Way Back

by Williams, Abbie;

  Wasn’t that just exactly how…

  Oh God.

  What’s wrong?

  Something is so wrong…

  My mind, half-deranged with exhausted pain, would not assemble together well enough to finish this thought.

  “But what’s your name, miss?” Axton pressed.

  I wanted to answer this question. I knew my name – it was there, somewhere, I knew it was. Tears blurred my vision along with frustration and fear. I struggled through a muddy mental swamp of sounds and images, unable to pull forth the right answer.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered miserably.

  “She’s been hurt bad,” Branch was telling someone. “Poor little thing soiled herself, too.”

  I had, and was sick with embarrassment over this fact, but there was nothing to be done. Branch had halted the wagon only a minute ago, before lifting me into his huge arms and climbing wide steps to enter a building; he carried me like a baby, my head cradled against his massive chest, and the smell of his leather garments was so strong I could hardly bear to inhale. I heard the sounds of conversation, laughter, and clinking glasses from somewhere nearby; I was too embarrassed to open my eyes.

  “Lord above, take her upstairs,” a woman ordered. Her voice was low-pitched and rough, like a heavy smoker’s. “I can only just imagine the story behind this one.” There was a pause before she purred, “Axton Douglas, just look at you. You get any more handsome and my girls’ll skin them britches right off of you. You best watch yourself in here.” She laughed, her tone full of crude suggestion.

  “Dammit, Rilla, leave him be,” Branch ordered. “He’s just a boy.”

  “He ain’t a boy. He’s a man, you old blind turkey.” I felt the woman’s touch on my cheek. Her wrist smelled of musky perfume.

  “Ax, go fetch Doc Turn,” Branch said.

  “Doc’s drunk,” Axton replied, and I imagined him shrugging. “I seen him outside The Forked Hoof as we came down Main.”

  The woman chimed in again, rife with impatience. “Go and fetch him anyway! Celia, come with me. Where in the name of Jezebel did you find this beat-up gal, Branch?”

  “A dozen or so miles from town, near the creek bottom. Damn near rolled the wagon over her. She was lying beside the trail.” Branch spoke as he carried me up a flight of stairs; I cringed at the clunky motion. My pants were wet with urine but Branch held me securely. The quality of the light on my eyelids changed, becoming soft; the lights downstairs must have been brighter. Up here, it was dim.

  Open your eyes, I thought, but instead they rolled backward into my skull.

  Somehow, the pain had been erased.

  I hovered just a few inches from the ceiling, suspended effortlessly, watching events unfold in the little room just below. I saw my naked body lying on a narrow bed; a nightstand was positioned nearby, on top of which was a small, brown-glass bottle. Two women worked over me, dipping rags in a basin of water between them, washing my skin. One of my legs was bent, the bottom of my foot touching the inside of the opposite knee. My head was limp, tilted to the side so that I could only see one of my closed eyes, unpleasantly cast in gray shadows. My hands lay lax, the undersides of my wrists pale in the candlelight, streaked with blue veins. My hair was tangled and scattered across the pillow.

  I looked dead.

  Who you suppose beat these bruises into her? One of the women skimmed her fingers over my forehead and downward along my ribcage.

  She ain’t been beat, the other disagreed. Looks like a fall.

  The one touching me let her fingertips glide across my belly, a gentle caress. The touch provoked images that blazed through my mind with all the force of a beating – but I welcomed these sensations as I had never welcomed anything.

  C’mere, angel, and let me kiss your lips. His husky, loving voice poured over me with the sweetness of honey; hovering there near the ceiling, I jolted to life. My desperate gaze flew around the room, seeking the man attached to that voice.

  Which lips, exactly? I heard my teasing response, my easy laughter, and felt him beneath my hands, the warm strength of his naked body as I fit myself against its length.

  You tell me which, he murmured, kissing my neck, caressing my breasts with knowing fingers.

  Both, of course. I shivered with heated delight.

  I love you, Ruthann, oh God, I love you. I can’t do without you. Tell me you know that, angel.

  I know it, sweetheart. I could taste his kisses, could feel them all the way to my center. I love you, too. I love you with all my heart. Don’t go –

  Desperation slammed my senses. He was dissolving from my grasp. My arms were clutched around nothing.

