by Lucy Inglis
Hope nodded, stomach rumbling. She really did want something to eat, and went down to the kitchen just before the hour was up. There, Caleb was looking freshened up and had a beer wrapped in his hand. Meredith was sitting at a stool at the counter, holding a glass of white wine. Dinner was spread out on the dining table.
‘I’m afraid this is it, as Mom’s still with my aunt in Kalispell,’ Cal said.
‘This looks perfect, thank you,’ said Meredith.
‘Some cook, my son here. He’ll make someone a great wife one day,’ Caleb joked.
Cal rolled his eyes while Meredith’s mouth set like a steel trap.
‘I made you some pasta to go along with it,’ he said to Hope, ‘because vegetarians get short-changed.’
‘As I said in my email, Hope’s a picky eater,’ Meredith said.
Hope gripped her fork, white-knuckled, but said nothing. In front of them was a meatloaf, buttered jacket potatoes, a salad and a bowl of pasta with what looked like pesto. Hope took a jacket potato and some salad. And some pasta.
‘You usually like just pasta,’ Meredith said, looking at her plate.
Hope put the spoon back in the bowl, slowly. ‘I can have seconds if I want to.’
‘You sure can,’ Cal’s father said. ‘Get the little lady a glass of wine, son. If she wants one.’
‘Yes pl—’
‘No. Hope won’t have any. And Mr Crow, Caleb, might I insist that just as you have a name, my daughter, Hope, also has a name.’
Cal had already stood up. Hope’s eyes flickered to his, and held. He hesitated, then sat back down, still looking at her.
‘Oh well, sure. Didn’t mean nothing by it.’ His father began to make stilted conversation about Meredith’s research.
Hope picked miserably at her food, appetite gone. The Crows ate a lot, helping themselves to more, listening attentively to Meredith.
‘Considering how vast swathes of Montana have suffered so terribly with the pollution from mining, the ranch is a remarkable survival story.’
Cal’s father nodded. ‘The problems are more down Butte way, but yes, this state has got more than its fair share of troubles because of mining. Then again, a lot of Montana was built on mining, so that’s a snake eating its own tail.’
Hope’s phone chimed in her pocket. She pulled it out, wondering who would be texting her in the early hours from England. The message displayed on the screen. She shoved the phone back into her jeans.
‘Who was that?’ Meredith’s voice was sharp.
‘No one.’
‘No one doesn’t text you at three in the morning.’
Hope studied her plate. ‘It’s just one of those welcome to a foreign country messages.’
Meredith stood up and held out her hand. ‘Give it to me.’
‘Honestly. They’re just reminding me to make sure my data roaming is turned off. Which it is.’
‘Give.’
Hope put the phone into her mother’s hand. When Meredith finally spoke, her voice was thick with emotion.
‘You told me you didn’t have any contact with him.’
‘I don’t. Much. He’s having a break on a night shoot and was trying to make sure we got here safely.’
Meredith’s voice rose. ‘A night shoot? For this ridiculous detective thing? And you told him we were coming here? When?’
‘He emailed.’
‘Emailed? How does he have your address?’
Hope hesitated. ‘James messaged me.’ James was the eldest of Hope’s half-brothers. There was only three months between them. The row was escalating, and there seemed to be nothing at all Hope could do about it.
‘Messaged you how?’
Biting her lip, Hope cringed. ‘On Facebook.’
‘Facebook? We agreed social media wasn’t healthy.’
Hope’s fingers tightened around her fork, white-knuckled. ‘No. You told me it wasn’t. The way you tell me what to do all the time.’
Meredith’s volume rose again. ‘Only to protect you. That’s all.’
‘I don’t need protecting from your problems with what he did to us. I need a life of my own,’ Hope flat-out yelled back.
‘How could you? After everything? How could you betray me like this?’ Tears glittered in Meredith’s eyes.
Hope pushed up from the table and headed for the door to the terrace, almost blinded by her own tears. She felt sick and dizzy. The bluff in front of her spun as her knees gave out and the hard wooden decking came up to meet her.
