by J. T. Marie
The mirror above the dresser is cloudy, and it reflects back the lamp light in a yellow haze. Behind the light, I look ghostly in the darkened room. There’s another lantern by the bed, which I’ll light shortly, but for the moment I’m content to stare at my reflection in the dim glow.
Why did Miss Lucille stop to speak with me? Maddy’s casual attention is nothing new—she’s been trying to bed me since I came into town, partly because she beds all the men in Junction and partly because I think I’m the first to ever tell her no. But Miss Lucille isn’t that sort of woman. A lady of her status shouldn’t have any reason to speak to someone like me.
Or, rather, someone she thinks me to be.
I take off my hat and hand it from the bedpost, then shrug out of my light duster jacket. Slowly I unbutton my shirt. I take it off, fold it onto a nearby chair, then unbuckle my dungarees and step out of them. They, too, are folded and set aside. In my underwear, I turn back to face my reflection, and in the faint glow of the lantern, where a man had stood moments before now stands a woman.
My breasts are small and pert, easily hid beneath my baggy shirts. My torso is blocky, my hips narrow, my overall shape androgynous. I pass for a man easily enough. But there’s no bulky cock straining the front of my dainty panties, and when I pull up my undershirt, twin nipples stick out at me from atop small mounds of flesh. I cup my breasts in my hands and squeeze, then gasp as I close my eyes against a sudden rush of sensation. The space between my legs grows moist and my clit aches. In my mind’s eye, I see Miss Lucille smiling down at me and I bite my bottom lip to keep from moaning her name.
Nat Allen, indeed. What would Miss Lucille or Maddy have to say if they knew Nat stands for Natalie?
Chapter 4
In the morning while I’m getting dressed, movement in the mirror behind me catches my attention and I watch the door knob turn slowly, almost as if someone hopes to sneak into my room.
Then the door shudders when whoever it is on the other side tries to push it open, and out in the hallway, a man grunts. Quickly I button my shirt, tucking it into my dungarees, then I buckle my belt into place. Grabbing my hat off the bed post, I pocket the change on my dresser and hurry to the door. I press my ear against it, listening, but whoever was there is silent, or has moved on.
Cautiously I unlock the door and inch it open. The hall beyond is empty.
I have a key for the door, which Miss Barbour gave me when I first moved in, but I’ve never used it before. I only lock up my room at night, so no one can sneak in on me while I sleep. During the day, there’s no one lingering around Junction—they’re all at the train depot, or at the BDT ranch, and the only one who might possibly come in is Miss Barbour to tidy up the place. She opens my curtains every morning; I don’t bother.
No one’s ever tried to enter my room before, at least not with me still inside it. The only person I can think of who might bother is Charlie Barbour. Though all the money I have is tucked into the front pocket of my pants, I don’t want him snooping around when I’m at work, so I lock the door behind me as I leave. Halfway down the stairs, I hear a young man’s voice drifting out from the parlor. “Why’s he lock his door anyway, Aunt Nance?”
“None of your business,” I hear Miss Barbour say.
I follow her voice into the parlor. Charlie sprawls on the sofa, his back to me, his hair slicked back and dark with oil. He wears a light-colored shirt and gray flannel pants, probably the best outfit he owns, and the matching jacket hangs over the arm of the sofa. Miss Barbour is dusting the framed pictures above her mantle, her small mouth folded tightly between her hawkish nose and double chin.
“You leave my boarders alone,” she says with a sniff of disapproval. “I can’t turn you away because you’re kin, but I won’t have you scaring off a good man like Mr. Allen with your nonsense.”
“I just want to know why the door’s locked,” Charlie persists.
From behind him, I say, “To keep your thieving hands off my personals.”
