Jane takes half a step back, as though she has been struck. “Your wife?”
He shrugs. “I got hitched back in May. I was going to tell you eventually . . . but, yes, Jane. I’m married.” His tone is gentle, but even so, the soiled doves all bear similar expressions of sadness and anger. It is impossible to ignore that this is a blow to our poor Jane.
“You went and got married? Without even discussing it with me?” Lily yelps. The girl is too young to parse the subtext of Jackson’s declaration.
All of my attention is for Jane. I remember how she looked when she thought Jackson was dead, the anguish that had crossed her face before she twisted her expression back into her usual scowl. The naked despair on her face now puts that past sorrow to shame.
Jane tries to recover, and Jackson watches her expectantly. I am not quite sure why. Does he want her to cry? I know they were close, close enough that I am sure Jane has compromised the boy a few times. But there is something here I just do not understand.
“Well, congratulations!” I say, forcing all the brightness I can muster into my voice. “Lovely that you, sir, have been able to find a wife amid the tragedy and death of these end times. You are quite the enterprising fellow.”
Jane makes a choked sound that is somewhere between laughter and a sob, and I keep talking, hoping no one else has heard her. I have found that when all else fails, a sunny disposition can save the moment.
I continue. “While Fort Riley does sound like a potential goal for us eventually, how delightful to be able to reconnect with other Baltimoreans, it seems that the only reasonable plan of action is that we seek out the nearest settlement, no matter whose wife may or may not be in residence there.” Once again, the group murmurs its assent. I look to Jackson and Jane, and they both give curt nods.
I give everyone my best smile and clap my hands once like Miss Duncan, my old instructor at Miss Preston’s. No one could redirect a mishap like Miss Duncan, and her poise was unimpeachable.
“Excellent, then let us stop wasting daylight.” I gesture for Sallie to take up the reins again. “Jackson, can you man lead scout? Jane and I will take the rear.”
He stalks off toward the front of the wagon and sets out with long strides. Jane and I fall behind and slightly to the left of the wagon, doing our best to stay out of the considerable cloud of dust the wheels kick up. After a short while it becomes clear that it is a wasted effort, and, using my boot knife, I slice off a strip of my petticoat to tie around my nose and mouth. I slice a piece for Jane as well, and she takes it without a word.
“Are you okay?” I ask in a low voice. I daresay Jane and I are not exactly confidantes, even after our trials together in Summerland. Our friendship is newborn, and I am wary of placing a strain upon it that it will not bear. I remember too well our first meeting and how quick Jane is to take offense at the least little comment. But it is plain to see that she is hurt. She cares about that boy in a way I only understand in an academic context. I know love, of course, but not the push-pull of whatever Jane shares with Jackson. I have come to believe that it just is not in my being to feel such a powerful longing for a person, not physically nor romantically. I am sure that there are lots of reasons why, and folks most likely would try to blame my upbringing, which I would say is wholly incorrect. I am the way God has made me, and I shall not question the wisdom of my Creator. But whatever the reason, the true fact is that I have never had to deal with the complications of romantic entanglements, because they are just not something I desire nor will seek out.
But no matter how she may feel about me, I care about Jane deeply. And even if I do not understand the pain she feels right now, it does not mean I cannot support her through it.
That is what friends do.
Jane does not answer, and I bump my shoulder into hers, give my boot knife a few quick flips. “We could kill him if you would like.”
That gets Jane’s attention, and she looks at me with wide-eyed surprise. For a brief moment I think I am going to have to explain the joke, but then she bursts out in a hearty laugh.
“Kate, you are too much.”
“Perhaps you are right. But we should at least cover him in honey and leave him out for the ants. I am still rather sore at him for getting us shipped out west. Kansas, of all places! And now he has hurt your feelings? That definitely warrants some kind of retaliation.”
Jane sighs and shakes her head. “It’s fine. I’m fine, Kate. But thank you. I’m going to fall back a little more, this dirt is all up in my eyes.” She swipes at her face, and I know the tears are not because of the dust at all.