I have no idea for how long I was unconscious. The carriage had shattered on impact, leaving me lying upon a large piece of padded seating, which had apparently saved my life. The only thing I could see clearly were the four huge brown mounds of the horses, nearby. Flies were already gathering over their corpses. A crow perched on the head of the closest one, and began to feast on the animal’s eye. Bile rose in my throat. That would soon be my fate, if I didn’t get up.
I tried. Part of the coach siding was pinning me across the chest. Every bone in my body felt broken and the back of my head was a sticky mess of agony. Even lifting my hands to push at the weight on my chest hurt beyond bearing. I lay back on the dusty stones, which pushed the stay-bones into my ribs to the point of breaking. From the corner of my eye, I could see a deathly still mass of crumpled skirt and crinoline, the dull mauve colour of Miss Adams’s dress. There was an intolerable roaring in my ears. I shook my head a little to clear it, wincing at the pain in my neck.
The wind had picked up, blowing dust over me. At the edge of my vision, I could see the trees on the unreached side of the bridge stirring. The crows began to gather. The one pecking at the horse’s face now had strings of gore hanging from its beak. Tears clouded my vision. Was I to die out here? No one would miss me for weeks, possibly longer, for we weren’t to reach a telegraph station allowing Mr Goldsmith to advise of our progress until we had left Montana and got to Spokane. Panic rose in my chest and I felt suffocated by the weight of the wreckage and my tight stays. A tear leaked from the corner of my eye, cutting a track in the grit on my face.
I pushed again at the debris but it wouldn’t shift. Another tear.
My voice wouldn’t work. And who would hear me? We hadn’t seen a living soul since last night’s trading post. The roaring in my ears was becoming louder. I swallowed repeatedly to try and lessen it. Then stopped. The roaring wasn’t in my ears; it was coming, seemingly, from miles away. My side was suddenly chilled. The cold spread beneath my hips, under my legs and into my shoes. Water was swirling through my hair . . .
The glacier spring melt! I was going to drown. The racket of the crows increased as they saw the possibility that their opportunistic meal might be lost. More gathered on the corpses of the horses. From another part of the wreckage, I saw one land on the sleeve of Mr Goldsmith’s greatcoat, his dusty hand lying palm up. There came a groan from somewhere.
‘Hello?’ My voice was scarcely a whisper. ‘Are you there? I’m so sorry but I can’t move.’ No answer. I found my voice suddenly, raising it for the first time in my life; it tore out of me in desperate horror and panic.
‘HELP. Somebody, please!’ My scream echoed around the gulch, dying out slowly.
The crows, which had taken to the wing at my cries, began to settle. One landed perhaps ten feet away, near where I lay. We watched each other, its beady eye upon my wet ones. It hopped closer, wings spreading for balance, like an old lawyer in a black gown. It was no more than a couple of feet away now. I scrabbled a handful of tiny pebbles and flung them at it. The bird lifted two feet into the air, then came down fractionally closer. I threw more stones. It repeated the action. My movements were weakening. The cold was dulling me. And everything hurt so much. The crow hopped on to a boulder by my head. I tried to push it away. Instead, my hand fell with a splash into the water. It lifted into the air and landed on my chest, wings spread; its beak opened and closed with a clack. It dipped towards my eye.
And exploded in a
cloud of feathers, splattering my face with blood.
Through the ringing in my ears I heard hooves picking their way through the water. Gun in hand, you swung yourself down in the graceful vault I had witnessed days ago in Helena, landing with a splash, weight on your left leg, then stooped and lifted the piece of coach siding from me, casting it to one side and surveying the wreckage.
‘Please, I . . . will you help me?’
You just watched.
‘The others . . .’
You looked around, at the horses first. Further away, I could see now, one of them was still alive and struggling feebly, legs horribly broken. You ran a hand over its wet face, steadying it, speaking to it for a few seconds before standing and shooting it in the head. Its broken legs jerked frantically, then were still. Only then did you look for the other travellers.
