by Nancy Moser
The father came forward and tipped his hat. “Caleb announced we had visitors.” He nodded toward the town. “You’ve come from Sodom and Gomorrah.”
Hudson seemed to take offense. “There are good people in Cheyenne.”
He nodded. “I apologize for my generality. And we do—on occasion—go to town to get supplies.” He extended a hand to Hudson. “Jonathan Deever.” He looked over his shoulder as three women approached. He opened his arm to include them. “And these are my wives, Mary, Anna, and Martha.”
Wives. Josephine had heard about polygamy, but she had never met anyone who practiced it.
Frieda took a step back, but Josephine linked her arm and pulled her forward again. “I’m Josephine and this is my cousin Frieda.”
“And I’m Hudson Maguire.”
There were nods of acknowledgment all around. Then Josephine saw Martha eyeing her parasol. “It’s mighty pretty,” she said.
Josephine handed it over for their inspection. Anna approached and touched the sleeve of Josephine’s dress. “This fabric is so fine. And ours . . .” She looked down at her faded cotton dress that probably used to be a deep blue.
It was a bit embarrassing.
“May we help you?” Mr. Deever asked.
“We’re just here to say hello,” Josephine said. “My father runs the railroad crews, and Frieda and I are visiting from Washington, DC.”
“We understand what it is to be a long way from home,” Deever said. “Mr. Maguire, let me introduce you to the rest of the men.”
Hudson looked back at Josephine, his expression asking if she was all right.
She flipped her hand at him. Go on. That handled, she returned her attention to the three women—who were being joined by a dozen more, many with babies on their hips or in their arms.
“Look at the sheen of this fabric,” Anna said, as if Josephine’s dress were hers to promote.
The ladies oohed and ahhed and spoke a few languages Josephine didn’t understand. They touched Josephine’s dress from drapery to hem, collar to cuff.
One of the women of Josephine’s age eyed her hat. “Very smart.”
Josephine was glad she’d worn the hat, yet she was also uncomfortable with the attention.
“It’s completely impractical,” said one of the older women, who stood along the edge of the group. Her arms were crossed, her face sour.
One woman put her hands on her hips and faced her. “Oh, stop being so stodgy, Esther. Our lives are full of practical. Sometimes women just want something pretty.”
The rest of the group nodded, and one took Josephine’s hand. “Your skin is so soft.” She put her own hand next to Josephine’s. “We’re of the same age, yet mine looks old.”
“Vanity is a sin,” the old woman said.
“I put lard on my skin,” another said.
More than one woman made a face. “It smells horrible.”
Josephine thought of the jars of face cream and lotion she had back at the railcar. She touched the cheek of a baby, knowing that her own skin was as soft as this child’s.
“And these awful freckles,” a redheaded woman lamented. “Being in the sun all the time . . . You have my coloring, yet your skin is so fair.”
Josephine’s first impulse was to advise the woman to stay out of the sun, but she realized that would not be appropriate. So she thought of a second tactic. “If you mix some lemon juice with Venice soap, oil of tartar, and almond oil, you can bleach your freckles. To some extent.”
The redhead’s eyes grew large. “Really?”
“We don’t have any of those ingredients, Rana, so it does no use to think about it.”
“Can’t the general store get you what you need?” Josephine asked. “Or supply you with face cream or rosewater?”
“Rosewater?”
These women were very ignorant. “Rosewater can be used as a skin toner and makes a delightful hair rinse.” More than one woman eyed Josephine’s hair. “Of course it also smells delightful.”
“We could use a few delightful smells around here.”
The women laughed.
“God created people to smell,” said the old woman. “That’s just the way of it.”
Her comment received its own round of giggles and a comment from Martha. “I can guarantee that some smells are from the devil.” She nodded to the group. “Our Jonathan is proof of that.”
Anna and Mary nodded.
One of the babies started to cry, which made another one wail and the older ones fuss. The women were pulled out of their own concerns and brought back to the needs of their children.