She drops back a little ways behind me, turning and watching our rear as we walk. I draw up alongside the wagon a bit more, and smile brightly at Lily and the Madam. Thomas is still sleeping, poor thing. Does he even realize his plight?
“How is Jane doing?” the Madam asks.
“Oh, she is just . . . tired. She was up all night killing the dead, and I daresay today has been even more eventful.” The briefest memory of the sheriff’s office in the aftermath of our shootout flashes in my vision: dead men, blood everywhere, Pastor Snyder yelling expletives at us as we armed ourselves and departed. My smile turns brittle, and I have to blink hard to keep back the anxious sensation that plagues me like a restless beast. “It will be better for all of us when we find a place to rest.”
The Madam nods, and if she notices my momentary lapse in composure she does not say. As an Attendant, it is my job to always remain in control of my emotions, no matter how strong they may be.
I turn my attention back to the tall grass on either side of the road, taking as deep a breath as the corset will allow, and try to will myself calm. The old panic gnaws away at the edges of my mind, a constant catalog of worries that now includes all the terrible things Jane must be feeling and a fair bit of guilt over the dead men back in Summerland. My pulse thrums, and if I were to stop walking I fear that everything would overwhelm me. I wish my corset were tighter. Even though Jane hates the thing, calling it certain suicide in a shambler fight, the control the garment provides helps me to keep the panic inside. Jane would surely laugh at the thought, a bit of satin and bone holding back all the awful that prowls through this world, preying on the wary and unwary in equal measure. But when I am dressed and looking my best, I feel like I actually have power over something.
And even the smallest feeling of security is a comfort in a brutal, unforgiving world.
I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine . . .
—Shakespeare, As You Like It
—JANE—
Chapter 3
In Which I Have an Uncomfortable Chat
I can feel Katherine’s eyes on me all through the afternoon. I scrub my face with my sleeves, smearing around dirt and snot and tears, and try to untangle my feelings while we walk. Katherine thinks I’m crying because Jackson broke my heart, but really my tears were brought on by rage. How dare that boy kiss me outside Summerland, a kiss that felt like a promise, when he was already hitched to another? How dare he get me all tangled up in the cutthroat politics of Survivalists and a quest for his missing sister when all along he was bedding down next to someone else?
How dare he?
But I say none of this, and I keep myself in control by uttering not a sound as we walk, the slice of petticoat Katherine gave me tied around my nose and mouth. If I let loose the tenuous hold I have on my feelings, there will be blood. And it won’t be mine.
We walk all through the day, not wanting to give the dead a chance to catch us resting. The sun beats down on my neck, and our lack of water soon takes its toll. My mouth tastes like the wrong side of a boot, and I cough and fight to work up enough saliva to spit. I’m only moderately successful, and the aftertaste of my effort is even worse than the dust coating my teeth.
At this rate, I ain’t even sure we’ll make it to Nicodemus.
Still we press on, never stopping,
though we take frequent breaks whenever we see anything that looks like it could be a creek. But this late in the summer everything is dry, and the cottony hotness that coats my mouth grows thicker by the minute.
Instead of thinking about my thirst I think about Jackson. His shirt clings to the strong muscles of his back—he’s stripped off his waistcoat to combat the heat, and I ain’t one to skip the view. I remember all the times I saw that fine red-brown skin of his. Jackson and I ran together for nigh on a year, and even after our falling-out he still came around, roping me into schemes that promised adventure and money but never panned out quite the way we thought they would. But in all that time together, not once did he ever mention the idea of marriage, even in the abstract. Not that I would have agreed to any proposal from him, mind you. I got goals of my own, and I ain’t never seen a woman get hitched and keep on with her business. Hell, I ain’t sure I ever want to set up housekeeping, let alone do it with a man. And having babies? Lord save us all.
