The Gamble

by Karen Sommers

  Chapter 4

  There was a trunk in the closet. Margrett eyed it warily, a small part of her mind wondering what dire secrets could be contained within. If the man was so terrible he had to be evicted by the law, it could contain any number of heinous items. She chastised herself for jumping to conclusions, but that voice wouldn’t be quiet until she pulled the thing out of the closet.

  That part of her which assumed the worst was preparing to pull a great deal of dead weight (her mind rebelled at the word), in the box. Finding out it was empty unbalanced her and she tumbled backward into the room, landing in a heap just at the foot of the bed.

  Feeling a great fool and thankful that her clumsiness had gone without witness, Margrett opened the trunk and began packing. There wasn’t much there, but then, that made sense for a man who was renting temporary lodging. Shoes, shirts, a few suits, handkerchiefs. She came to the daguerreotype and thought to wrap it carefully in some of the clothing to ensure it didn’t break. Perhaps a pillowcase. She didn’t have much money left, not enough for a hotel room, but a set of fresh bedding wouldn’t require much. She could easily procure some fabric and create something nice…perhaps more feminine. The items on the bed now were just…blue. Very plain…blue. She sighed, wondering just how many other small things she would require to set up housekeeping. She was going to have to wire the foundation for more money in a few days and hoped they wouldn’t think her unwise to spend the whole amount so quickly.

  But still…to have an entire house of this size…and furnished!

  With a contented smile, she turned her attention to the daguerreotype again. Moving to the window to see it in better light, she made a wager with herself that the girl’s eyes were green, a deep sea-green. She liked to laugh, Margrett deduced, from the way the lines around her eyes crinkled.

  It was a silly thing to get lost in. Margrett sat on the edge of the bed, holding the image in her hand and trying to imagine the man that had once lived here. What sort of man would attract a woman like that, and yet find himself in the position of being evicted as though he were a common criminal?

  Of course, even in Boston, there were plenty of unsavory men around. Many did serve time somewhere. She wasn’t a complete fool and knew that prisons and such places existed. There were also women who waited for their release, a heartbreak not isolated to the wild and wooly west.

  Suddenly tired she stretched out on the bed. What did it matter what type of man had lived here? He was gone now, and in the morning, the Sheriff would take away these few items. The type of man who had lived here was not her concern, even if he kept a picture of a pretty girl.

  The last few days of travel had taken their toll, and here she was in her own house, alone with no one to correct her behavior. If she was to lay down in a man’s bed… she laughed at her own temerity and boldness, then who could say anything against it?

  She lay on her back with the daguerreotype propped against her stomach. It was utterly fascinating, the magic of capturing a person’s smile and the depth of their eyes like that. What would they think of next?

  The pillow was remarkably comfortable. How odd for a drifter, as the former tenant must have been, but then the house was furnished, to include the pillows. She shoved at it, rearranging the feathers and plumping it a little, thinking that she’d be more comfortable without all the hairpins keeping the knot of her hair firmly in place at the back of her head. Her hand went to remove the offending pins, but the movement upset the picture, which went tumbling onto the blanket beside her.

  Ignoring the giddy urge to apologize to a picture, Margrett carefully set the woman on top of the growing pile in the trunk, and composed the victory telegram she would send to Boston the very next day. She idly plucked one hairpin after another from her head, dropping them on the bed next to her. So what if she were making a mess? It was her house!

  So much to be done…

  It was such an awe-inspiring thought. So many rough frontierswomen needed help to pull them out of ignorance and into the bright light of possibility, and yes, even equality.

  As the last pins came free, letting her hair fall in a chestnut cascade over her shoulder, Margrett felt wanton, even wicked. How she’d hated the high twist she’d endured for the sake of modesty and fashion. She was home, and in her home with no one to see, what was the harm in letting herself breathe a little?

  Oh…now that truly was a wicked thought. Margrett had seen many western women who quite obviously felt no need for the binding of a corset. She’d heard it was a common thing in such environs to go without.

  Not today…not ever. You’re supposed to be educating the woman. Raising them to better standards.

  But did that have to include such vexatious undergarments?

  No…she’d debate the matter later. In the meantime, the house felt welcoming. The bedroom was cozy, and she had fallen under its spell. A yawn as she swept the hairpins into her hand and deposited them on the bureau left her with only one thought. The pillow beckoned. She could finish packing later.

  Margrett tumbled down upon the blankets happily and slept. Her bed was not one that shook with wheels rolling over tracks, nor was it a hard, unforgiving cot, as in every a hotel she’d visited since beginning this journey. Even her bed at the Women’s Betterment facilities in Boston wasn’t near so comfortable as this one here, in her very own home.

  What utter bliss this was. What absolute utter bliss.

  Chapter 5

  Margrett slept deeply and well, right up to being yanked from the bed and unceremoniously dumped onto the floor.

  “GET OUT!”

  The shout came, disconcertingly as she flew through the air. Margrett rolled, covering her face and scrambled on her posterior to slide away from her attacker, realizing only dimly that there was a man in her bedroom. Her feet got caught up in her skirts, and her progress came to a stop. Stifling a scream, she curled up into a ball, huddled against the wall, peering out cautiously from beneath the curtain of her hair.

