by Sharon Sala
Yeah, you pretend you don’t know me now, but just wait until you come knockin’ on my door again. I might be too busy for your miserable dollar.
She stepped off the sidewalk, ignoring the dust swirling about the hem of her dress and she headed for the store on the other side of the street. Several wagons were parked nearby and she frowned, wishing she’d paid closer attention to how busy it was. She wasn’t in the mood for shocked expressions and cold stares from the homesteaders’ wives who considered her less than the dust beneath their feet.
She slipped inside without calling attention to herself and began to circle the room, fingering the new shipment of cloth and eyeing the colorful tins and boxes along the shelves as Matt filled orders for customers at the counter.
Just when she thought she was going to escape detection, she heard a muffled gasp and then a snort of disapproval. She looked up and found herself face to face with the one and only Sophie Hollis.
Willing to ignore the fact that they were touching the same bolt of cloth, Letty dropped the fabric she’d been eyeing and turned away, but not before she heard Sophie’s indignant hiss.
“How dare you?” Sophie muttered.
Letty turned. “How dare I what?”
Surprised by the harlot’s cavalier attitude, Sophie’s face reddened. She dropped the other corner of the fabric as if it had become disgusting, but found herself locked into Letty Murphy’s stare.
“I do not converse with your sort,” Sophie muttered.
It hurt, but Letty would have died before she’d acknowledge the slight. She shrugged.
“If you don’t want an answer, then don’t ask the question,” Letty said.
She gave Sophie a slow once-over then lifted her chin and strode directly up to the counter and spoke to Matt.
“Did my order come in?”
Matt eyed the red flush on her cheeks, then the woman in the back of the room, and figured the best way to avoid a fire was to remove the tinder before the match was struck.
“Shore did, Letty. I got it all packed up for you here under the counter. It’ll be two dollars and thirty-seven cents.”
Letty counted out her money, laid it on the counter and started to pick up her package when she felt a presence behind her. Before she could turn around, a man had reached over her shoulder, lifted the package from the counter and cupped her elbow.
“Miss Murphy, I hope you will allow me to carry this for you?”
Even before she turned around, she recognized the voice and her heart began to pound. It was Gentleman Jim. He’d come back!
She turned with a smile, aware that all eyes were on her. “Why, yes, thank you Mr. Dupree. I would appreciate your help.”
Dupree was wearing a white linen suit and a broad-brimmed Panama hat especially for her, and had come into the store just in time to hear the interchange between Letty and the other woman. While there wasn’t anything he could do to change what had happened, he could give her a graceful exit. He tipped his hat to the gawking women, and then smiled down at Letty as he led her from the store.
Letty’s heart was still pounding and she was starting to feel faint. Maybe she should have eaten that steak before she did her shopping instead of waiting until later. Curious, she glanced up at the gambler and felt her heart skip a beat.
“I figured we’d seen the last of you.”
His smile slipped. “I hadn’t planned on returning.”
“Then why did you?” Letty asked.
“Because of you,” he said softly.
They crossed the dusty street in silence. It wasn’t until they’d gained the shade of front of the White Dove Saloon that Letty found the nerve to speak.
“What did you mean by that?”
Dupree handed her the package. “You, dear lady, have haunted my dreams. Will you have dinner with me? The hotel fixes a fairly decent meal.”
“Now?”
He nodded.
“Why? Why me?”
He shook his head and then smiled. “If I knew the answer to that, I might have kept riding,” he said. “So will you?”
“If you’ll give me a few minutes to fix myself up, then yes. I can’t go out with my hair like this.”
He fingered the thick brown strands resting on her shoulders then shook his head.
“Please… leave it. I like it like this.”
Will came outside, eyed the couple and frowned. “Your steak is done, Letty. Ain’t you comin’ in to eat it?”
Letty thrust her package into his arms.
“Give it to Eulis,” she said. “And put this in my room. I’m having dinner with Mr. Dupree.”