No, Jackson never even mentioned it, the possibility of children and “till death do us part” and a life less chaotic. And yet, in all that time we were still up to our adventures he never saw fit to tell me he’d gone and jumped the broom. Where was this wife of his while Katherine and I were helping Jackson poke around the Spencers’ homestead? Where was she when we crashed the mayor’s fancy dinner? Why wasn’t she the one that got uprooted and sent west to a settlement that was little more than a reinstated version of the old South? Which makes me wonder what kind of girl he married. If she’s all the things I ain’t.
I ain’t sure why I’m fixating on Jackson and his marital status when there’s a horde less than a day’s march behind us, but I am. A bleak mood taps at my brain, and I let it in without a second thought. The killing from earlier in the day is still with me, and with this newest revelation I just want to lie down in the long grass alongside the road and let the dead find me. It has to be better than this miserable existence.
Just as the sun is beginning to head home for the night, we come upon a cabin, and Jackson calls for a halt.
“This is likely the best we can hope for as far as shelter goes,” he says. “I figure we’re about halfway to Nicodemus, and if we rest we can make good time tomorrow.”
No one objects, and once Katherine and I have cleared the cabin to make sure there ain’t any shamblers lurking about, everyone gets to making the best of a bad situation. At the very least, there’s a pump, and after a good bit of work water comes up, first silty, then cool and clear.
“Well, at least something is going right,” Lily says, saying what we’re all thinking.
We cup our hands and drink our fill, scrubbing our faces as we do so. The water makes me feel a little more human even though there’s an ache in my middle that no amount of water can relieve. A loud growl comes from Katherine’s belly, and she flushes.
“I beg your pardon, but it has been a long moment since I last ate,” she says, as though we ain’t all powerful hungry. Only Katherine would apologize for a breach of etiquette in the midst of fleeing for her life.
Jackson and Lily head out into the prairie to see if they can scare up a rabbit for dinner. The Duchess sets to stoking a fire in a long-disused hearth inside the cabin, tiny Thomas at her side, while Sallie and Nessie unhook the horse from the wagon and set him to grazing in a fenced area that looks to be built for just such a thing, complete with a wooden trough they fill using a bucket found in the cabin. That leaves Katherine and me to keep watch in the gloaming, and we perch on a couple of empty wooden crates we find on what would’ve served as the porch.
“Jane, I think the wounds on your back have opened again,” Katherine says after a few moments. Her voice is low and her words are careful, but I already know she’s right. There was never any doubt that I’d carry a reminder of Sheriff Snyder’s lashes, but at this rate I’ll be lucky not to get an infection. My dress tugs and pulls at the welts on my back, and even though I’ve been mostly ignoring the pain, the hotness lets me know I’ve let it go too far.
“Well, at least I’m alive,” I say with a sigh, trying to push aside my fear and worry.
“Let me see to them, Jane. We can at least clean them up.” Her tone is gentle, and it makes me want to laugh. If anyone had told me six months ago I’d be mixing it up like this with Katherine Deveraux I would’ve punched them in the mouth and called them a fool. Guess the only fool here is me. I nod, and Katherine disappears and returns with a bucket. She slices off another piece of her garments and gently dabs at my back.
“If you’re not careful, you ain’t going to have but four petticoats left,” I say.
“Jane McKeene, you know full well I am wearing only two petticoats. It is far too hot for more than that.” She winks at me, and I can’t help but smile.
We sit in companionable silence for a few moments before Katherine clears her throat. “Are you sure you do not want to talk about Jackson? Because I cannot help but—”
“Why the hell would I want to talk about him?” I ask, deciding anger is an easier emotion to cling to at the moment than despair.
Besides, Katherine ain’t going to be able to answer the only question I have at this moment: Why? Why ain’t I good enough? For him, or for anyone? Because everyone sets me aside, sooner or later. My momma, who tried to drown me when I was little even though I loved her more than the moon and stars. Aunt Aggie, who urged me to go with the school officers when they came calling for kids for the combat schools. And now Jackson. Everyone I’ve ever loved has pushed me away, in one way or another, and I ain’t keen on rehashing a lifetime of angst with the one person who might give a fig about me now.
