by Tess LeSue
“Hell of a way for you to find out,” she sighed.
“Hell of a way,” he agreed.
She took a shuddery breath.
“Is that it?” he asked, afraid of what the answer would be. “Is that all I need to know about you?”
“No,” she admitted, and the tension in her voice made him freeze with trepidation. “No,” she sighed, “there’s one more thing.” She sounded painfully sad and terribly tired. “And you’re really not going to like this one.”
28
MAGDALENA WAS NOTHING to write home about. If she’d had a home. Which she didn’t. And she didn’t have anyone to write to either. Especially now. Stop it. Don’t think about him.
Too late.
Tom hadn’t brought them to Magdalena himself. Instead, he’d changed his plans and taken them to Arizpe. It was where he was scheduled to meet his men, and after her revelation about Luke, he hadn’t wanted to spend more time with her than he absolutely had to. Emma had known it was coming, but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. At least she’d had years of practice at staring humiliation in the face, she thought ruefully. She knew how to hold her head high when all she wanted to do was roll up into a ball and hide; she knew how to stay stone-faced and not cry, when inside there was a hot spring of tears; she knew how to stay still through the long, ashy nights, holding herself in suspension until the morning came, even though sleep was impossible. She knew how to walk tall and act calm and pretend nothing at all was wrong. It was a point of honor.
In Arizpe, they’d found Tom’s men already waiting for him, and he wasted no time in off-loading the ex-nuns and getting on with his life. They’d barely watered the horses when a man named Emilio introduced himself and said he was going to be taking them on to Magdalena.
“As it’s still early, señoritas, I thought we could leave within the hour. We should make Magdalena in three or four days, depending on the weather.”
It took all of Emma’s hard-won composure not to spit at that. So Tom didn’t even want them around for another hour. No. Not them. Her. And he hadn’t even had the common decency to tell her himself.
She could see him down the street. He’d remounted his paint horse and looked like he was about to ride out. Already.
“Where’s he going?” she had asked, unable to help herself.
Emilio had followed her gaze. “Tom? Probably to his old homestead. José Flores runs it now; his wife, Rosie, used to be the cook back when it was the Slater place. She’s known Tom since he was a boy. She’ll give him a big feed, and then he’ll buy the bulk of their cattle for us to run up north. Theirs are always the first stock he buys.”
Her first thought was there was so much she didn’t know about him. Her second was that he wasn’t even going to say good-bye to her. Now, that boiled her blood. Even a customer usually had the common decency to say good-bye.
“Emma,” Calla called after her as she started stalking toward him. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Yes. She was. She was going to make sure he at least looked her in the eye as he broke her goddamn heart. “Slater,” she said, her voice like a whipcrack.
He turned his horse and squinted down at her.
“Your man Emilio says he’s taking us on to Magdalena. Instead of you.”
Tom nodded. He looked grim. “There’s no need to pay him. I’ve already covered it.”
Her chin went up. “I pay my own way.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m sure he won’t complain if he gets paid twice.”
Emma felt a lick of rage at him. At men.
What did he have to be angry about anyway? She hadn’t even known him when she’d slept with Luke. And did he think she’d enjoyed whoring? Even if she had, what business was that of his? None of it, that’s what. It was her body and her business and her life, and he should feel goddamn honored that she’d shared any of it with him.
“You know I don’t even know your surname,” he said flatly as he squinted down at her. He shrugged helplessly, as though that meant something. Then he turned his horse and without so much as a farewell headed out, and all she was left with was a view of his back as he rode away.
“I would have told you if you’d asked,” she said to the empty street. “But you never asked.”
Stop thinking about it. It does no good. That was good advice if she could take it. But her mind kept throwing up that image of him, riding out of her life. She scowled at Magdalena as they rode in. It was a dusty little patch of nowhere. It wasn’t somewhere she ever thought she’d be.
“This is your home?” Winnie asked Calla, who was so excited she could barely sit her horse.
Emma couldn’t see why Calla was so keen to return. The place was sleepy and scruffy, with dogs and chickens running wild in the streets. The mission was the prettiest thing about it, and even that was thick with dust.
“This is the town,” Calla said, “but home is a bit farther out.”
They said good-bye to Emilio in the town square. He was nervous about leaving them, but Calla assured him up, down and sideways that she’d take care of things from here. Shrugging, he tipped his hat and turned right back around to Arizpe. Emma figured he couldn’t much see the point of staying a minute longer than he needed to in Magdalena.
She was being unkind. She knew it. But she felt unkind, and better she took the feeling out on a town than on the people she cared about. She tried to put on a pleasant face as Calla led them excitedly to her family’s farm on the outskirts of town. Although all of it was outskirts in Emma’s opinion. The center wasn’t much more than a patch in front of the mission.
Her mood didn’t improve over the next few days, as they were welcomed into the chaos of Calla’s family home. If anything, it grew worse. She withdrew into herself, letting Calla take over. She watched as Calla passed herself off as a respectable woman, chattering merrily as her sisters eyed her beautiful clothes with plain envy.