  Margret looked into the face of her attacker, and the breath fled from her lungs in a whoosh. It was the man from the train. The killer, the scofflaw who had murdered his wife and escaped justice.

  “You can take anything you want to!” she sobbed, hiding her face behind her hands. “Please just let me go!”

  “LET YOU GO?” the man screamed back at her. “Let you? I am telling you! GO! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! I don’t need a harlot, and if I did, there are enough in town. I CERTAINLY DON’T NEED ONE THAT LOOKS LIKE YOU, NOW GET OUT!”

  “Please don’t hurt…” His words suddenly registered. “Harlot?” Margrett raised her head, tears forgotten. It was bad enough to be killed or even molested, but to be called a harlot? That was taking it too far.

  “HOW DARE YOU!” she screamed at him and tried to rise. Her shoes were hopelessly intertwined with her skirts, however, and standing was difficult at best. She wound up rolling to her knees and noticed the man was actually holding his hand out to help her stand. She batted it away.

  By getting to her knees and placing both hands on the floor, she was able to rise with only a little discomfort as some of her petticoats stubbornly remained caught around her feet. She heard a rip as she stood, but a cursory inspection showed she was still decent. More than could be said for this…murderer!

  She stood, freed herself from her wardrobe and smoothed her skirts, checking her bodice and making sure she was still presentable, or as near to it as she could be with her hair sagging around her face like a…

  Fine. Point taken. What kind of woman would stand with her hair down in front of a strange man?

  Still…to be called such…

  “Thank you for your patience, sir,” she said and swung her hand across his face. It was like striking a brick. Her hand stung with the impact.

  He looked surprised. He didn’t even flinch, just raised an eyebrow.

  “How dare you, sir!” she demanded hotly when he failed to react. “How dare you! You
may kill me, you may even…” she couldn’t bring herself to say it, “… harm me, but you will not impugn my good reputation with such a salacious accusation.”

  She gathered herself and stepped toward him, finger jabbing at his chest.

  “I will warn you, sir, that whatever you decide to do, the full extent of the law will be upon your head. The local sheriff is right now on his way here to pick up these things and throw you out.” It occurred to her as she was saying it that this was no random intrusion. The killer was quite obviously the former tenant, and now it made sense that dear Mr. Harmen would want him evicted.

  He grabbed her wrist as she went to poke his chest again. Not that he’d noticed her in the least— he’d stood there like a wall, absorbing the prodding. When he grabbed her wrist, it was like being trapped in a vice.

  “Unhand me!”

  “Are you insane?” he asked finally, the other hand coming up to scratch his head.

  Margrett tried to shake him off, but her wrist was well and truly caught. A seed of doubt began to trickle into her outrage. “I may be…” she paused, flustered, not sure if she was agreeing that she was insane when it was he that was driving her so. “But I am no harlot!”

  “You’re trespassing in my home,” he said, the picture of calm as he released her wrist. “You’re in my bed. I don’t know you, though you look familiar. Tell me then, what sort of woman breaks into a man’s house and lays in his bed?”

  Margrett’s mouth seemed impossibly dry. Fear had become outrage, but now it was all falling apart. Outrage was becoming something colder, and she couldn’t help but shake. “This… this is my house.” She was about to poke the massive chest again but, remembering the last time, decided against it.

  “So you are insane.”

  “I bought the house just today!” Margrett insisted. “From Mr. Harmen.”

  The man raised his hand and wiped his face before rubbing his eyes. Margrett felt small and foolish. “You did. So tell me, what’s his first name?”

  “I…” she pointed her finger, and it shook. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  “Bill of sale?” he prompted.

  “He said he would deliver it tomorrow.” She swallowed, not liking where this was going.

  “Lady,” the man said with a great deal of strained patience. “If even half of this is true…“ He shook his head. “Yes, you are crazy.”

  Margrett stopped in mid-poke, feeling a very cold and sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. A quick glance around the room showed her the mess she’d made of his belongings. “Please tell me that I am still asleep and dreaming,” she whispered, somewhat dizzy and feeling like she was back on the train. “I will not survive a wakening like this.”

  The man caught her as the room greyed out and spun under her.

  Chapter 6

  When Margrett woke, she was reclined in a chair. For a moment, she was at a loss how she’d arrived there, but then she looked around, and it came back to her in a rush of blood to her cheeks, and she stood quickly.

  The room swam and dipped dangerously, and she fell back into the chair again. Hard.

  “Next time, rise a bit more slowly,” a smooth baritone said behind her. She turned in the chair, and the room cooperated for the moment. She was sitting in the parlor. The killer was there, standing against the fireplace, though the hearth was cold and empty.

  “What are your intentions, sir?” she demanded. Her heart was pounding in her chest.

  “I intend to go to bed, madam. And since you’ve made it very clear that joining me there is not the reason I found you lying in my bed, I intend to escort you the hell out of my house.”

