by Erin Bowman
This is why I’m a burden, a hindrance, a heel. This is why I ain’t a boss like Luther Rose.
The street that left the city has since turned into little more than a dusty trail cutting ’longside the creek. As I crest a small rise, the horse’s head hanging low, a homestead comes into view. Plain house, barn set nearby, massive mesquite growing out front. I think it’s the first since passing Fort Whipple, which means it matches Vaughn’s story.
Take a peek, Murphy, Boss whispers in my ear. What harm’ll it do if’n this residence ain’t that of the girl? At the very least, go steal yerself a strong mare from the barn and some bread from the kitchen, then move on. And if’n it’s the right place . . . if’n she knows who killed my brother . . .
I guide the horse from the trail and dismount. Walking slow, I approach the house. No one blows me to pieces. Nor does anyone come running when I put a toe to the door and push.
It swings in, creaking.
I draw Vaughn’s Colt from my waistband and step over the threshold. There’s hooks for coats immediately to the left, and some shelves holding books and photo albums. Opposite that is a modest kitchen, and straight ahead, two doors. I find a bedroom behind each, a half-finished cradle and wood shavings on the floor of the smaller. The whole place has fancy pine floorboards, but the kitchen hearth looks twice as weathered as the walls surrounding it. Coals from a morning fire are still putting off a bit of heat. I go ’bout scouring the cabinets, and sweet Lord, there’s bread in the breadbox. I scoff some down like a heathen, find a pitcher half full with water. I drink feverishly, then roll up my sleeves and wash in the dry sink. When I’m somewhat clean and starting to feel a little ill from how quickly I ate, I glance out the front window. It opens onto a nice view of the creek and the plains, the newly laid rail a dark scar as it cuts south into Prescott. The happy rifle salutes must be over, ’cus the world is hushed. If’n I listen real hard, I think I can catch a bit of cheering, but it prolly ain’t nothing but the wind.
It’s almost eerie, how quiet it is here. I ain’t that far from the city, but I’m very much alone.
Solitude, freedom—it’s what I wanted since steering the coach outta Wickenburg, and now it suddenly feels like a curse. I need to keep things this way, but every single person I cross could be a threat—a bounty hunter, a rival. I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to trust no one, least not for a few good years.
I wanna be Reece Murphy again. I wanna use my real name and have that be all right, but those cards ain’t in my future. Reece Murphy is the Rose Kid. They’re one and the same. I’m as vicious and unforgiving as Luther Rose, and at only half his age. That’s the person the world has made me.
I told you yer making a mistake, son. Now come back to where you belong. I got yer horse waiting.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, turning from the window. I pace the small kitchen for a few seconds, minutes, hours. I lose track of time trying to think up a plan. When I come outta a daze, none the wiser on where I should be heading, I find myself facing the wall of books. There’s more of ’em than I’ve ever seen in one home before—several shelves’ full. I run a finger over the spines. Little Women, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Moby-Dick, Around the World in Eighty Days, Pride and Prejudice . . .
I freeze at the end of the row. Stare.
A wedding photograph is on display within a simple wooden frame. The folks who own this claim, prolly. The man’s wearing a pair of Remingtons slung low on his hips, plus a fine suit and tie. He’s got an arm ’round his woman, and he ain’t on a horse or flicking me a coin, but there’s no mistaking him. It’s the cowboy. The very same who gave me that blasted coin. The stranger I ain’t never been able to point out to Boss. Three years on the plains, in and out of every town under the sun, and here he is in this commonplace farmhouse, staring back at me from a wedding photo.
There’s a creak on the stoop.
I spin. The woman from the picture is standing in the doorway, a Winchester rifle aimed at my head. Her dark eyes glare, focused on my face, then suddenly shine with recognition. She knows who I am. The dog at her heel—gray-muzzled and ancient—bares his teeth and snarls.
“You so much as blink too fast,” the woman says, sharpening her aim, “and I will put a bullet between yer eyes.”
