Way Back

by Abbie Williams

  “This here girl wears trousers,” the man beside him observed with obvious disgust, draining his small glass of booze and thumping it back against the scarred wooden surface of the bar. He grinned at his own statement, showcasing tobacco-stained teeth, gesturing toward my thighs.

  “She ain’t wearing trousers just now. I can tell she knows how to show a fella a good time.” His grip tightened to a painful level. Cold fear pierced my ribs as I mutely studied his bearded face, which was slick with sweat. His eyes were a pale, watery blue, oddly intense, and my stomach jolted. He leaned closer and muttered, “You want me to squeeze them ripe titties, don’t you?”

  My teeth came together on their edges and I found my voice. “Let go of me, asshole.”

  His smile disappeared as swiftly as if I’d decked him. Before I could blink he clamped a palm around the back of my neck and growled, “You don’t give me orders. Ain’t nobody give me orders. You need some sense beat into you, girl?” He jerked my head forward and my jaws clacked. He insisted, “Do you?”

  “Jesus, leave her be, you drunk fool,” the rotten-toothed man said, dragging him away from me. “Jesus Christ, Aemon.”

  The man named Aemon sneered and reclaimed his stool; he dismissed me with a strange whistling sound that emerged from between his teeth, flapping one hand through the air and draining his drink with the other.

  Go upstairs, go to your room and get the hell away from here, my better judgment warned.

  But longing to see Branch and Axton, and my new horse, overrode my concerns. Restless, crawling desire diluted the fear and I ducked around male bodies in my flight from the main floor, scurrying outside and down the front porch steps. Howardsville was far from quiet but the immediate sounds from Rilla’s were muted, bringing me a small sense of peace. I scanned the eastern horizon in an attempt to judge remaining daylight; the sky was already indigo, growing spangled with stars, but there was enough time before full dark for me to reach the claim shanty. Branch would be upset with me for walking that distance alone, but it would be all right. They would be happy to see me, I knew.

  A brief commotion down the street caught my attention and I spied the elaborate carriage that had arrived yesterday morning, by train no less, drawn by a matched pair of gorgeous black horses, their hides as glossy as onyx. Word was a wealthy businessman named Yancy had sent his men to the Territory to scout the area for a suitable building site, one upon which Yancy’s son and the son’s new wife would be able to stay when conducting railroad business. Gossip had been flying about the wife arriving without the company of either husband or father-in-law, and therefore perhaps inappropriately chaperoned, but although six grand railroad cars had rolled into Howardsville yesterday, suggesting royalty, no one seemed to have actually set eyes upon this alleged young wife.

  Maybe she’s in the carriage. I was interested despite everything, but when the carriage clattered past my position at the bottom of the steps I saw only men; two of them had rifles braced lengthwise across their laps. Slightly disappointed, I thought, Or maybe not.

  The laundry shack where I spent my days was only a few paces away, in the alley between saloons, and my riding pants were folded in there; I’d forgotten to bring them up to my room earlier. I made a quick decision to change clothes. It would be so much easier to walk across the prairie, which wasn’t nearly as flat as it appeared from a distance, without being hobbled by long, flapping skirts. I drew aside the canvas door and ducked within what had become a familiar space, shimmying out of both skirt and underskirt; my lower half was completely naked and would have been for only a second. I wadded up my skirt and set it aside, reaching to grab my pants – and that was when he grabbed me.

  “Told you I been waiting.” His mouth was on my ear. His beard brushed the side of my face and I smelled booze.

  I made a sound which should have been a scream, but surprise snatched my breath and stole all the force. I struggled, jerking and twisting, and he clamped a palm around my mouth, forcing me forward, cupping the bare flesh between my legs. He grunted as his fingers made contact and plundered my flesh. I thrashed against his hold, furious and hideously disgusted by this intrusion of my body, trying to slam his nose with the back of my head. He was stronger than I would have imagined and tilted his head to the side to avoid any such attack; he ordered, “Keep still,” and roughly bent me double.

