by Anna Furtado
“You’ve made me feel...possibilities...again.”
They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. Tucker wondered if she wanted to know what those possibilities were. For now, she judged it the wrong time to ask.
“I hope you haven’t felt like you were all alone here, though,” Tucker said. “I mean, moving away from your friends, your psychologist. I hope the distance hasn’t been too hard.”
“No. It’s been okay. I talk and text with many of my friends down there. But over the past couple of years, it’s been less and less. Their lives are so different. It’s been good to make friends here. Although, I must admit, you and Jackie are the only people in town my own age. I’m friends with teachers at school in Portero, but they’re all married and have families, so we don’t have too much in common except school. There’s one woman I talk to a bit, but she has her own family and interests. She’s more of a friendly colleague than anything, I guess. Jackie’s been good for me, but she’s so busy with The Charlie.” She hesitated, then added, “It’s been nice...having you around, Tucker.”
Tucker saw the sparkle returning to Leah’s eyes. The steely blue-gray melted away to reveal the azure reminiscent of the clear waters surrounding distant Pacific Islands Tucker only saw in magazine pictures. She felt a wave of protectiveness for Leah wash over her. She was falling for this woman—but letting her know it would be too dangerous—for Leah.
LATER THAT MORNING, with Leah recovered from the recounting of her harrowing experience in LA and the breakfast dishes done, Leah and Tucker sat close, heads together, at Leah’s computer in the converted bedroom she used as an office. Tucker stared at the October 15, 1873, edition of The Elder Creek Weekly Star.
“This looks nothing like the paper I saw,” she pronounced. “It’s completely different, and all it contains is local news, no national reporting at all. It doesn’t even have any advertisements. No Buffalo Bill’s Wild West coming soon, no Modoc Indian troubles, no Locust Plague. The newspaper I saw mustn’t even have been real.”
Leah grunted. “I don’t know what it means, Tucker. Maybe nothing, but maybe something.”
An idea struck Tucker. “Instead of looking up a paper by date, can you look up events reported by any paper?”
“Yes. We can.” She checked a box on the online search form to indicate a search by keyword rather than by newspaper title. “What would you like to search for?”
“Let’s start with ‘locust plague.’ Is it enough, do you think?”
“Let’s try it and see.”
Leah typed the words into the search field. A paper out of St. Louis called The Republican reported the details of the terrible plague. The locusts ate the clothes right off people’s bodies. Crops were decimated in a matter of minutes. Children and their parents went hungry. Nothing stopped the devastation. However, the report clearly indicated this so-called Locust Plague of the Great Plains didn’t start until 1874, not 1873 as Tucker read in the Elder Creek newspaper.
They tried the Indian incident and found the story of the First Cavalry Regiment under Captain Jack and the battle of Lost River. The Modoc War took place in 1872. It, too, incorrectly reported in her Elder Creek of old. Why did some incidents happen long before the date in the newspaper when others had not even happened yet, like the locust plague and Buffalo Bill Cody putting together his Wild West show?
Frustration bubbled in Tucker’s chest like water reaching a rolling boil. “What does it all mean? I feel like I should understand, but I don’t.”
She sprang up from her seat and started pacing. Leah got up and met her head on as she came around the small room again, forcing her to stop moving.
“Tucker, if there’s something to figure out, I’m sure you’ll do it, but it’ll probably be easier if you’re able to calm down, relax. Don’t let it get to you. Now, close your eyes and take in a deep breath.”
Tucker did as instructed.
“Now let it out slowly.”
She did.
“Now, breathe normally. Keep your eyes closed.”
At first, Tucker didn’t understand the sensation. The soft touch on her lips felt so good. Then, the pressure increased and she automatically parted her lips a little as Leah continued to kiss her.
She opened her eyes wide. Oh God. Then she closed her eyes again and gave in completely. Leah’s kiss felt like heaven. Leah felt—
No! They must stop. She pulled away with a whimper and a sucking sound, reminding her they barreled toward full throttle engagement. She grasped Leah by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length.