I don’t know if she’s heard of the Rose Riders’ escape from Wickenburg or if Vaughn managed to alert folk at the railroad gala. But I do know this: the lady with the rifle has recognized me, and if I don’t wanna die, I’m gonna have to shoot a woman after all. Maybe I can get her in the leg or something—spare her the worst but buy myself a window to run.
It won’t be an easy draw, not like pulling a piece from a holster. The Colt’s tucked away in my waistband, and she’s already got that rifle pointed at me, the butt of it pressed into her shoulder, the barrel aimed at my chest.
And then—right as I’m seriously considering snatching the Colt and trying my luck anyhow—I see her belly. It’s big, bulging, full of life.
Goddammit, I can’t do it. I don’t got it in me. I think I really would rather die than draw on her.
“Yer kind deserves to rot in hell,” she says, glaring at me fierce.
“You gonna be the one to send me there?” I half pray she does. Maybe it’d be better for this to all be over. To just quit running. To close my eyes and not have to live like this no more.
“What’n the hell is that?” She jerks her chin at my forearm. The rose scar’s sitting there pretty, all clean of dirt and sweat from when I washed in her dry sink.
“You won’t believe me,” I say. “No one ever does.”
Something flickers over her face—sympathy, maybe. But it’s there and gone so fast, I’m certain I imagined it. Especially when she unloads a shot.
I flinch, but the lead flies past me, splintering the door of the bedroom to my rear.
She missed, but she coulda hit true. She’s only standing a few feet away. I twist back toward her, and that’s when the butt of her rifle comes flying at my face. There’s a crack—my nose breaking—and the world goes dark.
Chapter Seventeen
* * *
Charlotte
I inform Uncle Gerald about the Rose Kid and my need to speak with the sheriff, but he is woefully unconcerned about a bloodthirsty criminal roaming Prescott’s streets.
“I’d think something like that would be all over the wire,” he says, “and we have pressing business to see to at the house.”
Of course, lining his own pockets is more important to him than the well-being of the community.
We make haste for the family residence. It is an older property, built before the Victorian style of construction swept through Prescott—or rather, it was. When we pull up to the plot, the childhood home I remember is gone, replaced with a regal building that does not appear more than a few years old.
“What happened to—”
“Your uncle had it rebuilt,” Mother supplies. “He said the place was drafty and dank, and if he was to oversee your father’s affairs, he ought to do it from a proper headquarters.”
“But Father spent nearly every night at the mine. There’s no need for posh headquarters here.”
Mother simply nods in agreement. It’s only a half day’s ride in the saddle to Jerome, the mining community that’s home to the Gulch Mine and a few others. What Uncle Gerald is doing is preposterous. How he expects to maintain a rapport with the copper miners when he spends most of his time in Prescott escapes me. Theft and high grading stem from overworked and underappreciated miners, and Father at least recognized this.
“This must have cost a fortune,” I say, peering at the steeply pitched roofline of the two-story house adorned with detailed trim work and bracketed eaves. A front porch with intricate spindles and columns frames a large bay window that overlooks the street. The only thing Uncle has saved is our old barn, which stands behind the new home looking dreary by comparison.
“Yes, Gerald certainly spends beyond his means,” Mother says bitterly.
The door to the carriage opens, and Uncle Gerald escorts us inside. We are quickly ushered through the foyer, past the sitting room, and into the study. A fire is blazing in the hearth, and the curtains are drawn, so the room is quilted in shadow. Uncle’s writing desk is littered with papers and ledgers, his glasses resting atop both.
Mother and I are instructed to sit in upholstered velvet chairs facing the desk. I’ve no sooner leaned into the backrest when a knock sounds at the door and Mr. Douglas enters.
“Ah, Barty, thank you for joining us,” Uncle says.
“Mr. Douglas,” I blurt out, “I need to speak with the sheriff. It’s of upmost importance that he knows—”
“Priorities first,” Uncle barks out, shuffling through the papers on his desk until he finds what he’s looking for and plucks it free. “The will,” he says, passing it to Mr. Douglas, who reads it over carefully—once, twice—then turns to Uncle.