  My forehead struck the hanging cauldron on the way down and spots danced at the edges of my vision. In the dimming light he dug one hand into my hair to keep me immobile and struggled to undo his trousers with the other. Instinct ripped through the stunned horror of what was happening and I stomped on his foot with my heel, as hard as I could, hearing a dull thunk – my terror-dazed mind registered this as my shoe connecting with his boot – but then he slumped to his knees, issuing a low-pitched groan, which I could not for the life of me account for. Surely my foot hadn’t knocked him out?

  “Bastard!” a woman’s voice hissed.

  I tried to spin around but I was stuck in a slow-motion reel, shuffling to the side to avoid making contact with the man as he sagged to the ground. My eyes darted like frightened minnows, landing upon a woman framed in the doorway, gripping a piece of firewood in her hands.

  “Is he dead?” she wondered aloud, sounding more curious than concerned, poking a shoe from beneath a long, narrow skirt to nudge his stationary form. She insisted, “If he is, we shall hire my uncle. He is a Bostonian lawyer, a very good one, and no harm shall come to either of us.” In the next breath she inquired, “Are you harmed? I observed this beast follow after you. Thank heavens I was walking the town instead of remaining cooped within that ridiculous rolling prison car.”

  I was naked from the waist down but so overcome by her presence and rapid speech I didn’t move to cover myself.

  “Forgive me, you are undoubtedly in a state of shock.” She tossed aside the firewood and stooped to grab my clothing from the ground. “Please dress and then we shall report this depraved individual to the law in this town. Attacking a woman on the street is a hanging offense. Or, it should be so.”

  I held my skirt and underskirt against my belly but couldn’t muster the proper movements to replace them.

  “Oh, my dear, you are in a state. Here, I shall help you,” she offered, and did so. Once I was fully clothed she led me out of the laundry shack. I couldn’t discern her facial features in the gray gloaming light but I could tell she was young. She smelled clean and sweet, her hair tucked beneath a hat with an arrangement of flowers on the band. She extended her right hand, which I numbly shook, and said formally, “I am Patricia Biddeford.” Then she giggled, explaining this by correcting herself. “Patricia Yancy, rather. I am only recently married. I’ve not yet grown accustomed to inserting my new surname when making introductions. May I ask your name? I regret we have been forced to meet under such circumstances. You seem pale. Truly, even in the darkness. Where is your home? Why are you here in the alley at dusk, improperly garbed and unprotected? I admit I am quite confused.”

  I hadn’t yet spoken a single syllable. I assumed Patricia Yancy would carry on until I did so, and whispered, “I live just up there,” indicating the second floor of Rilla’s.

  Patricia’s eyes widened. “But you are so very young! Surely you cannot mean to tell me you are employed as a prostitute. I am quite aware the darker aspects of life have been deliberately kept from me, courtesy of my father’s wishes, but nevertheless…”

  “I’m not a prostitute,” I said, interrupting her prattling, regaining a tentative handhold on my self-control now that I was reasonably safe from harm. My terror was fading and I found the ability to speak in coherent sentences. “I live at Rilla’s in exchange for doing laundry.”

  “Where is your family?” Patricia demanded, her hands fluttering as though to straighten or tidy something, at last settling for smoothing the length of my hair. “Have you no people? What is your name?”

  I drew myself up as best I could. “Rutha
nn Rawley.”

  “Are you kin to the marshal? I was introduced to him only yesterday morning, when we first arrived in Howardsville.”

  “No,” I said, rather too tersely. Something occurred to me and I sent a question her way this time. “Why are you out and about alone?”

  She didn’t squirm but a beat of knotty silence passed before she confessed, “I rather…insistently…suggested my escorts find something to amuse themselves this evening. I assured them I would be safe as a kitten in the train car. They left Mrs. Mason with me, of course, but she is such a sound sleeper, you see…”

  “So you snuck out.”

  “No, I most certainly did not! I am a grown woman, a married woman, and if I should choose to –”

  The man she’d struck with the firewood, who continued to lie on the dirt floor of the laundry shack, emitted a low moan, snapping our attention his way. I shuddered at the sound and Patricia said firmly, “My situation is neither here nor there. Come, let us find the marshal and report this crime.”