He turns quickly, the tips of his ears reddening with embarrassment. “I wasn’t—”
“Yeah, right.” I glare at him until he can’t hold my gaze any longer and has to look away. I’ve met him a time or two before, always when he came around sniffing for money from his aunt, and though I don’t know him, I know enough to know I don’t like him. He’s soft and flabby and pale, with shifty eyes and a wheedling way of talking that always sounds like he’s trying to get away with something. I knew men like him back east—long ago, when I was just a kid, my father made plans to marry me off to one. I left Philadelphia to get away from men like Charlie. I no longer have to deal with them if I don’t want to.
From the mantle, Miss Barbour says, “I’m sorry if Charlie disturbed you this morning, Mr. Allen. He’s only in town for a few days. I’ll see to it he doesn’t bother you again.”
“No bother, ma’am,” I assure her. To him, I add, “If you’re looking for work, I’m sure Boss Daddy will hire you on for a day or two. Stables always need mucking, and I’m sure you’re good at shoveling shit.”
He barely glances my way. “I’m not looking for work.”
“No, I guess you’re not.” With that, I raise my hat and bow slightly before I leave. “Oh, Miss Barbour, I’m going to keep my door locked for the next few days, if it’s all right with you.”
She nods, but as I turn to leave, I see the angry look she shoots Charlie’s way and have to suppress a grin. He can’t get out of Junction soon enough for me.
Chapter 5
I wasn’t lying about the stables—Boss Daddy has eighteen horses his ranch hands use to traverse his acreage. With thousands of head of cattle grazing on his land, Boss Daddy needs all the horses he can get, and he owns more than anyone else for miles around. Hell, he owns everything else; there are no other cattle barons for hundreds of miles in any direction from Junction, no ranchers, no one who isn’t somehow connected to the BDT ranch. With more than two dozen men in his employ, Boss Daddy has more than enough work for us all, and he wouldn’t turn away an extra man for a day’s worth of work.
Though somehow I don’t think Charlie knows the meaning of the word.
The stables need to be mucked out daily, and because it’s a demoralizing job, it’s doled out among the ranch hands equally. Every day someone different is in charge of cleaning the stables, and with so many men employed, each of us only draws the short end of the stick once a month. I really wouldn’t have minded if Charlie did come out to see about work, because today’s my day for cleaning up horseshit.
The morning is still a little dark when I leave Miss Barbour’s, but by the time I reach the ranch, the sun has peeked over the mountains to the east, casting the dry grass and hard-packed sands in pastel shades. Quartz winks in the first rays of light, and I kick at the rocks as I head for the archway that fronts the main house. It’s a wrought-iron monstrosity with the ornate initials BDT curling above my head. BDT; Boss Daddy Tate. I’ve heard it rumored that the B and the D stand for his real first and middle names, but no one seems to recall what they might be. He’s been Boss Daddy to everyone for thirty years or more, and his signature is an indecipherable scrawl. He was Boss Daddy long before Lucille came along, even. No one seems to know where the name came from, but he wears it proudly.
I avoid the main house and head around to the back. Men loll around the bunkhouse porch, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes or nibbling on biscuits left over from breakfast. A few play cards near the water pump, where the sun has thrown back the shadows. Farther down Paco faces the bunkhouse, one hand on the siding, the other holding his dick as he relieves himself. Chavez is nowhere in sight. Neither is Boss Daddy, but then again, he rarely leaves the main house before noon.
“Nat!” someone hollers in greeting, and a few others call out to me, too. Someone neighs—they all know it’s my turn at the stables, and everyone has a good-natured laugh about that. Tomorrow I’ll laugh with them, when I’ll be a month away from shoveling shit
again.
Coming up to the bunkhouse, I put one foot on the steps leading up the porch and lean back against the railing. “How’s Maddy?” Henry Mann asks, tossing his cigarette to the ground. A fellow beside him guffaws and elbows Henry in the ribs. A slick grin crosses Henry’s young face. “That’s why you go back to town every night, innit?”
“If I could afford Maddy every night,” I tell him, and all the others listening in, “I’d be owning this damn ranch, not mucking out the stalls.”