  Margrett’s face forever mirrored her feelings. She certainly wasn’t able to marshal herself well enough to hide it. She was frightened, both for her life and for her maidenhood, but for him to speak so crudely and so bluntly angered her all over again. When the enormity of the sentence, for sentence it was, dawned on Margrett, her eyes grew wide, and there was a new fear that made breathing difficult again.

  “Sir, I bought this house today, from Mr. Harmen. I paid for it fairly. This is my house.” It was a weak argument, but the alternative was unbearable. “I mean, it is the new location for the Western Chapter of the Lady’s Betterment League of Boston.”

  “You gave money to someone who broke into my home,” the man countered. The thick mustache hid the sort of smile a man might give to a child who insists that Father Christmas will attend them at any moment. “You can’t buy something from someone who doesn’t own what you’re buying.” He must have noticed her expression. “I own the house. You were conned. That means you were robbed by someone who lied to you.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Margrett hissed, though by this point there was a part of her screaming that he’d brought up very valid points. What if he was correct?

  Infuriatingly, the man just shrugged. “I don’t care what you choose to believe,” the man said and walked to the front door. He pulled it open and waited expectantly. Outside the street was dark, and she heard the calling of an owl.

  “Go?” she said in a very small voice. “Go where, exactly?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” the man said and shrugged.

  “But…” she thought for a long time, the prospects growing dimmer and dimmer. “But there is no place to go to.”

  “There are three fine hotels in town. I am sure one of them would be suitable for someone of your… self-worth.”

  “My…” the words caught in her mouth. They wedged in there behind the outrage.

  He held up one hand to forestall her outburst. “Alright,” he said with infuriating reasonableness, “That was unfair. But there are three very fine establishments I’m sure you’ll find suitable accommodations.”

  Margrett stood cautiously. “Mr.…” She realized then that she only knew him by ‘killer’ or ‘scofflaw’ and had no idea what he called himself.

  He looked at her for a moment before responding, “Baker, Nathan Baker.”

  She nodded and caught herself before she curtsied. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Baker.” He didn’t reply. “Mr. Baker, I gave everything I had to the man who claimed to be the owner of this house.”

  He shrugged. “In the morning, you can wire your bank to stop the transfer.”

  She couldn’t look at him. “Well,” she said to the chair, “about that. I… I hadn’t thought that there were banks as such here.” She stole a glance at the man and returned to talking to the chair. “I carried cash.”

  “You carried enough cash to buy a house?” Mr. Baker’s face had taken on a strange cast. “From Boston?”

  “Everyone knows that banks in the west are robbed every other day!” she stared at him. He made her sound so… idiotic.

  “Really?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Learn that from the dime novels did you?” He took her silence for assent. “Tell me, what do those little books say about the integrity of the trains and how often they’re robbed?”

  Margrett’s mouth opened, but her mind didn’t engage. She was at a complete loss as to how to answer that.

  “Thought so,” he said and uncrossed his arms. “Meanwhile, you’re letting all the bugs in.” He indicated the open door.

  “I will summon the sheriff.” She was grasping at straws by this point, trying to figure out some way that this wasn’t really happening.

  “You should,” he said, making a sweeping gesture for her to move through the open door.

  “What about my key?” She said it more to herself than to him.

  “What key?”

  “A Mr. Jackson was coming to provide me the key to the locker at the train station where my belongings are stored.” She felt a twinge of nausea in her belly, for she’d already puzzled this out on one level, the rest of her hadn’t quite caught up.

  “There are no lockers at the train station,” Mr. Baker assured her.

  “My… clothes?” She looked up him. Begged him to tell her that th
is was all a terrible, horrible dream and that none of it was happening to her. It couldn’t be happening to her.

  He simply stared at her, hand on the doorknob and waited.

  Margrett made it to the doorway and froze. Another step and she was in the night. Being summer, the weather was temperate, but the woods were dark, and there echoed the howl of dogs, the lowing of distant cattle, and the rustling activity of hidden wildlife scuttling from shrub to tree.

  She was being ejected, no mistake. She thought about trying to get a room, she did have a few bills left, but she had no clothing, no toiletries, no… anything. The little bit that was hoarded away would only go so far.

  She would have to wire Boston, explain her stupidity and beg for enough money to return home in disgrace. But who would be there? Today was Wednesday. It would be four days at least before the senior director was back from visiting her family in Albany. No one else would be able to authorize the funds. Then, of course, it would take another day to wire the money. The little she had remaining would never last the better part of a week.

  “Having a problem, miss?” Mr. Baker asked, obviously anxious to be rid of her.

  “I…” the enormity of what she’d done, the great stupidity of her actions hit her, and she felt the hot tears welling in her eyes. She reached out to him, in supplication or in an attempt to catch herself she couldn’t have said.

  But it made it easier for him to catch her. Again.

  Chapter 7

  Dawn. The sun streamed through the curtainless window like a glorious wash, purifying everything it touched. The bed she slept in was comfortable if a bit musty. Normally she was no lie-abed, but this particular morning, she wanted nothing more than to pull the comforter over her head and go back to sleep though she couldn’t have told why.