axton tipped his hat brim and acknowledged, “Ma’am.”

  She winked at him, angling her breasts his way, and he blushed bright as a sun
set.

  “Celia, this is my new horse,” I said, and she smiled like a mother at me.

  “Ain’t that Doc Turn’s old horse?”

  “Ain’t no more,” Axton supplied cheerfully. “He was getting rid of her and Uncle Branch snapped her up. I brought her just now, for Ruthie.”

  “How kind,” Celia murmured, looking pointedly between Axton and me.

  I pretended I didn’t notice her look and instead patted the horse’s face, one hand on either side of her jaws. “What should I call her? I can’t keep calling her Girl, can I? That’s such a dumb name.”

  Instead of answering, Celia’s animated gaze suddenly flickered down the street. In the next instant her mouth tightened, lips compressing, and her shoulders squared; she turned with a flip of her skirts and reentered Rilla’s without another word. Axton didn’t notice a thing. I was the only one wondering at Celia’s abrupt departure.

  Axton suggested, “How about you ride her first and then decide on a name?”

  I craned my neck around Ax to see what had caught Celia’s attention. Axton turned to peer over his shoulder, observing, “Oh, there’s Marshal Rawley. I just heard he was back.”

  “Where?” I demanded. Of course this was why Celia had acted so strangely.

  “That’s him, yonder.” Axton indicated with a tilt of his hat brim and I saw immediately which man he meant.

  From a distance of two blocks I eyed this stranger, the marshal, as he sat horseback in the sun, with rising levels of angry disdain pumping through my blood. I knew it was not my business, I knew this. And yet, thinking of the expression on Celia’s face just this morning as we discussed the inability to keep her baby, anger claimed the upper hand; I imagined my eyes taking on a red flame.