“She’s spinning as many tales as you do,” Anna said dryly, joining Emma under the piñon tree in the yard. Winnie trailed along with her, as she always did. She didn’t like to be out of Anna’s reach.
“I guess she ain’t likely to tell her parents she’s been whoring all this time,” Emma observed.
“No.” Anna sighed and settled with her back against the tree trunk. Winnie curled up against her like a cat. They watched the chickens scratch and the breeze kick up dust. “So, miss,” Anna said suddenly, “what are we doing now?”
“There ain’t much to do,” Emma said with a shrug. “I guess we could help shuck corn for supper.”
“That ain’t what I meant and you know it.”
Emma stared resolutely at the chickens.
“I know you don’t plan to stay here,” Anna continued. “This place ain’t your style.” She took in the run-down yard and the dogs panting in the shade. “So what are we up to next?”
“I ain’t got the faintest idea.” And that was God’s honest truth.
“Calla’s fixing to go court herself a man,” Anna said. “I’m curious as to how that’ll play out, so I’m happy to stay for another week or so. But after that, I’ll be asking again. I need to go get myself a job, for a start.”
“Who’s Calla courting?”
“Who do you think?” Anna snorted. “That fancy Ángel man she never stops talking about.”
“He’ll like her for sure,” Winnie said loyally. “She looks pretty now she’s not a nun.”
“Does anyone here in Magdalena know about her past?” Emma asked sourly. “Because one hint of that and she can kiss her prince good-bye.”
“He doesn’t need to know,” Anna said. “They all think she made her money as a cook in the goldfields.”
Emma snorted. “And what’s a cook doing with all those fancy clothes?”
“Try and be happy for her,
” Anna scolded.
But Emma didn’t know if she had it in her to be happy for anyone. Or happy at all. Something seemed to have shriveled up in her on the journey from Arizpe to Magdalena. It was the memory of Tom’s face that did it. The look in his eyes. She’d seen that look before. His brother had worn the same look; it was distaste. Worse than distaste: she repulsed him. It was hard to withstand a look like that and still find it in yourself to be happy.
Hell. What did she care? She’d faced worse. This wasn’t the first time she’d been left. And at least this time she wasn’t broke and alone. Or pregnant. She was fine. Tom Slater had been an interlude, and that was all. She’d enjoyed his body and his company, and she’d always known that it wasn’t forever. So what if he’d been an ass at the end? Wasn’t that a good thing? It made it easier to forget him and move on.
Only it didn’t. And she couldn’t seem to forget him, or move on.
She was played out, she thought tiredly, as she listened to Anna and Winnie talking. Even her dream of a little house on the bay no longer brought her joy. The thought of trekking all the way back to Northern California was exhausting. It used to thrill her, the idea of sitting in her own kitchen, alone, enjoying the silence. But now . . .
Hell. Now she felt like she had a hole right through the middle of her. All the good feelings just dribbled out through it. When she thought about her little house on the bay, all she could think of was that he wouldn’t be in it. If she tried to imagine her kitchen, he wasn’t there. When she tried to make bread, she was haunted by the fact he’d never eat it. When she caught her reflection and saw her hair was growing out, she realized he’d never see her with hair. He wouldn’t know her.
And she cared. She didn’t want to, but she did. She cared more than she could bear. At night, when everyone slept, she found herself weeping. She could keep the tears at bay all day, but in the furthest lonely reaches of the night, they overwhelmed her. And she all but drowned in them.
* * *
• • •
A FEW DAYS later, Calla and her family were invited to a feast at the Leon ranch. Calla had wrangled the invitation by flirting madly with Ángel Leon at church on Sunday. Emma hadn’t gone to church herself, but she heard the story later from Anna and Winnie. Calla had worn one of her more modest dresses (which was still fancier than any dress owned by the women of Magdalena); it was the color of plum skin and buttoned to the neck with shiny ebony buttons. She’d taken a black lace fan and a fancy parasol and had caused a sensation when she’d arrived at the mission.
“It was like a fairy tale, wasn’t it, Winnie?” Anna gushed.
Emma was sitting in the yard shelling peas, listening cynically and trying to pretend to be happy for her friend. She wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Her bitterness jutted through like a broken bone.
“In she walked, and he stopped talking mid-sentence—”
“Like he’d been hit on the head!” Winnie added.
“His eyes got all big and starry, and he couldn’t look anywhere else for the whole service. And, oh, you would have been proud of our girl. She played it to perfection. Modest as a mouse. But glancing at him over her fan.” Anna mimed it, flapping her hand like a fan and giving Emma quick darting glances with her eyes. “And wasn’t he hooked!”
He must have been, because the invitation came that same afternoon, just hours after church. It threw the house into a frenzy. Calla’s mother was just about weeping, she was so excited.
“It’s like ‘Cinderella,’” Winnie whispered to Emma, as they watched the to-ing and fro-ing. “Only instead of nasty stepsisters, there are nice ones.”