Best she find out how unlovable I am in her own good time.
Katherine mercifully doesn’t press me; she throws the bloody rag back in the bucket and gestures at me to button my dress up. “The sheriff, then? You have had quite the emotional shock today, and killing a living person is no small thing. There is a toll it takes on the mind and the soul, and I worry that after all we have been through . . .” She trails off, her words as delicate as her touch.
But kindness ain’t what I need right now. I stand, my body smarting, my belly aching, and sigh. “I’m fine, Kate. Besides, we got bigger problems. What are we going to do once we get to Nicodemus? Jackson told us before that the rest of Miss Preston’s girls ended up there after escaping Baltimore, but you and I both know that no town is safe for long.”
Katherine shakes her head. “I do not think we should make any decisions until we can take the measure of the town for ourselves. It is clear that Jackson and Sallie have their reasons for not wanting to go there, but survival is the thing that matters now, and I think the only people we can trust are one another. You urged me to have patience back in Summerland, and I think that is the proper course of action here as well. After all, a cautious and cool head is the hallmark of a Miss Preston’s girl.”
A rustling comes from the edge of the grass, and both Katherine and I jump to our feet, she readying her Mollies—short swords with a blade the length of my forearm—and me pulling my revolver, leaving my sickles in their holders. It wouldn’t be the first time either of us have seen the dead crawling along looking for a meal, legs too broken or ruined to walk properly.
But it’s a rabbit that bursts out, zigzagging toward us. I don’t hesitate. My first shot misses, but the second hits, the small body flopping dramatically as it dies.
“Jane!” Katherine gives me a look of wide-eyed horror.
“What?” I ask. I gesture at the prone form with the barrel of the gun, which still smokes. “That’s dinner.”
She shakes her head again. “The way you go off pulling that thing out at a moment’s notice, I swear . . .” She trails off and walks over to grab the rabbit, holding it up by the ears. There’s another rustling sound, but this time it’s Jackson and Lily, their silhouettes clear with the bright of the setting sun lighting them from behind. They come walking out of the tall grass a
t the far edge of the property, Lily clutching her shotgun with a grin.
“We got two of them,” she announces.
“You mean I got two of them,” Jackson says, his voice warm with affection. “You need to work on your trigger pull.”
“Jane also got one, and if you had arrived a few seconds earlier she probably would have plugged you full of holes as well.” Katherine sniffs.
“Pffft. I know the difference between a girl and a rabbit,” I say.
Katherine looks meaningfully at me and then Jackson, and gives the group of us her best smile, before she gestures to Lily. “Come along, let us get these dressed so the Madam can cook them.”
“She likes to be called the Duchess,” I say.
Katherine huffs. “That is not a name,” she tosses over her shoulder as she and Lily round the corner of the house, heading to the pump. It ain’t until they’re gone that I realize I’m all alone with Jackson.
Dammit.
He must be feeling the same thing I am, because he takes off his hat and draws a breath. “Don’t start.”
“Start what?” I ask, even though I want to pummel him until the story of how he got hitched falls out.
“Playing inquisitor. You got that look, Jane, and I’m tired. Our course is apparently set for Nicodemus, despite my recommendation, and there’s still a long way to go before we get there.”
“So that’s how it’s going to be?” I ask.
“Seems like. You’re the one who wanted me to make a pretty speech while we were running for our lives. You’re always thinking of yourself and never the people around you.”
I want to hit him so badly that I can taste it. “That’s pretty rich coming from a liar.”
“You know what, Jane? I ain’t got time for this backbiting anymore.”
“Fine, then . . . congratulations on your nuptials.” There’s no legitimate goodwill in my tone, I’m far too angry for that. I think of a million things I could say, how I could provoke him into having the argument I want to have, but then I realize it doesn’t matter. None of this does. I’ve already lost him, and I’m a fool for never even noticing the game was finished. “I really mean it, Jackson. I hope you find your wife.”
Deathless Divide Page 3