“We’d better go. The children are getting hungry.”
As they departed, the redhead touched Josephine’s hand and said, “Thank you kindly for the information about the bleach. Maybe when we get settled on the other side of the mountains, I’ll mix myself some of that.” Then she hurried away.
Watching them, Josephine felt frustrated. “I can’t imagine being without the basic comforts of womanhood.”
“Certainly you know you’ve led a privileged life,” Frieda said.
She felt herself redden. “Of course I know that. But a few creams and oils are basic. I cannot believe the store in town doesn’t carry them. I have a mind to go talk to the owner and convince him to see the advantage of stocking such items. In fact . . .” She looked around for Hudson and saw him talking to some men. She strode over, causing the men to stand and doff their hats. “Gentlemen,” she said. “I am afraid I must take Mr. Maguire away from you.”
Hudson raised an eyebrow. “Apparently, I’ve been summoned. Mr. Deever. Gentlemen. Thank you for the conversation.”
As they walked back toward town, Hudson asked, “What adventure would you like next, Miss Cain?”
“No adventure. I want you to take me to the general store.”
“Is there something you need?”
“Many things.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Let’s go around, Miss Cain,” Hudson said, trying to steer her to a side street.
“But isn’t the general store straight ahead?”
“Yes, but your father asked me to keep you away from the bad parts of town.”
“Oh pooh,” she said. “I have already seen a man shot in front of me. Take me the shortest route, Mr. Maguire—and one that avoids as much mud as possible.”
If Josephine thought she gained appreciative attention walking among the workers in the rail yard, within the boundaries of Cheyenne, she was treated like a pariah.
The men setting up the saloon for the day eyed her, hat to shoe. “Care for a drink, Miss Cain?”
She ignored them but whispered to Frieda and Hudson, “They know my name?”
“Word spreads,” Hudson said.
“It’s rather unnerving.”
“Not much you can do about it.”
She passed the brothel. The women’s blouses were open low, revealing their corsets and more bosom than Josephine thought possible. One stopped and gawked. “What’re you doing out of your cage, girlie?”
Cage?
Hudson pointed a finger at them. “Behave yourselves.”
They made disparaging motions at him.
“Sorry about that,” he said, moving to Josephine’s other side to put himself between her and the prostitutes.
“Not much you can do about it,” she mimicked. But she pulled Frieda along ever faster.
They entered the general store. Seeing them, the proprietor ran a hand over his oily hair. “Ladies.”
Hudson stepped forward. “Mr. Benton, I would like you to meet Miss Cain, the general’s daughter, and her cousin, Mrs. Schultz.”
He made a little bow. “Pleasure to meet you. Fred Benton, at your service.” Then he stopped. “Hey now. I recognize you. You came in here yesterday and took away a towel and bandages. Without paying.”
Josephine was shocked. “Thank you for asking after the shooting victim, Mr. Benton. He is recovering nicely.�
�
The man reddened. “Is there something you need? Specifically, I mean?”
“Not specifically. We simply thought it was time we checked your wares.”
He stepped back to showcase the few shelves that were stocked. “A little of everything and a lot of nothing, I’m afraid. I stock up when a stagecoach comes through, or a shipment on the train, but it’s slow going, and what I do get in gets snatched up pretty fast.”
She perused the shelves. “Why don’t you have more items that women would like to purchase?”
He made a harrumph sound. “Not enough women around to matter.”
She pointed in the direction of the pioneers. “What about the pioneer women? I just talked to them, and I know they would appreciate some products to make their lives easier.”
He moved to a counter of bowls and spoons. “I got kitchen stuff.”
She shook her head. “Your vision is too narrow, Mr. Benton.”
A little girl of about ten or eleven slipped into the store. At first Josephine wondered if one of the Mormon children had followed them here, but judging by her dirty appearance, Josephine guessed she wasn’t one of theirs. Was she Benton’s daughter?