“Leah, we shouldn’t.”
She watched Leah’s eyes cloud over again and hated herself for pushing her away.
“Why, Tucker? Why shouldn’t we?”
“Because...you’re vulnerable and I’m—”
“What Tucker? Say it. You’re what? What’s preventing you from letting yourself go with what’s between us? Go ahead. Say it, Tucker.”
Tucker’s breathing increased as if they’d engaged in sex. Was it the kiss? Or was it Leah’s pushing her to speak her worst fear? Maybe it was both, but clearly her mental state prevented her from allowing this to happen.
The tension between them crackled. Tucker felt pressure exerted on her chest, pressing in on her from all around the room. She tried to pull in a full breath but found it impossible. Desperation filled her. Finally, she took in enough air to get the words out. “Because—” Tucker shouted. Then softer, “I told you. I might be crazy.”
The room pressure deflated. Tucker took in a deep breath, feeling like she emerged from deep water, submerged for way too long and now, blessed relief came with the intake of air. It felt so good. But it wasn’t good. It was bad. Now Leah would understand how loony she actually was. With the words spoken, they would be real, true. She waited for Leah to run. Instead, she stood there, staring at Tucker.
Probably in shock, mused Tucker. But instead of running, Leah grasped Tucker by her upper arms and pulled Tucker toward her until they were bosom to bosom. She kissed Tucker firmly on the lips again. When she thrust her tongue through Tucker’s lips, Tucker’s own tongue, now with a mind of its own, pushed into Leah’s mouth and Leah took it in, sucking gently, caressing it, fondling it with her lips. Tucker’s knees went weak.
She thought she might not be able to stay upright. She started to tremble.
Leah pushed against her, pulling away. The blue of the Mediterranean looked opaque, like a hard turquoise stone. Her tone, when she spoke next was adamant, “No, Tucker Stevens. You are not crazy. I know crazy, remember?”
Tucker knew she referred to Kaz.
“And I am not vulnerable, except to you right now—and I want to be.”
She pulled Tucker back in and engaged her in another passionate kiss. Fear and worry dissolved. Tucker kissed her back. This time, neither of them wanted to stop.
Chapter Seven
TUCKER SAT HUNCHED over the bar at The St. Charles Saloon nursing the awful whiskey. Lily sat beside her. Every time Tucker took a sip, Lily tipped the bottle and refilled the marred glass with a few more drops of amber liquid. Tucker knew Lily did it to look like she engaged her, encouraging her to finish off the bottle, or Dunbar would make her go pay attention to one of the other patrons who might not be drinking enough.
Out of the corner of her eye, Tucker saw a man approach from Lily’s exposed side. He leaned on the bar and put his face close to Lily’s cheek. Tucker saw Lily flinch as she stared straight ahead.
The man ignored her and pushed his short, round body against Lily’s, breathing hard through his mouth. His rancid breath, mixed with bad alcohol, wafted past Lily. He cocked his head then tipped his hat back to get a better view. His voice sounded like gravel and glass rubbing together as he said, “Miss Lily, why do you want to hang on to this no-account drifter when I have need of your ministrations at this time?”
Tucker kept her head in the forward position while shifting her eyes to get a clearer look a
t him.
Lily answered through clenched teeth, “As you can see, Mr. Cutter, I’m engaged. I am not available. You know the rules. I attend to one customer at a time.”
“Miss Lily, now, how many times have I asked you to call me by my given name? It’s Axl, Miss Lily. Call me Axl. And I think you’ll agree I deserve a little rule bending, now don’t I?”
Lily pinned him with her gaze. She still kept her voice low, but her tone said she wanted no argument. “Look, Axl. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll be with you in a little while. For now, my friend and I are finishing off this bottle and until then, I won’t be available to serve you.”
The man glared and said, “You’d better watch your step, Missy.” He stomped off, retreating to the far side of the room. Lily and Tucker swiveled around on their stools and looked at the men scattered throughout the bar. They all found something else to look at.