“Now Letty… you can’t just go and—”
Her eyes went hard. The smile on her lips thinned to nothing.
“I don’t work for you until the sun goes down.”
Having said her piece, she lifted her chin, thrust her hand beneath the gambler’s elbow and followed him down the street.
WESTWARD HOWE
Unaware of the building turmoil in Lizard Flats, Randall Howe was suffering some doubts of his own. Between the heat, the coal dust, and the squalling child in the seat across the aisle, he thought he might lose his mind. And that was only within the first three hours after boarding this train. It was the second leg of his journey into the territories and he was already regretting his decision. Maybe he should have stayed and married Priscilla after all. It wasn’t the worst fate he could imagine. As soon as he was allowed, he retired to the sleeper car and crawled into his bunk, morose, and full of self-pity. Foregoing his noon meal, he continued to mope, and sometime during the heat of the day, fell asleep.
He woke just as the sun was beginning to set. His stomach growled as he rolled onto his back and he wondered if it was too late to get something to eat. Just as he was considering the wisdom of heading for the dining car, the train suddenly ground to a halt. Were it not for his quick reflexes, he would have fallen out of his bunk and into the aisle.
Muttering to himself about the carelessness of the engineer, he looked out the window, expecting to see some sort of town or at the least a depot. Instead, he saw nothing but a vast, rolling prairie. With a disgusted shrug, he thought again of the dining car and was about to get up when he heard a woman’s high-pitched scream. He paused, peering nervously out the window, and again, saw nothing. Carefully, he parted the curtains of his bunk and looked out into the aisle, but all he could see were the curtained compartments of the other bunks.
“I say,” he called out. “What’s going on?”
Someone muttered a curse from a bed close by, but it was the only answer he received. Weary to his bones and missing his clean, soft bed in the Boston rectory, he closed his eyes, contemplating the sins that had brought him to this fate.
It occurred to him then to just get off the train. It would be a long trek back to the next town, but it would be worth it. With a little luck, he could be in Boston tomorrow. He thought of his clothes, stashed somewhere in the baggage car and the blisters he would get on his feet. Then he thought of the Bishop’s anger and Priscilla Greenspan’s outrage—and not the least of it all, her father’s indignation, and rolled back into the bunk and closed his eyes; the food forgotten.
A few minutes passed, and Randall began to doze. On the verge of a snore, a gunshot suddenly sounded at close range, followed by another.
His eyes popped open. A woman screamed again, but this time close by.
“This is a stick up! Don’t nobody move!” a man suddenly yelled.
Holdup? Dear Lord! Money! His money. They would take it all.
With shaking hands, he ripped his wallet from his coat, removing all but a few dollars, and then frantically stuffed the money between the wall and his bunk. Desperate to finish the deed before he was discovered, he shoved his wallet back in his pocket and reached for his bible, praying as he’d never prayed before.
He could hear them now, laughing and yelling as they tore through the sleeping compartments, taking je
welry and money from the terrified passengers. A woman began to cry, begging for them not to take her wedding ring. Randall leaned against the wall of the compartment, taking comfort in the knowledge that most of his money had been secured.
They were closer to him now—just across the aisle—then the compartment above him. He held his breath. Suddenly the curtains of his sleeping compartment were ripped open. Randall found himself staring into the barrel of a gun.
“Hand over yore stuff!”
Randall’s hands were trembling as he began to fumble in the pocket of his coat.
“Well, well, what we got here?” the outlaw drawled, as he grabbed up Randall’s bible and began waving it over his head. “Lookee here, boys. We got ourselves a preacher man.”
Randall’s first impression of the outlaw was of filth—from the brown crust on his knuckles to the stains on the outlaw’s clothes. His second impression was the stench. His nostrils flared. Had the man ever bathed?
The outlaw stared at Randall over the top of his mask and then tossed the bible aside and held out the bag.
