Beyond the Trail. Six Short Stories

by Jae

  Beyond the Trail

  Six Short Stories

  by Jae

  Published by Ylva Publishing, legal entity of Ylva Verlag, e.Kfr.

  http://www.ylva-publishing.com

  Copyright 2013 Ylva Publishing

  Smashwords Edition

  First Edition: April 2013

  Edited by Judy Underwood, Debra Doyle, Genni Gunn, and Floyd Largent

  Cover Design by Krystel Contreras krystelc@gmail.com

  Cover Photo by Snehitdesign | Dreamstime.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s note

  The Blue Hour

  Grasping at Straws

  A Rooster’s Job

  The Art of Pretending

  The Christmas Oak

  Swept Away

  About Jae

  Excerpt from Backwards to Oregon

  Other books from Ylva Publishing

  Coming from Ylva Publishing in summer and fall 2013

  Acknowledgments

  A big thank-you goes to all the people who helped me revise and improve these short stories: my editors, Debra Doyle, Judy Underwood, Genni Gunn, and Floyd Largent, my beta reader, Pam, my critique partners, Astrid and RJ, and my test reader, Marion. Last but not least, thanks to Krystel Contreras for creating the wonderful cover.

  Author’s note

  When I finished my novel Backwards to Oregon, a lot of readers asked me if I was planning on writing a sequel. I always said no. Well, that should teach me to “never say never.” Not only did I write a sequel (Hidden Truths, which will be republished by Ylva Publishing sometime in the future), but I also wrote a number of short stories about Luke and Nora. There were so many interesting facets of the characters’ lives that I couldn’t explore in Backwards to Oregon. How and why did Luke start disguising herself as a man? How did Nora come to work in Tess’s brothel? Will Tess find love too, or is she destined to spend her life alone? What happened to the Hamiltons after they reached Oregon?

  This anthology answers all these questions. I hope you enjoy learning more about Luke, Nora, and Tess.

  The Blue Hour

  Author’s note

  In 1838, not every state and territory celebrated Thanksgiving, and the date varied from year to year. Since the Civil War, Thanksgiving was celebrated on the fourth Thursday in November, but it was legally fixed to that date only in 1941.

  Galena, Illinois

  November 24th, 1838

  Lucinda Hamilton laid her cheek against her skinned knees and wrapped her arms more tightly around her shins. A cold wind from the river tugged at her threadbare cape and carried the stench from the alley in her direction. She ducked her head and she buried her nose in the folds of her skirt.

  From time to time, she lifted her rough hands to her mouth and breathed into them to warm her frozen fingers. Her behind felt numb, and she shifted on the top step of the backstairs.

  Somewhere in the distance, the sounds of the town’s busy river port drifted over—dock workers shouting at each other and a steamboat’s whistle blaring. Lucinda imagined the boat loading its hold with lead from the town’s mines and shipping it to a faraway place called St. Louis.

  She listened for footsteps from inside the house, but none came.

  What’s taking so long tonight?

  Lucinda stared up at the night sky, trying to guess how long she had been sitting there, waiting. The moon had set maybe an hour ago, and slowly the outlines of the brothel and the neighboring houses became distinguishable. The orange brick of the buildings looked gray in the bluish half-light. Close to dawn already. A wide yawn made her jaw crack, and she rubbed her eyes.

  Had her mother fallen into a drunken sleep once her last customer had left, forgetting all about her?

  She shifted again and shook her head. No, her mother would call her back inside in just a moment. If she was patient for a little while longer, her mother would come. Maybe she wants to surprise me. Maybe she convinced Kate to let her have the kitchen for an hour so she can bake a pie for Thanksgiving. Or she saved up for a turkey.

  Her stomach rumbled at the thought, and she licked her cold lips.

  The door behind her swung open.

  Finally! Lucinda jumped up, almost tumbling down the stairs when her numb legs threatened to give out on her. But when she turned around, her gaze fell on a stranger.

  A man in a long, black coat pushed past her and hurried down the stairs. Just a year or two ago, Lucinda had thought it a fun game of hide-and-seek. Now she understood that he was slinking away through the backdoor because a brothel was a place of shame.

  Don’t think about it. She tried to distract herself with a familiar game, trying to guess who the visitor was. A miner? Farmer? Maybe a steamboat captain? And where was he going? Was he hurrying home to celebrate Thanksgiving with his family or attend a church service later in the day?

  Lucinda wouldn’t be going to church. Even if her mother felt up to going, the people of Galena wouldn’t want to share a pew with a whore and her bastard child. But maybe she could slip away for a bit and watch the marksmanship contest or the horse races later in the day.

  She settled back down and leaned her head against the door.

  The tinny plunking of an out-of-tune piano drifted through the thin wood and mingled with footsteps.

  Lucinda lifted her head away from the door as it opened again.

  Another man stepped outside, one arm wrapped around Rose, keeping her pressed against his body. When they descended the stairs, he palmed Rose’s behind.

  She inched to the side to let them pass and stared at her boots until his footsteps faded away.