  No! Oh God, no, please don’t leave me here!

  But he was already gone.

  The next time I became conscious I was in the bed rather than hovering over it. A curtain of mist hazed my vision, as though someone had applied cellophane to my eyeballs. Two women hovered behind a man sitting on the mattress near my left hip. The man was elderly and bearded; he wore little round glasses and smelled like a nasty barroom floor. He cleared his throat and ordered, Every hour or so, another dose.

  We’ll need a fresh bottle in that case, one of the women said.

  It ain’t for you. Give it to this here girl. There was open disgust in his tone.

  I just had me a taste, the woman replied, sounding sullen.

  He muttered, Whores’ll be whores.

  I had no desire to be here so I closed my eyes and floated away.

  Day and night seemed to swirl together; I was reminded of cake batter being stirred, a continuous incorporation of the liquids into the powders, a creamy whirl of flowing time. When the twirling sensation finally ebbed I could smell the sweetness of vanilla extract and melting sugar grains; I stood quietly, watching as an older woman with plump, freckled arms and a long, gray braid hanging over her shoulder used a whisk in a yellow bowl. She smiled down at me with love, resting a hand on my cheek.

  She said, Just a taste now, little Ruthie.

  On the other side of wide windows, a blue lake gleamed under bright midday sunshine.

  Two curly-haired girls, both older than me, caught my hands in theirs, swinging me over each crack in a well-used parking lot. They made a game of it, laughing and exclaiming, lifting me as high as they were able. I studied their faces with awe. Their eyes seemed to glow, one with a shimmering golden-green light, the other such a dazzling blue I could hardly look straight at her.

  I stumbled, losing my grasp as though my hands had suddenly melted, and fell to the ground. Blood seeped from my knees. Bits of gravel grew sticky with blood, clinging to the gashes in my skin.

  I cried at the sight, tears hot on my cheeks.

  It’s all right. The blue-eyed girl spoke soothingly, crouching to put her beautiful face near mine. Gentle hands stroked my hair. You’ll be all right, Ruthie.

  You’ll be all right.

  Gray eyes appeared next, intense gray eyes like a storm front coming across the lake, inescapable and dangerous. But I had no fear. I wanted those eyes close to me. I knew them. Need rose inside me as swiftly as a river flooding its banks.

  I’m coming for you.

  I will find you, Ruthann, I swear to you I will find you.

  His voice was severe with the desire for me to acknowledge the truth of what he spoke, and even suspended as I was in a spider’s web of unreality I struggled toward it. I moaned and cried for him, feeling my legs jerk and my arms twitch.

  Another voice, one I did not know, sliced through my awareness with a sharp demand –Where’s that goddamn bottle? It’s wearing off!

  Try as I might, I wasn’t strong enough to shove away the woman who loomed near and forced me to drink from a small bottle.

  “Leave off that laudanum, Jesus Christ,” someone muttered. I thought it might be Branch Douglas. And then I could smell him, and knew for sure. “It’s been past a week now. She’s frail as a newborn. She don’t need no more of it.”
r />   “She ain’t your responsibility,” the low-voiced woman replied. “Nor mine. I been losing money on this room, I’ll have you know.”

  “I do know it, and I have a coin for you.” Branch sighed. “I feel responsible. I feel I oughta look out for her. No one knows a thing about her. The boy and me been asking everyone. No people, no nothin’.”

  “She’s an awfully pretty little thing.” The woman’s words were loaded with insinuation.

  “Jesus Christ. That never crossed my mind. She’s but a young girl!”

  “I got plenty younger than her working for me. You plan to marry her?”

  “I ain’t the marrying kind,” Branch responded crisply. His tone suggested he may have literally shuddered at the thought. “Leave me be. I have a wish to speak with her.”

  “She ain’t even awake.”

  “She’s flutterin’,” he said, and my eyelids were doing that very thing.

  “I’ll not be ordered from my own room,” the woman muttered, but moments later I heard the click of a door closing. I opened my eyes all the way.