It was true. The whole family got into the fun. Dresses were freshened up, hair was washed and braided and coiled and pinned, and the house was filled with excited chatter. Calla’s father looked absolutely bewildered as his daughters ran about, trailing ribbons, planning fantasy weddings. And in the center of it all, glowing like a bride-to-be, was Calla.
“Imagine his face when he sees her in that,” Anna clucked.
Calla was completely out of place in the adobe farmhouse. She was in a frothy cream dress, dripping with handmade lace, earbobs dangling from her ears. She was a picture of grace and charm, and her family regarded her with more than a little awe. It seemed inevitable that she would win the prince.
“I’ve loved him since I was this high!” Calla said when she came to show off her dress to Emma. She held a hand no higher than Winnie’s shoulder. “He’s so handsome and so strong and so kind and so good.”
“This is a man we’re talking about?” Emma grumbled.
Anna gave her a not-so-discreet kick.
“He sounds too good to be true.” She meant it kindly, but it didn’t come out that way.
Anna rolled her eyes. “He’ll love you too,” she reassured Calla. “He’d be mad not to.”
Winnie nodded in enthusiastic agreement.
“Madre de Dios,” Calla said, pressing her hands to her nervous stomach. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can,” Anna said cheerfully. “Can’t she, Emma?”
“Don’t make me lie to her,” Emma said. “I’m done with lying. It’s got me nothing but heartache.”
“At least tell her how beautiful she looks. That’s not a lie.”
Emma’s heart softened when Calla turned her big dark eyes on her. “You do look beautiful.” And she did. She was a dream. “He doesn’t stand a chance,” Emma said grudgingly.
Calla threw her arms around Emma and just about squeezed the life out of her. “Thank you!” she said, giving her a smacking big kiss. “I’m so scared.”
“Scared?”
“I want this so much. And nothing has ever worked out the way I wanted it to.”
Emma’s heart pinched as she saw the hope and fear in Calla’s eyes. She took Calla’s face in her hands and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “The best we can do is try. The rest is out of our hands. Right?”
Calla nodded. “Right.”
“Good luck, Calida.”
Emma followed Anna and Winnie onto the veranda to watch the family rattle off in their wagon. Calla gave them a wave, her smile a blend of joy and anxiety.
“For God’s sake, have fun!” Emma called out impulsively.
Calla grinned.
Emma stood on the veranda, watching her go, envying her lightness and expectation, hoping at the very least Cinderella would have fun at the ball. And that the happy-for-now of tonight would be enough for her. Because Emma didn’t trust princes; most of them were no good sons of bitches. And even the good ones were prone to breaking your heart.
* * *
• • •
IT WAS LATE when Calla and her family returned.
“Emma?” Calla came straight to the room Emma was sharing with Anna and Winnie. As she’d done a hundred times back at the whorehouse, she sat on the end of Emma’s bed and wrapped her hand around Emma’s blanketed foot.
Emma hadn’t been sleeping. She found it impossible these days. That was something else to hold against Tom Slater.
Calla was solemn. “I told him,” she said softly.
“You told him?” Emma frowned. Oh. She’d told him. Emma sat up.
Calla sighed. “He was treating me so respectfully, like a real lady. And I just got to thinking about it . . .”
Emma let the silence pull out, knowing Calla would resume when she was ready.
“I thought about you and Tom . . .”
Oh, that hurt. Emma blinked in shock.
“About what happened when Tom found out . . . and then I started imagining what would happen when Ángel found out. What would happen if I left it until I was so deep in love with him I couldn’t get back out. And I thought I’d rather start clean than face that. To tell him the truth, and then if he loved me, he’d really love me.” Calla gave a
rueful smile. “Isn’t that silly?”
No, Emma thought numbly. It was a damn sight more sensible than sitting here in the dark night after night with a sore heart.
“It was perfect tonight,” Calla sighed dreamily. “He danced every dance with me, and the way he looked at me . . . I felt like a princess.”
Emma knew that look, knew how intoxicating it was to be on the receiving end of it.
“But all I could think was that he wouldn’t look at me like that if he knew.” Her voice trembled. “And I was right. He didn’t.”
Calla wasn’t upset. She just seemed truly, deeply sad.
“You were right,” Calla said matter-of-factly. “No one wants a whore. Not for anything but poking. And I’m done with being poked.” She squeezed Emma’s toe.
Even though she had been thinking the same grim thoughts, Emma felt like she’d been struck. She looked from Calla, sad in her beautiful dress, to little Winnie, who was sitting up in bed, watching every move they made and listening to every word they said.
“No,” she blurted.
“Yes.” Calla nodded. “I should have listened.”
“No.”
“I ain’t good for anything but whoring. He made that quite clear.”
“Fuck that!” The words burst out of her. They were the most honest thing she’d ever said. They felt good and strong and pure. Her exclamation woke Anna up, and she didn’t look pleased to hear the language being thrown around.
Emma didn’t care. This was a moment that warranted strong language. “And fuck him. Fuck him for a no-good toad. He ain’t no prince.”
“I ain’t no princess, Emma,” Calla wailed. Her composure broke, and she began to cry. “No story had a frog kissed into princedom by a whore.”