Benton ignored the child and strode toward a china cup and saucer. “Perhaps this would interest you? It’s hand-painted in London.”
It seemed completely out of place among the more practical offerings of tin plates and cups, leather straps, rope, tent pegs, tobacco, beef jerky, blankets, and knives. Plus, it contradicted his objection to womanly products. “I would bet the women out in the camp would much prefer a few face creams and pretty-yet-practical lengths of fabric to teacups.”
He shrugged.
Seeing no other such cup in the store she said, “It seems one of a kind.”
“Oh, it is. I don’t know why they sent it to me, ’cause I sure ain’t gonna sell it to one of the workers, but . . . it seems suited to a fine lady like you—if you don’t mind me saying.”
She didn’t mind. And actually, it was very pretty, with purple violets splayed along the golden rim and around the saucer. “I will take it.”
He beamed. “That’ll be a dollar, miss.”
“That seems excessive, Mr. Benton.” Or perhaps it was a way to get paid for the towel and bandages.
“It is excessive,” Hudson said.
“You find another one within five hundred miles, and I’ll pay you the difference.”
Josephine knew he was right. Besides, she wanted him on her side. If she could convince him to stock a few items for feminine sensibilities, it would be worth it. If not for the ladies at the camp, for the ones who were certain to come after them.
She dug into her reticule and handed him a coin.
He looked around the store. “I’m afraid I don’t have nothing to wrap it in, Miss Cain.”
“No need. Mrs. Schultz and I can carry it safely back to the train.”
The little girl was taking things out of one of the boxes and setting them on the shelf. “Is this your daughter?”
Benton shooed her away. “No, miss, she don’t belong to me.” He raised his voice so she could hear. “And I wouldn’t have her. She works at Miss Mandy’s and needs to go back where she belongs. Right now.”
Surely this sweet young girl wasn’t . . . didn’t . . .
“Go on now, Nelly. Git.”
“But the ladies sent me to—”
“Come back later.”
Nelly eyed Josephine, then ran out.
“She is . . . isn’t she a little young to be . . . be there?”
“And I’m a little old to be here. Is there something else I can interest you in, Miss Cain? A new blanket perhaps?”
She couldn’t imagine needing one of the heavy and itchy-looking blankets. “No thank you. We will be on our way.”
“Come again soon.”
Not likely.
Hudson fell in place beside her. “I’d offer to carry your cup and saucer, but I think it’s best I don’t.”
She smiled. “It would make for an interesting sight.”
Frieda looked around nervously. “Around here you might get shot for it.”
They walked toward the railcar, but Hudson said, “Let’s take the detour I first intended.”
Josephine was weary and just wanted to get back using the shortest route possible. “This shorter way will do just fine. Once more, through the gauntlet.”
When they passed Miss Mandy’s, Josephine couldn’t help but look in the open door for the girl. The brothel was bad enough, but using a child . . .
It made her stomach churn.
One woman, tying back a tent flap, nodded at Josephine. Then she mimed drinking tea from a cup. “Keep yer pinky up, missy.” The other women laughed and lifted their own pinky fingers.
Josephine realized she was carrying the cup and saucer at chest level, her finger through the handle, as if ready to take a sip. She lowered the pieces to her side and hurried even faster.
Then she saw some movement to her right and spotted Lewis quickly walking around a building, his camera in hand. Had he been photographing the prostitutes?
She didn’t want to think about it, so she walked faster.
Hudson hated to see Josephine upset, though he wasn’t sure if seeing the girl, Nelly, was the cause, or seeing Lewis near Miss Mandy’s. When they reached the general’s railcar, he stopped, ready to say his good-byes.
“Oh no, you don’t, Mr. Maguire. You must come in. I need your ear.”
“Of course,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what she had to say.
Once inside, she ripped her hat off her head and threw it on the sofa. Stray hairs found freedom, making her look as wild as her mood.