More laughter. “But you saw her, right?” another cowboy calls out. He’s the youngest of the lot, the newest hire, too, and blows his pay on Maddy every two weeks at Stubs’ like clockwork. His pimply face reddens just talking about her. I wonder if he manages to hold his own when he’s with her, or if he creams his pants every time she looks his way. Now he hounds me. “Nat, did she mention me?”
I shake my head and grin. “Nah, Jonesy—oh, wait, yeah, she did say something.” He leans in, all ears, but I can tell from the way his friends smirk that they know what’s coming. “She said your momma said hi.”
The others start sniggering, but Jonesy doesn’t get it. “My momma?” he squeaks.
“Yeah, you heard Stubs hired another girl for the saloon, right?” I try to keep a straight face but can’t. “Maddy and your momma take turns servicing the cowboys.”
Now laughter erupts. “I had her last night!” someone yells, and another cries, “She liked me best!”
Jonesy’s face darkens. “You take that back, Nat Allen!” When I join in the laughter, he tries to push his way through the guys around him to get to me. “That’s my momma you’re talking about! You take that back!”
The cowboys don’t move, though; they push and shove at him, still chuckling. Jonesy only reddens more, flushing a dark, ugly color that makes the pimples on his cheeks and forehead stand out like white dots. When he can’t get to the steps, he vaults over the porch railing and lands badly on his ankle, but he barely seems to notice. Instead he launches himself at me, hands reaching for my neck. “You take that back!”
I duck under his arm and come up behind him. A well-placed foot in front of his leg sends him sprawling, but he grabs the back of my duster jacket and pulls me down with him. I kick out, sending a foot into his thigh, then elbow him in the neck, but he holds on tight. With a shrug, I free myself from my duster and feel his weight slip away as the jacket falls off my arms. Jonesy lunges for my legs, but I scramble away. Then he lands one well-placed kick at my ass that sends me sprawling face down in the dirt, and it’s on.
Around us the ranch hands cheer us on. Grabbing fistfuls of dust, I whirl and pounce on Jonesy as he tries to sit up. One of my fists catches him under the jaw; the other pounds his temple and sends him reeling back. His hands flail at my shirt, seeking purchase, but I hit him again, knocking him away, and I’d go at him again if someone behind me doesn’t catch my wrist.
I glare over my shoulder at Paco, whose pants are still unbuttoned at the crotch. “Ease up a little, pibe,” he mutters. “Chavez is coming, si?”
Behind Paco, I see our foreman hurrying over from the stables and I let myself be hauled to my feet. Someone helps Jonesy stand, too. By the time Chavez reaches us, winded and panting, we’re both standing like truant boys, hands behind our backs, heads down, ready for punishment.
“Madre di Dios,” Chavez gasps. “What’s worth fighting over this damn early, anyway? Nat?”
I sort of shrug but don’t respond. There isn’t anything worse that can happen to me than stable duty, except maybe being sent home without pay. I need every dollar I earn if I want to keep my room at Miss Barbour’s, so I wisely keep my mouth shut.
When I don’t answer, Chavez turns to Jonesy. “Well?”
“He was talking bad about my momma,” Jonesy mutters under his breath.
Chavez glowers at him. “So you got to fight? If I say your momma’s good in the hay, are you going to hit me, too?”
Jonesy’s face colors again but he shakes his head.
“They’re just ribbing you, chico,” Chavez says. He reaches out an arm as if to drape it companionably around Jonesy’s shoulders, and for a moment the younger man seems to relax. At the last minute, though, Chavez smacks the back of Jonesy’s head hard with his open palm. “Stupido. Don’t you know they just want to see you get mad? Paco should’ve let Nat beat some sense into you. Now saddle up. We got cattle to tend. Nat…”
“Stables, I know,” I say. Then, just to prove I’m the better man, I add, “Sorry, kid. Maddy didn’t say anything about your momma. I’m not even sure she knows who you are, anyway.”
Jonesy glares at me, but before he can move in my direction, Chavez grabs his collar and pulls him away. “Cállate,” Chavez warns.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying anything more.