“It seems all is in order. A pen, Gerald?”
Uncle supplies one. Mr. Douglas signs the document. And the men shake.
“Mr. Douglas?” Mother says, raising a hand, but he is already shrugging on his jacket. “Mr. Douglas!”
“Nice to see you again, Lillian,” he says, and strides from the office.
Mother and I stare at the door as it swings shut.
“I’ve had an attorney review the documents as you requested, Lillian,” Uncle says, propping his elbows on the desk. “I hope you are pleased.”
“What did he sign?” Mother asks.
“I have worked hard for my brother, and how does he repay me? By cutting me off, keeping me from inheriting what is rightfully mine.” Uncle crosses his ankles and rubs his chin, as though we are merely discussing the fine winter weather or the merriment at the earlier gala. “So I’ve been forced to take matters into my own hands, find someone willing to overlook a few legalities. This is what my brother always failed to understand: everything is a business, and everyone is for sale.”
Dread blooms in my stomach as I make sense of his words. Uncle paid Mr. Douglas to ignore the will. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if the paper they just signed is a contract between the two of them, an agreement where Mr. Douglas forgoes the proper execution of the will in exchange for . . . something from Uncle.
“You weren’t owed any of it,” I snap. “You never backed the Gulch Mine with investments, and you never did the real work, either. You swooped in when you saw Father was onto something, when the Territory’s gold veins dried up and they turned to copper and silver instead. And then you sat behind a desk. You wrote numbers in ledgers while Father repaired smelters and stacked dynamite and ate alongside the miners in the chow house. And then when we moved, you hired new people to do those tasks and built this house to lounge in while other hard-working men saw to things in Jerome. How dare you insinuate that you are owed Father’s hard-earned money.”
“Are you quite finished?” Uncle says calmly.
“Charlotte, please,” Mother warns. “Keep your tongue.”
“Yes, listen to your mother, Charlotte. Better yet, listen to me, for I will be your father in due time.”
Now it is Mother’s turn to raise her voice. “Gerald, that will not happen, and you know it.”
“I thought that might be your answer,” Uncle says. “In which case, Charlotte”—he looks at me—“you will marry Paul.”
“But he’s my cousin!”
“A fine observation. And this will not be the first instance where such a marriage is arranged. It’s about keeping assets in the right pockets. This is an agreeable match.”
“But he’s my cousin.” I say again. “And I’m only sixteen. I’m too young to marry.”
“You’re too young to be a journalist also, nor are you suited to become one, ever.” He folds his hands over his chest. “Your place is alongside my son, not taking an educated man’s job by playing reporter.”
I’m so livid I could scream. Instead, I say as evenly as I can manage, “I’m not marrying Paul. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find the sheriff.”
As I stand, Uncle Gerald draws a pistol from the folds of his jacket and aims it at Mother. Time seems to slow. The world narrows.
“I urge you to reconsider,” he says.
“All right, yes,” I say immediately. I don’t need time to deliberate. There is only one answer. “I’ll do it.”
I feel as though I’ve been slapped in the face, as though the floor has given way beneath me. I always anticipated Uncle playing me against Mother. I don’t know why I didn’t consider that he might hold her hostage to control me. This is everything we sought to avoid. I should have stayed in Yuma as Mother demanded. If only I’d listened, this wouldn’t be happening.
“Enough of this, Gerald,” Mother snaps. “Charlotte has the world ahead of her, or as much as society will allow; don’t steal that away. Let it be us instead.”
“Mother, you can’t.”
“I can, and I will. Do not tell me what I’ll do.”
“So you accept?” Uncle Gerald says, smiling. Mother nods. “Splendid! I will make arrangements straightaway.” He holsters his pistol.
Mother pushes out of her chair and heads for the hallway.
“Lillian?” Uncle Gerald calls after her. There is a formidable air of warning to his tone.