“Who is that guy?” Tucker asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Lily snapped. “He’s nobody. A nobody who thinks he’s somebody.”
“Do I need to do something about him?” Tucker puzzled over what she would do, but she felt compelled to defend Lily somehow.
“It’s best if you leave him alone, Tucker, believe me. He’s a little confused, that’s all. He thinks I’m one of Madam T’s girls.”
She knew how Lily felt about being taken for one of Madam T’s girls.
Tucker contemplated how she might try to lighten the conversation a little. “You know, the first time you mentioned Madam T, I thought maybe she worked as a fortune teller. It’s kind of funny, don’t you think?”
Lily didn’t look amused.
“Madam T runs the bawdy house at the end of town.”
“I know. So you said. I was only trying to make you laugh. I’m sorry.”
Lily mouth twitched a little at one corner. “Actually, it is funny,” she said. “I can see her in traveling gypsy clothes, flipping over cards, telling people their future. Maybe she’d have her girls sitting around her, fanning her with big feather fans as she told people’s fortunes.” Lily laughed at the prospect.
The sound tickled Tucker.
“How many ladies work at Madam T’s anyway?”
“Three or four of them—and I assure you I am not one of them!”
Tucker raised her hands in surrender. This was definitely a sore subject with Lily. Her cheeks colored red as she spoke her protest. It might be from anger or embarrassment at being lumped in with these women. Either probably would be justified.
Lily continued, raising her voice as she spoke without facing the other patrons, she said, “I am a saloon girl. Granted, it’s not the noblest profession in this world, but it’s respectable, and I don’t allow anyone to take any liberties not required of me. I believe I told you this before.” By the end of her statement, her voice reached a crescendo.
From out of the back room of The St. Charles Saloon, Dunbar emerged, lumbering forward like a wraith filled with rage. The man who vied for Lily’s attention followed behind him. One word popped into Tucker’s head—tattletale.
When Dunbar reached Lily, he grabbed a fistful of her bodice and wrenched her up from her stool. Tucker saw Lily wince as her head pivoted away from Dunbar and she wrinkled up her nose. Dunbar leaned in toward her and spoke in a controlled voice, his obsidian eyes dark and menacing. “If Mr. Cutter wants you to be one of Madam T’s ladies, you damn well will be. You understand me? You’ll do anything he wants or you can go find yourself other employment.”
An angry ember burst into a raging inferno within Tucker. This man’s bullying must stop. Now. Lily needed someone to stand up for her. She rose to face Dunbar.
He faced Tucker and growled, “What the hell do you want?”
Then she pulled back her fist and hit him in the jaw with all her might. Cutter scurried away to a dark corner as Dunbar crumbled to the floor in a heap.
TUCKER SAT ON the dirt floor of the thick walled wooden structure nursing her injured hand. She peered out into the sunlit day around the bars in the jail window. When her hand met Dunbar’s face, she registered her surprise at the rock hard impact. She watched in amazement as he dropped to the floor, unconscious. A surge of adrenalin must have given her more power than she knew she possessed.
Her hand hurt like hell, but she didn’t think anything was broken since she wiggled her fingers with only slight discomfort. When she tried to get up from her seated position, she found her shoulder hurt, too, probably from the shock wave, which traveled up her arm when she made contact with Dunbar’s stony face.
She tried to remember the details of what happened after she hit him, but the word forget overpowered any memories of what followed. Why would that word be so firmly implanted, reverberating in her mind over and over again?
It occurred more often now. She thought it curious before. Now she questioned the word’s significance and wondered if she was supposed to forget more than punching Dunbar.
Lily came to mind. Oh God, she thought, what have I done to poor Lily? Worry and dread filled her whole body. She put her head in her hands. Tears threatened to emerge and she scrubbed them away with her palms, but the gesture made her hand hurt more, so she willed herself to stop. It wouldn’t help either of them for her to plunge into the mire of regret and self-pity.