Chapter 6
After the others ride out to tend to the cattle, I’m left with a stable empty of horses but full of shit. I spend an hour hauling out the soiled hay, then wash down the stalls as best I can. The work is dirty and tedious, but it isn’t hard, and the repetitive motions leave my mind free to drift. I don’t need to concentrate to clean.
The fight this morning doesn’t bother me, nor does my verbal sparring with Charlie earlier. Ever since I first cut my hair short and pulled on a pair of dungarees, I’ve managed to pass myself off as a man without difficulty. My childhood back east seems like it belonged to someone else—a sister, perhaps, or a girl I once knew. Not me.
I was one of four daughters, second eldest born to a dentist in Philadelphia. My mother died during childbirth when I was ten, but my father remarried so quickly, my youngest sister never realized the woman she called Mother wasn’t really hers. I never took to the new wife—that’s what I called her, “the new wife,” not Mrs. Mary like she asked, and never Mother like she wanted. From day one, the new wife and I didn’t quite get along. She felt it unbecoming of a young lady my age to splash in mud puddles and climb trees. I was forced to wear starched dresses and curl my hair, and I could no longer look a boy directly in the eyes.
I didn’t understand why not. How else could I assert my dominance among my playmates if I couldn’t stare them down? More than once, I’d won a fight against a neighborhood bully with nothing more than a mean glare and a jutting jaw. When that didn’t work, I was quick on my feet, and my fists packed a hard punch. I could brawl with the best of them—the worst, too—and the new wife hated when I come home in a soiled and torn dress. I overheard her tell my father I was more boy than girl, which I think she meant in a bad way, though I didn’t see why.
My father was a busy man. He ran his own practice and also taught students of dentistry. On weekends, he made the rounds among the prisons and poor houses, and even visited a few local Amish farms to ply his trade. He was rarely home, and the reason he remarried so quickly after my mother passed was simple. He needed someone to look after his daughters. Caitlyn was two years older than me and ready to enter society; she needed a woman’s help navigating Sunday teas and evening cotillions and marriage proposals. Victoria was three years my junior and still needed a nanny, as well as someone who could teach her rudimentary reading and household arithmetic. And Elisabeth, the baby, could do nothing on her own yet.
And then there was me.
I made the new wife’s life with us a living hell. She made me wear dresses and, in retaliation, I tore and muddied them beyond repair. She curled and pinned my hair; I tore out the ribbons and let it flow wild down my back. She insisted I sit and eat daintily, “like a lady,” she said. The most hated phrase I had ever heard in my life. I sprawled on the floor, flounced on sofas, splayed my legs over the arms of chairs, and ate with both hands like a monkey in a zoo. I hadn’t asked to be born female, and as far as I was concerned, no one could make me conform to whatever silly notions were relegated to the weaker sex.
Weaker, eh? I could beat any boy my age in arm wrestling, tree climbing, jumping, running, fishing, lifti
ng…anything they did, I could do better. My mother had never seen any problem with my tomboyish behavior. The new wife would have to learn the hard way that she wouldn’t change me.
When I overheard her comment to my father, I thought maybe she was close to conceding defeat. But I didn’t even manage a grin in victory before I heard her add, “You should seriously consider sending Natalie to finishing school.”
No!
By then I was twelve, and I had put up with the new wife’s nonsense long enough. Finishing school was out of the question. I would poison myself before I let anyone make a lady out of me. I would die. I would run away…
Yes, exactly. I would run away.
My best friend at the time was a boy named Bernard, who lived two houses down. We were friends only because he was stronger than all the other kids in our neighborhood, except me. When I wrestled with Bernie, I had to really work to beat him, which meant he was strong. He was also good at keeping secrets, I knew, because he never told anyone it was me who had blackened his eye. That’s what he got for trying to kiss me, the idiot. He face swelled up and his eye wouldn’t even open for days. His mother thought he’d be blinded for life. “Who did this to you?” she’d screeched, loud enough that I could hear her from our back yard.
He never said. So I knew I could count on him in a jam.