  “No,” I said again. “I haven’t been hurt.”

  “Have you taken leave of your senses? You must accompany me and report what this man was about to do to you. Of course you have been hurt! There is a wound upon your forehead! This beast put his hands upon you. He is a criminal, an immoral ruffian.”

  I knew she was right but I didn’t want to see the marshal. My heart took up an erratic jangling against my ribs.

  “Come along,” Patricia said, insistent as a buzzing bee. Once around the corner, where the lantern light bisected the darkness, she tucked my elbow against her side as if I might try to escape. “The jailhouse is but a few blocks this direction.”

  I let her lead me even though I knew the way all too well; it was exactly where I had last seen Miles Rawley. As we neared the jail I caught sight of his gorgeous silver horse tethered to the hitching post alongside another. Oblong patches of light spilled forth from the windows of the small wooden structure. The deep, muffled sound of men speaking reached our ears through the walls; it was clear the marshal and at least one other man were inside. My feet stalled. All I’d really wanted this evening was to visit Branch and Axton, and ride my horse. A dizzy rush blurred my vision and I clung to Patricia Yancy’s arm.

  Patricia spared not a second for hesitation before sweeping inside the jailhouse like she owned the place, though from what I’d learned in recent gossip her father-in-law owned most of the town. Perhaps this building was indeed her property, by default.

  “Gentlemen,” she greeted, with no appreciable loss of composure.

  Whatever conversation we’d interrupted came to a screeching halt. I could hardly contain my writhing embarrassment as the marshal looked up in obvious surprise. He sat behind a large wooden desk, hatless and smoking a cigar, his thick black hair loose and hanging past his shoulders, his bootheels resting on the gleaming surface of the desk. An ashtray was balanced on his lap. Another man sat in an adjacent chair, holding a tin plate full of food, which he’d been busy eating. I watched as his hand, holding a fork, slowly lowered toward his lap.

  The marshal recovered his power of speech. “Mistress Yancy, good evening.” His eyes moved past her and then his boots hit the ground. His chair rocked backward as he stood, almost losing the ashtray in the process. “Ruthann. You’ve been hurt.”

  At these words, Patricia turned to examine my face. In the lantern-lit space of the jailhouse, which contained two barred cells, both currently empty, she affirmed, “You are bleeding.”

  “Miles,” said the man who’d been eating, tossing a cloth napkin toward the marshal, which Miles caught as he strode around the desk.

  Patricia stepped to the side; I did my best not to retreat as the marshal approached, intense eyes fixed upon me. He clasped my right shoulder, gently pressing the folded material to my forehead. When it became apparent he intended to hold it in place, I reached up to take the cloth from him, muttering, “Thank you…”

  He ordered, “Come, be seated.”

  He led me to the only free chair in the room. I was so flustered I’d hardly taken the time to notice the second man, who set aside his plate and stood to his full height; Patricia stationed herself near the desk, hands clasped at her waist.

  The marshal knelt in front of me. “What has happened?”

  I felt foolish and tongue-tied as I sat holding the cloth to my bleeding forehead. Without his hat the marshal appeared younger and somewhat less imposing. His obvious concern set my blood churning. In such close proximity to him my breath was shallow and try as I might, I could not force aside the insanity of the images which had plagued me since the day we met – those of making incredible, passionate love with him, but not exactly him. His skin was darkly tanned, as though he spent every daylight hour outside. He appeared stern just now, frowning, his dark eyebrows pulled low. His nose was long and knife-edged, his eyes walnut-brown and fixed on mine.

  As though sensing I needed her, Patricia answered. “I brought Miss Rawley here because she was attacked. A man followed her from Rilla’s place and accosted her in the adjacent alley.”

  The marshal demanded harshly, “What man? When was this?”

  “Not a quarter-hour ago,” Patricia said.