“I’m going to see Mr. Douglas, in regards to business matters,” she says pointedly.
“You’ll be interested to know that Mr. Douglas’s business is now mine. I have arranged a deal with him. Fifteen percent stake in the Gulch Mine Company in exchange for his cooperation. You see, I have expressed concerns over your mental health, and he has garnered documentation reflecting such a diagnosis. Should you act rashly, say, by involving the sheriff in this matter, it would be a pity. I’d hate to be the one to alert authorities that your madness drove you to put a bullet in your own child.”
For what feels like an eternity, Mother stands there, a palm on the office door, frozen like a statue, her eyes on me.
Finally, she blinks. Her face snaps up to address Uncle. “Thank you, Gerald,” she says, “for illustrating so clearly why my husband was wise to never make you a partner in his endeavors. It pains me that I have to reward his astute observations by marrying you and allowing for what he sought to avoid. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need fresh air. To clear my troubled head.”
She pulls the door shut with more force than necessary. A painting on the wall shudders.
“The logic works multiple ways, Charlotte,” Uncle says to me. “For instance, no one would be surprised to learn that your mother has brought a bullet to her own temple. So tread carefully. It would be a shame for you to lose both parents in such a short span of time.”
His words are spoken like a Sunday sermon, vehement, indisputable. He means it. He will kill me, or her. It doesn’t matter which, so long as he gets his way.
How foolish to believe that bad men would outwardly declare themselves as such. How painstakingly naive to think they would wear bandannas over their faces and ride only with equally vile creatures. Some bad men, it turns out, can wear smart business suits and fine silk scarves and be respected within the community. Some look like your uncle.
“I suggest you clean yourself up,” he adds. “For all I know, insanity plagues the women of your family, and that disheveled, barefoot ensemble is not helping your case.”
Chapter Eighteen
* * *
Reece
I come to in the barn with a sharp headache. My nose is swollen, partially obscuring my vision, but it ain’t too banged up to ignore the scent of hay and horse shit.
“Tell me how you got it.”
I search out the voice. The pregnant woman’s leaning into the wall ’cross the way, the barrel of her rifle resting ’gainst her shoulder. Outside the barn, the setting sun casts a blanket of twilight over her claim. I move to stand, only to find my an
kles bound with rope. My wrists’re secured, too.
“That scar,” the woman continues, nodding at my arm. “Tell me.”
“Why—you ain’t certain you got the right guy? Don’t wanna get shortchanged on the bounty, huh?”
“Boy, I don’t got a need for money, but you sure as hell got a need for some sense. A person don’t shoot you dead when they know you’s wanted, and you refuse to answer their simple questions? You got a thirst for dyin’?”
“Some days.”
She barks out a laugh, then puts a hand to her lower back to brace ’gainst the weight of her belly. The babe’s gotta be coming soon. Maybe days off, or a couple weeks. Some mama she’s gonna make. I’ve known her all of two minutes and am certain she don’t got a nurturing bone in her body. Even now, her eyes are hooded, dark and uneasy, like she’s bent on distrusting the whole damn world.
“I’d rather kill you than involve the Law,” she tells me. “All the latter’ll do is invite the rest of yer boys my way, and I ain’t too keen on that.”
“So crank that lever and be done with it. I know you figured me to be the Rose Kid by now.”
“Yeah, I know who you are, Reece Murphy, that’s true. I also know that Rose only puts that mark on his victims.”
“Interesting theory.”
“It ain’t a theory. Rose put that carving in my father’s forehead. He also did it to my husband’s brother. He don’t do that to folk he rides with. So I know you ain’t a Rider by choice. At least you weren’t originally.”
“You know Luther Rose?” I say, doubtful.
“I knew Waylan. Like most folk, I didn’t know there were another Rose waiting to take the reins till talk of train strikes started gracing the papers.”
Her knowledge ’bout Waylan Rose . . . this claim that matches Vaughn’s description . . . This woman’s shaping up to be the very same from Vaughn’s story.