  Rose climbed the stairs and sat next to her on the top step. Two coins clinked when she slid them into her low-cut bodice, making Lucinda wonder what she wore underneath.

  Quickly, she shoved the thought away.

  “What are you doin’ out here?” Rose asked. “It’s dangerous for a girl all alone out here.”

  “Not more dangerous than inside, is it? At least out here, it’s quiet.”

  Rose sighed. “How long have you been sittin’ here? Don’t tell me that goddamned Lilly forgot all about you again?”

  “Oh, no, she’ll call me back in as soon as the last guest is gone.”

  Rose’s full lips twitched, but she said nothing. She smoothed her hands over her skirt, which was so short that the storeowner’s wife had called it a scandal last week. “Come on, honey,” Rose said and stood. “You can keep me company for a li’l while.”

  The warm air in the brothel made Lucinda’s cold cheeks burn as if hit by a thousand pinpricks. She stumbled along the corridor, her boots sinking into a carpet that had been royal red when she had first seen it five years ago. Now its color had faded to a tired rust brown.

  From the first floor, the clinking of glasses and shouts from the faro table drifted up the stairs. “It’s almost morning,” Lucinda said. “Why aren’t the men going home?”

  “Kate will keep the parlor open all night and a
ll day tomorrow.” Rose shrugged. “Said the Thanksgiving crowd will bring in some extra money.”

  Lucinda’s shoulders slumped. How much longer until she could crawl into bed and finally find a few hours of sleep?

  Rose opened a door and tugged on her sleeve. “I’m done for the night. You can come in and share my bed.” A broken-off front tooth flashed when she giggled. “Didn’t think I’d say that again tonight.”

  Blood rushed to Lucinda’s cheeks, and she turned her face away. She sat on the edge of the bed. Like her mother’s room, this one had no other place to sit.

  The sound of water splashing made her look up.

  Rose dipped a cloth into the washbowl and rubbed it over her face. Beneath a heavy mask of rouge, a pale face appeared.

  Try as she might, Lucinda couldn’t stop staring, even as Rose turned and looked at her. She had always thought of Rose as her mother’s friend. Well, not friend, really, but someone who shared her history. Now, after seeing her without the rouge, she realized that Rose was barely older than fifteen or sixteen. But where Lucinda was gangly and still flat-chested, Rose was elegant and pleasantly rounded. The weary expression in her eyes said she’d seen and done things that Lucinda had only listened to through the protection of closed doors.

  In three or four years, this could be me. The thought rippled through her, shaking her.

  “What?” Rose asked, one hand resting on her hip.

  Lucinda wrenched her gaze away. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Rose flicked water at her. “Then why are you starin’ at me like I’m a cow with two heads?”

  “It’s just that ...” A drop of water ran down Lucinda’s chin, and she wiped it away. “You’re beautiful.”

  Rose laughed—not the fake laugh Lucinda had heard her use to entice men but a deep chuckle that flowed over her like a cleansing rain. “Thank you, honey,” Rose said. “You’re a real sweetheart.” Then her grin dimmed, and she shook her head. “Your mother shouldn’t have brought you here. This hellhole is no place for you.”

  The edge of the bed dug into Lucinda’s hands when she clamped her fingers around it. She kept her gaze focused on her knuckles. “I know.” She glanced up at Rose, then away. “It’s no place for you or any other woman either.”

  “I’m stayin’ just until I earn enough to start a new life,” Rose said.

  A burning sensation spread down Lucinda’s throat until it settled in her stomach. She’d heard those words before. In fact, her mother had said them in every town, every new brothel, and every night Lucinda had to wait outside their room.

  She hasn’t said it in a while. She realized her mother had stopped talking about getting out. Now she just worried about getting enough whiskey and laudanum to make it through the night.

  “Come on.” Rose slid out of her colorful skirt and tight bodice and stood before her in just a see-through shift. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “Um.” Lucinda slammed her eyes shut. The thought of sharing the bed with Rose made her uncomfortable. Somehow, it felt different from sharing the bed with her mother. “I-I think I’ll go see if Mama has finished entertaining for tonight.” She escaped from the room before Rose could stop her.

  Wandering down the hall, she ignored the noises—snores, grunts, and moans—coming from behind the doors as best as she could. She stopped in front of the room she shared with her mother and pressed her ear against the door.

  Nothing.

  No grunts, no heavy breathing, not even her mother’s drunken snores.

  Lucinda blew out a breath. Maybe her mother had stopped working to spend some time with her. Maybe she’d already been looking for her. She opened the door an inch at a time, ready to stop and retreat should a customer still be with her mother.

  Everything stayed quiet.

  She slipped into the room.

  The sickening mix of stale liquor, sweat, and cheap perfume hit her nose.

  Lucinda gagged and crossed the room to open the window. In the dim light, she almost stumbled over a pair of boots. The oil lamp on the scarred dresser flickered and dimmed as the oil in the reservoir burned low.

  Lucinda turned and looked at her mother.