When she took her hands down from her face, she found a young man—boy was a more accurate description—staring at her through the bars of the window. The full impact of her situation hit her. She was a prisoner. The realization filled her with dread. The boy tilted his head, watching her as if she were an exotic animal in a cage.
She pulled herself together, tried to sound casual as she said, “Hi, what’s your name?” She didn’t know what else to say to open up the lines of communication in an attempt to get information.
The boy looked down at his feet. “Name’s Joey—Joseph—but I prefer Joey.”
“Well, Joey, would it be possible to get some water? I’m very thirsty.” Bad liquor and stress will do that to you.
Joey said nothing. He pulled away and disappeared from view. A few minutes later he reappeared with a squat, dented tin cup. He passed it through the wide slot below the bars, probably a meal slot, she realized.
She took the cup. The water in it looked clear enough. As thirsty as she felt, she didn’t care. She downed the contents in three gulps and wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt. “Can I have some more?” She thrust the cup back through the opening toward the boy.
Joey took the cup and glanced to one side, then the other. “Best not,” he said. “I’ll bring more later.”
Tucker didn’t want him to leave. She needed to determine what the future held for her. Maybe he’d be able to provide some answers. She decided to start with the basics.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m the sheriff’s helper.”
“His deputy?” He looked too young.
“No, not his deputy. Maybe someday, though.” His eyes brightened when he said it. “I take care of people when they’re in the jail. Bring ’em water. Sometimes food if they tell me to. Otherwise, I’m not supposed to. If they behave, they let me bring ’em to the outhouse.”
He punched the air over his shoulder with his thumb. In the distance, Tucker saw a tiny building under a dead-looking tree, the outhouse. The path to it bisected a larger trail. She recognized the area now. The outhouse was probably the same one she visited the first morning she woke up in this time. She walked the path in front of it the day she explored the town. The front entrance of the National Hotel on Main Street ran behind her. The gravity of the situation struck her again. She was locked up in the run-down town jail she passed on her recent walk.
A thought struck her. “Joey, if I promise not to give you any trouble, can I use the outhouse?”
He didn’t answer. She pressed him, “I really need to go. Please?”
He thought for a few more seconds. Without a word, he disappeared from sight
again. She thought he’d gone for good, but he came back eventually. This time, he held a large key in one hand, and a gun in the other.
He held them both up to her line of sight. His face hardened. He no longer looked like a child as he said, “I’m going to use this.” He waved the large, worn skeleton key back and forth. “We’re going to walk directly over there.” He pointed the key toward the outhouse. “You’re going to go in and do your business. When you come out, we come directly back here. If you do anything else or give me any kind of trouble, I use this.” He brandished the gun. “Understand?”
She accepted his terms, her face solemn.
He shoved the gun into the waistband of his baggy, ragged pants and told her to step away from the door and stand still until he told her to move. He conducted himself as if he’d done all this before.
She heard him put the key in the lock and metal scraped against metal. When the door opened, he held the gun pointed directly at her. He stepped back a few paces and told her to come out slowly. She did as instructed, keeping her hands up, level with her shoulders.
THE WALK TO the outhouse gave her a chance to stretch her sore muscles and clear her head a little. As they approached the small structure, the putrid smell wafted under her nose. The unpleasantness of this experience to relieve herself didn’t strike her until this moment. You’d think she would have remembered from her previous encounter at the hotel, still, what choice did she have?
Joey waved the gun at her, indicating she should go into the outhouse. She held her breath as she put her hand on the wood handle to open it, but knew she’d never survive her entire stay inside that way. She’d have to breathe eventually or she’d pass out. She pulled open the door and tried to beat the increased fetid smell by taking another breath, but she took the full brunt of it, choking as she stepped inside. It took all her willpower not to upchuck, though she did gag a couple of times.
She did what she needed to quickly and realized for a second time during her stay in this time that toilet paper didn’t exist. “Damn!” No doubt she should have picked up a leaf or something from outside. Too late, she realized.