“Gimmee your valuables,” he growled. “And be quick about it.”
“Take it and be gone,” Randall said, as he dropped his wallet and pocket watch into the bag. Then he took out his handkerchief and covered his nose, trying hard not to gag from the outlaw’s breath.
The outlaw wagged his gun under Randall’s nose. “What’s ’a matter mister? Ain’t you never smelled a real man a’fore?”
Fear disappeared as a wave of disdain reconstructed Randall’s expression. “Oh, is that what you are?”
The man spit in Randall’s face.
They were gone as abruptly as they’d arrived. Outside, the outlaws mounted up and rode off into the setting sun as Randall threw up in the aisle. While it was some consolation that he’d saved the bulk of his money, at that moment, he would have traded it all for a bath.
The next day, they finally rolled into Feeney. It was to be the first place on his missionary journey where he would preach the word of God. His anticipation of the upcoming event had helped him get past the trauma of yesterday’s robbery. Here was where his new life was destined to begin.
He stepped off the train with his head held high, the bible in one hand and his bag in the other. He walked with purpose across the platform and into the street. Seconds later, the distinct odor of manure drifted up his nostrils. He looked down and groaned. He was standing in shit—horse to be exact.
“Reverend Howe?”
Randall forced a smile and looked up, finding himself eye to eye with, quite possibly, the tallest, homeliest woman he’d ever seen. She was wearing a pair of men’s pants, as well as a man’s shirt and jacket. Her brown, shoulder-length hair was pulled away from her face, and tied at the back of her neck, elongating her features even more. The wide-brimmed hat she wore low on her forehead shaded her eyes, as well as most of her face—and still she squinted; more from habit than any nearby glare. By his best guess, she was in her late thirties. Put off by her appearance, as well as her manly attire, it was all he could do not to stare.
“Yes, I’m Reverend Howe.”
“Welcome to Feeney.”
She extended her hand to him as one man would have to another. There was something commanding about her presence. He took it without hesitation.
“Name’s Mehitable Doone. I own the biggest spread in these parts. You’ll be stayin’ at my house until you’re ready to leave.”
Randall beamed. At last a semblance of normalcy had returned to his life. He tipped his hat.
“I appreciate your kindness… and that of your husband,” he said.
“Ain’t got one,” Mehitable announced, and yanked his bag from his hand. “Follow me. I’ll show you the church on the way out of town.”
Stunned that he’d allowed a woman to carry his bag, he began to run along behind, trying to catch up and rectify his social faux pas.
“Uh, I say, Mrs… uh, Miss…”
“Hellsfire, preacher. Just call me Hetty, ever’one does.”
He flushed. “Well then, Hetty… about the church.”
She pointed off to her left. “There it be.”
He looked. His steps slowed and then he stopped.
“Where?” he asked.
“There,” she said, pointing to a vacant space between a saloon and a livery stable. “We’ll be settin’ up some benches.”
“You mean I’m to speak without… uh… you mean there isn’t a real…”
Mehitable snorted. “Oh hell no, there ain’t no church. The town ain’t but five years old.” Then she added. “But everyone is fired up about your comin’ and all. You’ll probably draw a good crowd.”
Randall took a deep breath, reminding himself that of course things would be different out here. It wasn’t that he minded preaching outdoors, in fact, now that he thought about it, it seemed fitting. He would be like Moses who’d wandered in the wilderness before bringing his children to God. And the mention of a crowd didn’t hurt. Randall liked to preach to a crowd almost as much as he liked lifting women’s skirts.
“That’s fine, just fine,” he said, then resumed his sprint to catch up with his hostess.
Their ride to the ranch was long, but without fault, and for the first time since leaving Boston, Randall began to have hope. He glanced up at the sky. It was cloudless. That meant no rain. He glanced at the woman beside him. Her eyes were still squinting against the glare of the sun, and the hair hanging out from beneath her hat was whipping wildly about her face as the buggy sped along the road.