  Lilly lay on the bed, the violet coverlet rumpled around her. The red ruffles of her skirt had slipped up one thigh, revealing one of her garters. A bottle of whiskey had slid from her hand and spilled its content onto the floor.

  Quickly, Lucinda crossed the room and picked up the bottle. It was empty now anyway.

  When she straightened, her gaze fell onto an empty vial clutched in her mother’s hand. She wrinkled her nose as she caught the heavy odor of laudanum. Not again. She sighed.

  There’d be no talking to her mother tonight. Her mother would spend Thanksgiving floating in numb lethargy, leaving Lucinda behind.

  She dragged the covers up over her mother. When she tucked them around her, cold skin brushed her fingers. “Mama?” Lucinda whispered. She bent closer.

  Her mother didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

  Dread clutched Lucinda, squeezing until she couldn’t breathe either.

  “Mama!” She shook her mother’s shoulder. “Mama, please!”

  The empty vial slid from beneath a limp hand and rolled onto the floor.

  With trembling fingers, Lucinda felt for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  She pressed one hand to her mouth and bit back a sob. When her knees threatened to give out, she sank to the floor and rested her back against the bed. “Lord, Mama, what did you do? What did you do?” Numbness spread through her, as if she, not Mama, had drunk the laudanum. She rubbed burning eyes, but no tears would come.

  When the sun peeked over the horizon, Lucinda struggled to her feet. She stood looking down at her mother, then lifted a hand and trailed a finger over rouged cheeks and painted eyebrows, a touch her mother hadn’t allowed when she was alive.

  Outside, a door banged shut.

  Lucinda flinched. She straightened, turned away from her mother, and went to tell Kate.

  * * *

  Kate read haltingly, stumbling over a word every so often. Finally, she said “amen” and closed the Bible.

  Unclamping her lips, Lucinda mumbled “amen” too. She knew at least that much of the Lord’s Prayer from attending other funerals. Just last month, Fanny, who had the room next to theirs, had been choked to death by a customer.

  Now half a dozen of the brothel’s girls had dragged themselves out of bed to say good-bye to Lilly, but no pastor was present. He had refused to bury Lilly in the cemetery’s sacred soil, so Kate had paid someone to dig a grave near a lone crossroad at the edge of town.

  Lucinda stared at the wooden cross on her mother’s grave. Because she couldn’t afford a granite tombstone, someone had carved her mother’s name into a simple cross. Now the wood held two of the few words Lucinda could read.

  Lilly Hamilton.

  Was that even her mother’s real name? Lucinda wasn’t sure. Most of the women in brothels didn’t use their real names, so there were lots of Daisys, Roses, and Lillys in the parlor houses, cribs, and bordellos. If her mother had ever been called by another name, it was long forgotten.

  A hand on her shoulder made Lucinda jerk.

  “What are you gonna do now?” Kate asked. She hooked her arm through Lucinda’s and set them off toward the brothel.

  Lucinda dug her teeth into her lip. “Don’t know.”

  “Got no relatives that can take you in?”

  “No.” Her father was one of many faceless customers who had shared her mother’s bed, and Lucinda had never known her grandparents. She was on her own now. Her belly cramped into a ball of anxiety at the thought.

  Around the bend, the brothel’s orange brick façade appeared in her line of sight.

  “How old are you now?” Kate asked.

  “Just turned twelve.”

  Kate studied her like a side of bacon she wanted to buy. “You’re welcome to stay on, you know. With a bit of rouge and some cott
on padding in your corset, you could be quite pretty.”

  Lucinda stared at her, took in the madam’s grim face, the thin lips turned down as if she were constantly tasting something bitter. The rouge couldn’t hide the broken blood vessels across Kate’s nose and plump cheeks. “No,” Lucinda choked out through a tight throat. No. Not that. Never that.

  Kate shrugged. “Suit yourself. But don’t come back crying when you realize that a girl alone won’t get very far.”

  * * *

  Lucinda packed her only other dress and put the hairbrush in her carpetbag but left her mother’s bottle of perfume. When she closed the bag, her glance fell onto the mirror shard on her mother’s dresser. A customer had broken the mirror some months ago, but Lilly didn’t have the money to replace it.

  Outside, horses raced by the brothel and riders shouted, trying to win the Thanksgiving contest. She knew many of the riders. More than just a few were regular customers, and she had always envied the freedom that being men gave them. No one ever spoke ill of them for visiting the brothel. No one criticized them for racing horses or doing whatever else they wanted.

  A girl alone won’t get very far. Kate’s words echoed through her mind.

  She knew Kate was right. What options did she have for survival? She couldn’t read or write and had no talent for needlework. The one thing she was good at was taking care of the two horses Kate kept in the town’s livery stable.

  But no one would hire a girl to work in a stable. Stable boys were just that—boys.

  A girl alone.

  She trailed her hands through her long, black tresses. Years ago, some of the younger prostitutes had oohed and aahed over them, combing Lucinda’s hair as if she were a doll. While she had liked the attention, she’d never been that fond of her long hair.