  Branch sat on a chair he’d dragged near the bed. By the unforgiving light of mid-morning, he was a sorry sight. He was a big man, round as a barrel through the middle, thick-shouldered, huge hands curled around the tops of his widespread knees. I couldn’t make sense of his outfit, which seemed to be made of old leather, dirty and stained, shiny at the kneecaps. His face and hands were tanned a deep brown. A long red scar sliced across one cheek and he was as bearded as a sheepdog, with shaggy, graying hair. His eyes were full of kindness.

  “Good morning,” he said, with a nod. “Glad to see you looking alive, little lady.”

  I managed a weak smile. For whatever reason, I liked him.

  “You feeling any better this morn?” Despite his ragged appearance, he asked this question like a gentleman.

  “I am.” At the rough quality of my voice he jolted to motion, reaching for a cup near the bedside. He passed it to my hands and I rose to one elbow to accept it. I drank the lukewarm, metallic-tasting water and tried for a deep breath. The pain holding me prisoner had eased.

  “You’re looking better,” he observed. “I don’t want to trouble you none but I am sore curious about you. Where’s your people? How’d you come to be alone way out here in the territory?”

  “Where?” I whispered, easing back against a pillow. It was sweat-soaked and smelled terrible. And I wasn’t any better; I couldn’t recall the last time I’d bathed. My scalp itched, my skin itched, and my teeth felt mossy. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on one thing at a time.

  “Montana Territory, miss. Ain’t a place for a lady on her own.” He rubbed his palms briskly over his thighs. “Axton and me came from Tennessee, once upon a time ago. Axton’s pa, my older brother, was killed in the War, and his mama died not long later. I raised him up from a sprout, soon as I got home from the fighting. We been on the move a long time now. We get by as we can. We’ve done some mining in these parts and staked a little claim north of town. Now that I think on it, we’ve been here near to five years. Don’t seem so long as that.”

  My head swam and Branch saw something wrong in my expression; concern bunched his features and his bushy eyebrows lifted. “What’s troubling you, little lady? I would truly like to know.”

  “What is the year today?” I sounded so stupid to my own ears. But I needed to know.

  Branch’s eyebrows now drew together. “The year?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. I tried not to appear as desperate as I felt. “What is the year, today?”

  “It is the eleventh of July, year of our Lord 1881,” he answered politely.

  I squinted; my heart jerked and lurched, gaining speed until it battered my insides. I swallowed hard. The water in the tin cup had left a bad taste in my mouth.

  “They’ve been plying you with laudanum, pretty regular,” Branch explained. “I figure that’s making you forget things. You’re a bit hazy yet. Doc thinks you got a cracked rib or two, honey, and you’re awful bruised up. Can’t splint a cracked rib. Ain’t nothing but time and rest can heal it. He thinks you fell from a horse. Do you recollect?”

  I shook my head, numb with growing fear. I had no recollection of anything beyond waking on the ground and being found by Branch and Axton.

  Branch held my gaze, his expression both earnest and kind. “I aim to look after you. The boy and me ain’t got but a shanty to live in, so I can’t rightly bring you out there. But Rilla said she might be able to find work for you, to earn your bed here.” He rumbled a laugh, clarifying hastily, “Not as a whore, mind you, though them gals are all good girls. But perhaps Rilla’s got other work you can do, until we find your people. For now, you rest.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered. I was so confused and scared it seemed a wad of coals had caught fire behind my breastbone. But I didn’t let Branch see this, not when he was trying his best to help me.

  “Do you recall your name?” he asked. “I feel we ain’t been introduced proper-like. My name is Brandon Charles Douglas, after my daddy, but I been called ‘Branch’ since I was a sprout.”

  “Ruthann,” I whispered, as though plucking the name from thin air. But it was mine, I somehow knew this truth. Tears prickled my eyes as I said with quiet certainty, “Rawley. My name is Ruthann Rawley.”

  “That’s a fine name.” Branch smiled broadly, relieved I had remembered something. One of his front teeth was brownish with rot. He spoke with fondness. “Ruth was my mama’s name, God rest her. And Rawley, you say? That’s inneresting. I wonder if you’re related to the marshal. He has kin in these parts.”