Water trickled over my neck in an icy thread. It was rising fast and your trousers were soaked up to the knees as you walked around, soft boots sodden. Panic was compressing my chest worse than the wreckage. I began to wonder if perhaps you were one of the road agents Mr Goldsmith had told me about, and if you were more interested in our belongings, now scattered over a wide area and rapidly washing away. You walked past me to the place where I thought the teamster lay. Nudging him with your boot, you watched for a reaction. You turned his face from side to side and pressed your hand to his neck. Straightening, you clicked something on the rifle and shot him, right there on the river bed. I tried to rise and run. How had I been saved from the fall only to die at the hands of a looter? My legs gave out and I fell clumsily into the shallow water on my back.
You came back and crouched next to me, elbows on your thighs, hands hanging slack in between. My teeth were chattering with fear and the glacial meltwater. I tried to push myself upwards, but the agony, and the strictures of the corset, sent me splashing back into the wet. You were still looking at me, your strange pale eyes unreadable. I felt the beginnings of a faint coming on. My vision darkening, my chest tight, I couldn’t hear anything at all. I reached up, trying to take your hand, but your fingers slipped out of mine and I knew no more.
Sometime later, I woke. Behind my eyes, a pulse thudded. I blinked, things taking time to come into focus. Above me, faded whitewashed planks formed a pitched roof. My left thigh hurt and a cool breeze washed over my body, smelling of pine and flowers. I shivered. Beneath my back was a soft mattress, and my hands rested on my ribs over the thin linen chemise I’d put on in Fort Shaw.
I thought back, brain fumbling, trying to piece together the jumbled memories in my mind. Row upon row of tents in Fort Shaw. Indians. Soldiers. Campfires. Miss Adams in my room. Mr Goldsmith’s rough hand on my elbow. The rumble of the wheels. The bridge giving way, the coach slipping, smashing, everything tumbling around inside. Black.
I tried to look around. The room was made of the same whitewashed wood. Beyond the open window, I could see blue studded with fluffy white and the smell of green, but only that. A noise somewhere: wind through the trees or maybe water rushing. I swallowed, summoning moisture to my mouth, making my head spin. I breathed in and out slowly. How long had it been? Where was I?
A fly landed on my cheek and I tried to lift a hand to brush it away, but couldn’t. I turned my head, wincing, and saw a canvas strap tied around each wrist. I panicked. Incoherent pleading crowded my throat.
A door banged and someone walked into the room.
‘Hey.’ You pushed the dirty hair from my face.
‘Cold,’ I stuttered, not really sure I was cold. Was it just that I was wearing only a thin underdress? With relief, I realized the stays had gone and I could breathe freely for what felt like the first time in many months.
You took a blanket, laying it over me. I strained against the straps around my wrists, drawing my knees up. You put a hand on the bed to one side of my waist, the other testing the heat of my forehead, face and throat, lifting an eyelid. It was the closest I’d ever been to a man, even my father.
I tried to swallow again. To speak. You held a tin cup to my mouth, the other hand cradling my sore head as I gulped.
‘Too fast.’ You took it away.
The liquid trickled through my chest, cool and fresh. ‘Did I do something wrong?’
You shook your head. ‘Thought it better if you were out of it for the journey, but the drugs made you restless. Kept on trying to get up and falling. Seen it before, so I thought this would just keep you still for a little while. Do you hurt?’
I pulled against the straps. ‘Yes. Everything aches.’
‘You were lucky.’ Your hand slipped behind my head as you offered the cup again. ‘Slowly.’
I drank, pulling in cautious sips. As I did, I tried to look up, to see you, but all I saw was a dark head, a shirt that might have been blue once, now grey, with the sleeves rolled up over dirt-brown arms.
You let my head go and it fell back on to the pillow, puffing up the smell of clean linen as the darkness claimed me again.
When I came to, it was morning. My eyelids snapped up. The window was still open but there was an acrid smell in the fresh air. I wriggled, feeling wetness. Beneath me there was a towel and layers of linen on an oilcloth, all wet. Every nerve recoiled. My hands wouldn’t reach my face. I couldn’t call for you. Was there a woman who could help me? Did you have a wife or a sister? Where was I?
Then you were there. I began to cry hot tears of humiliation. You rubbed a hand through your already tousled hair. ‘Had to happen sometime.’
I cried harder. ‘Not to me.’