“Have you lived here long?” Randall asked.
“Born here,” she said, and flicked her whip across the backs of her team, spurring them on to greater speed.
Randall tightened his grip on the seat to keep from being pitched out and searched for another vein of conversation that might not play out as fast.
“So, your family was here before the town of Feeney, right?”
She looked at him then as she might have a simpleton; with pity and patience. “Yeah, that would figure now, wouldn’t it?”
He flushed. Damnable woman. If he’d met more like her in his past, he wouldn’t be where he was now.
“So when do we get to your ranch?”
She tightened her grip on the reins and pointed with her chin. “We been on it ever since we left town and we’d still be on it if we kept drivin’ ’til tomorrow.”
Randall’s eyes widened as he looked at his hostess with renewed respect.
“You own the town of Feeney?”
“In a manner of speakin’.”
“Then was it you who requested the presence of a minister here?”
She threw back her head and laughed and Randall had a fleeting impression of a horse whinnying. Added to that, he wasn’t sure, but he might have just been insulted.
“If not you, then who?” he asked.
“My sister. She thinks she wants to be a nun.”
It was all he could do not to gawk. “But I’m not Catholic.”
Hetty shrugged. “It don’t hardly matter. Neither is she.”
***
Charity Doone was on her knees in prayer when she heard the buggy. It had to be Hetty. She always drove as if she was in a constant race with herself. Her pulse accelerated as she jumped to her feet and dashed to the window. This was the third time in as many days that Hetty had gone to town to meet the train, and each time she’d come home alone. She peeked through the curtains, her expression fixed, her lower lip caught between the edges of her teeth.
Please God, let this be the day. Please let the preacher be here.
At the age of twenty-three, Charity needed some answers to the dilemmas overruling her life. Hetty had been after her for more than five years to pick a man and get married. But somehow the thought had seemed foreign. Hetty had followed her own inclinations rather than those of society. No one had forced her into something she didn’t want. Charity couldn’t see why she had to be t
he one to make all the sacrifices. There were things that she wanted to do. Places she wanted to see. And marrying some rancher who cared more for his cows than he did her wasn’t high on her list of importance.
And then there was the dream. She’d had it a total of seventeen times now—of standing naked before God in a pale white light and pledging her life to him always. At least she thought it was God to whom she kept making the promises. In her dream, the man was tall and strong and cloaked in the light shining down upon her, and she’d wept with joy as he reached out his hand. In the dream she kept feeling his fingers against her palm, and every time she would get to the point of seeing his face, the dream would end. But Charity had deduced that was because no one on earth had looked upon the face of God.
Her fervor to follow the dream was about to begin as she gazed out upon the man getting out of the buggy. Her pulse kicked. The preacher was finally here!
She needed guidance and answers, and who better suited than a man of God? She held her breath, waiting, willing him to turn around. When he did, she exhaled on a sigh. His countenance was glorious, just as she had expected it to be.
She dashed to the mirror and fussed with her hair, poking loose ends into place and pinching her cheeks until they were a deep, rosy pink. Smoothing her hands down the front of her dress, she stepped into the hall and made her way to the drawing room at the front of the house. Already she could hear Hetty’s loud, booming voice and winced, hoping the preacher would not be put off by her sister’s strange ways. A few moments later, she entered the room, pausing in the doorway and allowing herself a final moment to collect her thoughts.
But then Hetty turned around and Charity’s thoughts were no longer her own.
“Here’s Charity now,” she said. “Reverend Howe, this here’s my sister, Charity Doone.”
Charity curtsied. “Reverend Howe, it is an honor, I’m sure.”
To say Randall was stunned would be putting it mildly. He kept staring from Hetty, to Charity, and back again.
When he could speak, the best he could say was, “You don’t look anything alike.”
Hetty snorted. Charity blushed. At four inches over five feet tall, and with her baby doll face and womanly shape, she was the antithesis of Mehitable Doone.