  At the word marshal, my heart jolted. I put my hand over it to still its frantic thrusting.

  Branch continued explaining. “Though, Rawley ain’t been in these parts in a good three months. He has a vast amount of territory to cover but he’ll be back this way before autumn. He deputized Alvin Furlough to keep an eye on the town in the meantime, but everyone knows Alvin ain’t a threat to no criminal. At least, not when he’s drunk, and he’s drunk most of the time.” Branch stopped his musing and held out his right hand. He grinned. “I’m right pleased to meet you, Miss Ruthann.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, too.” I slipped my palm against his and his grin stretched wider, exposing more rotten teeth, as he pumped our hands two times.

  “Pleased as a peacock,” he said amiably. “You hungry, honey?”

  “I am,” I whispered.

  Chapter Two

  AXTON CAME TO SIT WITH ME THAT VERY EVENING.

  I had sipped tea and beef broth intermittently since morning, all I could manage to stomach just now, and was currently wrapped in a worn shawl and stationed in a rocking chair on a narrow back porch, which faced west. I felt like an invalid, even though I had tried rather hard not to feel anything at all through this endless day. Terror crouched at the back of my mind, waiting for me to openly acknowledge its presence.

  “It’s pretty out, ain’t it?” Axton asked. He sat to my right, rocking in a languid, unhurried fashion as he studied the setting sun.

  I kept my own chair still, too unsteady to rock, both bare feet pressed to the floorboards of the porch. In my hands I clutched a tin cup of tea. It was warm against my palms, for which I was grateful – despite the shawl tucked around my shoulders, the rest of my body was chilled. I’d battled bouts of trembling all day.

  “Ain’t it?” Axton encouraged softly, hoping to elicit a response.

  “It is,” I agreed, and this was true; the view was a pretty one. The town, such as it was, sprawled in the opposite direction, leaving the western view unimpeded. The land was wild, rangy prairie, studded with scrub brush. To the north, a ridge of foothills broke the otherwise straight line of the horizon. The air was still and dry, tinted a brilliant purple as the sun sank. A fire seemed to be burning in the sky just beyond our view; thin clouds blazed in a bright variety of orange hues. Behind us, in the saloon, lanterns were being lit, sending slices o
f golden light into the gathering darkness.

  “Uncle Branch and me do some mining, yonder, beyond our claim,” Axton said, gesturing northward. “There’s plenty of gold in the hills, if you’re lucky enough to find it. We ain’t expecting to get rich, but that would be a fine thing indeed.”

  “Indeed,” I echoed. Piano music from the main room of the saloon came tinkling through the back door, propped open to the pleasant evening with a corked gallon jug. Someone was playing a fiddle. Tears wet my eyes.

  “We’ll look out for you, don’t worry none,” Axton assured me, as he had three times already; he’d spied my tears. “Miss Rilla said she’ll let you help with the wash. She won’t make you work as a whore, Uncle Branch made certain.”

  Hysterical laughter threatened at his words but I bit into my tongue. Axton used the word ‘whore’ very matter-of-factly; it didn’t sound like an insult in that particular tone, simply a job description. And though I didn’t know him well, I couldn’t imagine Axton speaking cruelly about anyone. I found it in my heart to be grateful I was under no expectations to work as a whore at the saloon; had that been the case, I felt empty enough to disappear into the open prairie. This time, I’d be sure I wasn’t found before I died.

  “It’s like we’re in a movie,” I whispered.

  Axton tilted his head to look my way and I sensed his confusion. “Like we’re in a what?”

  I shook my head, not sure exactly what I meant either. Strange images had troubled me erratically throughout the day; I tried to blame the laudanum. I muttered, “Never mind.”

  I’d learned many things about Axton in the past hour. His shyness faded the longer we sat together on the porch, replaced by an earnest curiosity; he was also kind and intuitive, recognizing my inability to answer personal questions, eagerly filling the void with his own stories. His parents had been named Charles and Mary Douglas but he didn’t remember anything else about them, or his former home in Tennessee; his father was killed in action during the War Between the States without ever setting eyes upon Axton, and his mother died before he was a year old. Both were buried in a small Tennessee town called Suttonville.