‘We all think that. Until it does.’ For a few minutes, you disappeared and I lay, distressed at the idea you would leave me like this. Then you returned, the straps gave and you looped my arm over your neck before carrying me outside on to a porch. You dunked me in a wooden tub that stood to the right of the door. I cried out as I hit the cold water, and the white linen dress floated up in the narrow spaces around me.
You straightened, watching me cower from you. ‘Ain’t gonna get clean sitting like that.’
‘What about the others?’ I couldn’t be alone with you, surely?
‘All dead. Just you left.’
‘You killed that man, the teamster.’
You ran your fingers down the edge of your jaw. ‘He was more broke than a body can take. Figured it was kinder than leaving him to drown.’
‘But you shot him. Just like you shot the horse.’
‘Yeah, well, I ain’t much for watching things suffer.’
‘Would you have done that to me?’ My teeth were chattering with fear and cold.
There was a silence. ‘Lucky for us, we didn’t have to decide.’ You went inside, leaving me sitting in the water, cold and terrified.
The only sound was the birdsong and the wind. I looked down at myself. My underdress was not only soiled, it was filthy with perspiration and dirt. Leaves and mud clung to it in places. Disgusted, I pulled it over my head, wincing at the pain in my arms as I dropped it into a sopping pile on the planks.
A moment later you returned, silent in your soft boots, with a bar of strong-smelling soap and a bottle of liquid, placing them on a stool by the tub. Surprised by your sudden appearance, I hugged myself away from you.
‘There’s some fancy hair soap in that. Last tenants left it behind.’ With that, you disappeared again, just as quietly.
I blinked, trying to focus. We were on the side of a mountain, grassy tufts rolling away from the front of the cabin down to a thick stand of trees. Beyond was a vast and sparkling lake. As far as I could see were only more rocks, trees and dramatic black and white-capped mountains. I was so far from anything I had ever known.
Picking up the soap I began to wash, arms agony. Shuffling out of my drawers beneath the water, I hesitated, then dropped them on to the wet pile. My concepts of modesty were being abraded rapidly. Naked in the tub, my left thigh was one enormous bruise, black and yellowing. How long had it really been? You came back, clattering loudly by the doo
rway. I pulled my arms to my chest, crouching over my knees. Mama had told me many times that I should never let anyone see me naked.
You hunkered down by the tub. Your untidy dark hair fell into your face and you hadn’t shaved for a few days. But your most remarkable feature was your clear, startling eyes of palest grey, almost silver. You reached over and picked up an enamel jug. ‘Eyes closed.’
I obeyed and you tipped the water over my head, your hand against my forehead to guide the stream away from my face. You were trying to be kind. When you handed me the bottle of soap I couldn’t even unscrew the thin metal lid, my hands trembling and useless, so you took it from me and did it, pouring some into your palm and starting to wash my hair. I had no choice but to let you. The soap smelt of flowers. Your hands were gentle but I winced as you worked, the bump on my head and strained neck protesting. I drew in a sharp breath and your touch lightened further.
You opened the spigot that sat at the side of the tub and water ran from it. ‘Can you get under there?’
I hunched beneath it, yelping in shock at the cold liquid racing down my spine. We rinsed my hair until it was clean. Then you examined the cut on my head. It felt sore and the flesh around it a little spongy. I felt your fingers grazing the scabbed welt beneath my shoulder blade.
‘Looks like you’ve had this one a while.’
I tried to pull away, wanting you to stop touching. It was wrong and my head was too crowded and everything ached so much. The mark on my back seemed trivial. ‘It’s from the stays. The ends of the bones rub. It became worse with the travelling.’
You made a careful square around the sore with the tip of your finger. ‘That contraption did this? You know that ain’t right?’
‘It’s good for posture,’ I managed to say.
‘Good for nothing now. Had to cut you out of it. Used it for kindling when we got back.’ You put thin, creased towels on the stool. ‘You can manage?’
I nodded. You left. Truly, I was not sure at all that I could manage for I felt horribly unsteady on my feet as I tried to rise, and sat back with a bump and a splash. Gritting my teeth, I managed to reach the rough bench standing against the cabin wall.