“That poor girl. How can they use . . . I cannot even imagine such debauchery.”
“So don’t,” Mrs. Schultz said, removing her own hat. “‘For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he.’ Or she. Or you. Don’t let such thoughts come into your mind.”
“My thoughts are nothing compared to the reality Nelly faces.” She paced up and down before stopping in front of Hudson. “This kind of thing has to be stopped.”
“I’m afraid that’s going to be difficult, Miss Cain. Prostitution is the oldest profession.”
“But it doesn’t have to be tempting these men in every spare moment.” She looked toward the town. Was she thinking of Simmons? If so, she didn’t let on, but continued her rant. “And it should never involve a child.”
Mrs. Schultz was nodding. “Never should, but apparently does.”
Josephine seemed to consider this a moment. “Then I shall speak with Papa. He’ll be able to do something.”
She was being naïve. “I’m not sure there’s much he can do about it. He doesn’t have jurisdiction over the town.”
“Then who does? Tell me his name and I shall go to the sheriff or the constable or . . . or whatever he is called.”
Hudson turned his hat in his hands. “Like we said before, there is no sheriff. There’s no law here at all.”
“There has to be order and morals and . . . and . . .”
He softened his voice. “There should be, but there isn’t.”
She sighed heavily.
“I’m sorry. I also wish it were different.”
Her jaw clenched. “Do you?”
He was offended. “Of course I do.” Does she really think so little of me?
Mrs. Schultz put a calming hand on her shoulder. “Josephine, really. You shouldn’t attack Mr. Maguire. He’s been nothing but kind to us, a real gentleman.”
Josephine shrugged her touch away. “But he’s a man, isn’t he? There would be no prostitutes, no gamblers, no drunks, and no killings if it weren’t for men.”
She had gone too far. “Don’t go lumping all men together, Miss Cain. Should I lump you with—”
Her lips tightened and she pointed toward the door. “Out. Go. Thank you for your time, Mr. Maguire.”
This was how s
he wanted to end the morning?
Her arm remained pointed toward the back of the railcar. Hudson put on his hat, adjusted it, then touched its rim. “Good day, Miss Cain.”
As he left the car, Frieda ran after him. “We both thank you, Mr. Maguire. She’s just upset. She doesn’t mean it.”
He nodded to let her know that he’d heard.
And hoped she was right.
“Sit!” Frieda told Josephine.
Josephine fell onto the sofa, feeling as if all strength had left her body. “I know, I know.”
“Do you?” Frieda nailed her fists into her hips. “You are rude to Mr. Maguire, accusing him of being as bad as those men who partake of the temptations, when he’s been nothing but kind and considerate to us.”
Josephine hung her head. “I feel horrible.”
“As you should. You’re not mad at him. You’re mad about seeing Lewis and about that little girl’s situation. Neither of which are Mr. Maguire’s fault.”
Frieda was right of course. But admitting she was wrong . . .
Frieda upped the ante. “If you don’t set this right, I will tell your father about you wandering off and meeting the Indian woman.”
“I didn’t wander off. I merely went for a walk. And you were with me. It was wonderful. I wouldn’t take that back for anything.”
“You put both of us at risk, Liebchen. You seem to have a penchant for that.”
Right again. Josephine had no choice. “Fine. I will go after Mr. Maguire and apologize.” She paused at the door. “You won’t mention the Indian woman to Papa?”
“We’ll see.”
“Frieda . . .”
The woman flipped a hand at her. “Go. Make things right. And hurry up about it.”
“Mr. Maguire, wait!”
Hudson turned around and saw Josephine running toward him, her skirt grasped in both hands, the edges of her white petticoat dancing. He guessed she was coming to apologize—he hoped she was. The despair he’d felt just moments before began to lift.
She reached him and put a hand to her chest and another at her waist. “I am . . . so . . . sorry,” she said between breaths.