  “Where is he now?” asked the other man. He spoke with controlled ire, shoulders tensing; he had the look of someone who could hold his own in any fight, tall and solidly-built, sunburnt to a deep tan like the marshal. His hair was a beautiful shade of auburn, much like Axton’s. A pistol was strapped in a leather gun belt around his hips. He and Miles exchanged a quick look, the kind which speaks volumes, in the way of longtime friends.

  “He remains in the alley where we left him,” Patricia said. “Come, I shall show you.”

  “I thank you for the offer but I know the place.” Miles turned back to me. He rested his fingertips to my elbow in a touch both brief and gentle. “Remain here, if you would.” At my nod, he stood and issued brisk orders. “Cole, keep watch. Mrs. Yancy, you will also remain here for the time being. I will return directly.” And he disappeared into the night.

  Patricia hurried to my side, her skirts brushing Cole’s boots as she walked past him. Even though we’d just met I could tell Patricia was flustered; she drew a chair, the one Cole had vacated, closer to mine and perched on its edge, observing softly, “You’re trembling. You are chilled.”

  Cole grabbed the jacket draped over the back of the marshal’s chair and arranged it around my shoulders. At once I was inundated with the feeling of the man who owned this jacket, a man I had enough trouble keeping from my mind; Miles’s jacket smelled of cigar smoke, and of him. There was no other way to describe it. My heart lurched and I felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to lift the collar to my nose, to better inhale the scent trapped in the lightweight material.

  You’re crazy, I told myself.

  “Thank you,” I said to Cole, who crouched on my opposite side so I was between him and Patricia. Though Cole looked like he could wallop anyone’s ass he chose there was an aura of ease about him; I sensed he was a man accustomed to being around women.

  He replied, “It’s nothing.”

  Patricia was studying Cole; she spoke in the somber tone of someone confessing a secret. “I saw you this morning.”

  “I saw you as well.” He shifted position, forearms to thighs. Their gazes held.

  Able to find a moment of calm, I marveled in silence at Patricia’s beauty, which I hadn’t noticed in the past chaotic hour. She appeared, to my eyes anyway, much too young to be a married woman. There was an honesty to her face, a sense of someone unable to keep secrets well and who probably spoke her mind; I’d already had a taste of that. Her features were delicate in contrast to a voluptuous mouth; her lashes were long and charcoal-black, framing blue eyes so deep and captivating I found it difficult not to stare. Cole seemed to be experiencing a similar difficulty.

  “You are the man who used to ride with the marshal.” Her tone indicated she knew mor
e about Cole than she was currently admitting.

  “I am,” Cole replied without hesitation, but I could tell he wondered just what she was implying, if anything.

  Patricia broke the intensity of their gazes and came close to babbling as she explained to me, “My father-in-law wishes to build a house in this area. He roamed the western lands for some time before making his fortune near here, in a silver mine. I spent the past spring in Chicago listening to talk of the wild Montana Territory and its many charms. I insisted upon being allowed to visit in the summer months.”

  “What of your husband?” Cole asked, with an undercurrent of something I couldn’t quite interpret; something dark.

  Patricia busied herself fussing with a silver button on her waist; keeping her gaze lowered, she said, “Dredd has no wish to leave Chicago. He shall only venture here under duress.” She braved a look at me. “By ‘duress’ I mean his father, of course.”

  “The Yancys are nothing but lowdown cowards and criminals,” Cole said then, with thinly-disguised heat. My eyes darted his way. The set of his features dared Patricia to disagree.

  “They are my husband’s family,” Patricia countered, and her chin lifted. “I shall thank you to recall this fact and apologize.”

  “That doesn’t change a goddamn thing,” Cole said, not sounding the least apologetic. “They’re still criminals. Your husband’s brother, Fallon, should have been at the end of a hanging rope years ago. He’s too well-protected now, the weasel-faced bastard…”

  A hot flush spread over Patricia’s face and bloomed down the neck of her dress. Her lips dropped open and I thought she was too shocked to reply. But she squared her shoulders and snapped, “Mr. Spicer, how dare you suggest that I –”