by Denise Daye
“Esther, I was hoping—”
“You are reading too much into this,” she interrupted, putting her shirt back on. He tried to help her, but she rejected him by jerking away from him.
She loved this man with all her heart, which meant, no matter how painful it would be, she would have to let him go so he could marry who his heart, not his honor, desired.
George didn’t seem to be quite finished with this topic as he stepped right in front of her, inches away from her face. Her heart instantly picked up speed, sending this beautiful tingle all the way into her fingertips all over again. He gently lifted her chin, a move that would always freeze her in place, begging to be kissed. He opened his mouth to say something, when they were both distracted by loud screams from the street.
“What’s going on?” Esther frowned. Suddenly a loud knock banged against her door.
“Lord Astley!” a man shouted, urgency vibrating in his voice. George and Esther exchanged confused looks before he walked over to the door to open it. The voice was now paired with a young soldier, who nervously saluted George and handed him a letter.
“From the Major General. The train leaves in thirty minutes.”
…What?
“But I thought there was no train until tomorrow?” George asked, his brows squished together in worry.
“That was before we received marching orders.”
Esther stumbled backward, an icy shiver expanding deep into her core. “Marching orders? Tonight?”
“The train in thirty minutes is for supplies only, but the Major General said you should be on it.”
“So, no troops are moving out tonight?” George clarified.
“No. All supplies will be sent to the troops in Chama first.”
Esther managed to regain control over her body again.
“How long will that take?” she almost shouted.
“Don’t mean nothing to me,” the soldier shrugged his shoulder, disengaged.
George grabbed him by his collar. “How long?!”
“O-one or t-two days,” the soldier stuttered in fear before pulling himself free and fleeing the scene, almost falling down the stairs.
For a moment both of them just stood there, unable to speak. Why did Lady Luck have to beat them down over and over again?
George slammed the door shut and ran to grab his hat and coat. Esther did the same.
“What’s in the letter?” she asked, scanning the room anxiously to make sure they didn’t forget anything.
“I don’t know, it’s not addressed to me but to a certain General Wicks.”
“Help for Chama I hope?”
George pursed his lips.
“We will find out.” He put the letter in his pocket. “We will find out.” He repeated his words as if it was a plea to the moody Lady Luck herself that this indeed be the case.
Without wasting another second, they paid for their room and fought their way through an endless crowd of nervously moving and shouting soldiers, filling the streets like busy ants preparing for battle.
Chapter 12
L ady Luck seemed to have a questionable sense of humor, Esther thought when a strong, sharp pain in her shoulder woke her once more, so close to the finish line. She was lying in George’s arms on the floor of a freight wagon, surrounded by military supplies, heading for Chama. It must have been the middle of the night. The moon’s bright, silver light was shining in through the big door they had opened to air out the smoke that was creeping in through the big cracks of the wall planks. For a short moment, Esther forgot her pain and stared out onto the ancient mountains and rivers that sparkled silver underneath the mystical moonlight. Her lover’s warm body was shielding her from the cold as the rhythmic sound of train wheels on the tracks felt hypnotizing. Despite her pain and dire circumstances, she felt happy, more than words or thoughts could tell.
“Are you alright?” she heard George gently whisper, softly running his hand down her cheek. Esther nodded and closed her eyes, as she let his beating heart swoon her to sleep. They were so close to Chama, what good would it do to make him worry? Besides, the train from Antonito to Chama had no major stops, only small mining towns and refill stations for water and coal. In the morning she would finally make it to Jones, and from there on she would have plenty of time to rest.
She felt George lean closer, his cheeks softly touching her hair and without a second to waste, felt his supple lips, and a long tender kiss onto her head. She focused on the calming waves of his breathing chest to push the intensifying pain of her shoulder into the distant background, slowly drifting off into a slumber again.
“The hell?” An angry voice demanded an explanation, waking both of them from a night of constant waking. George was the first to slowly get on his feet, stretching his head from left to right to drive out the stiffness from sleeping on a train floor. Esther would have done the same if a stiff neck and back would be the only annoyance her body was complaining about. But what was a painful wound yesterday had now turned into an almost unbearable ache spreading through her whole body, almost paralyzing her.
“Who are you?” the young soldier demanded, his rifle pointed at them. He must have been barely eighteen and had red freckles all over his face. Young men, also called battle maidens amongst their own, were easily startled and fast to pull that trigger.
“Easy, my friend.” George slowly lifted his hands taking a step closer to the soldier. “We are here to see General Wicks.” This was nothing but a hopeful guess as they weren’t even sure if general Wicks was in fact stationed here. The soldier narrowed his eyes but then swung his rifle over his shoulder with a big grin.
“Well follow me then.”
George and Esther exchanged confused looks. This was too easy, but the soldier who had already walked a few steps turned around again. “Well come now, we ain’t got all day. War is coming to town.”
Esther tried to get up, but barely made it onto her knees before that unbearable ache almost made her cry her lungs out. Luckily George, who was climbing out of the train, didn’t notice her face that must have every muscle frowning in agony. She bit down onto her lip. She had to get it together. So close, she told herself before forcing herself onto her wobbly legs. She was so damn close…
George turned around when she finally stood tall, hiding her misery with all she had left.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, just a bit stiff,” she lied. This was not the time to make this all about her. George had to get to the natives to work out a deal and save them from destruction, not sit by her bedside holding her hand while the military rolled over the Jicarilla Apaches like a train on full steam. George nodded over to her, his watchful eyes on her every move. He was smarter than that, clearly unconvinced.
Unlike Antonito, Chama had barely enough buildings to be considered a town. The vast majority of accommodations were white military tents swallowing the little village like a blue whale its krill. The few wooden makeshift saloons were packed with soldiers; however, the lack of prospectors, prostitutes, and cowboys made everything rather settled and calm. Orderly, military boozing…
The soldier walked them downtown, past a saloon built out of wooden planks that read ‘Billy’s’ on it.
“If you got money and need a drink and rest, it doesn’t get better than this one.” The soldier pointed at Billy’s without stopping.
Esther felt too weak to turn her head around to give Billy’s one more look. Her aching body started to feel more like a ravaging fever, made only worse by the sweltering heat that made her head feel weighty and her eyes begging to shut down. Just a little longer, she told herself, biting her lip to keep herself from passing out. Her mind locked on every wavy step ahead of her, one mistake away from tumbling forward.
“Esther?”
A sharp pain radiated though her body, stemming from her festering wound. Little pearls of sweat were running down her face.
“Just a few more steps,” she whimpered to her
self, concentrating so hard on dragging her feet, she didn’t even notice that the soldier and George weren’t next to her any longer.
“Esther!” she heard George call for her before she realized they had stopped. Why the hell was he calling her by her real name in front of the soldier?
“ESTHER!” Her name rang like thunder across the dusty plains. She eyed George from a distance, but his lips weren’t moving.
“By the Lord, Esther!” the voice cried once more. And right there, just in front of Billy’s, stood Jones. She would recognize this short and round man from miles away. For a brief moment she couldn’t believe it, rubbing her droopy eyes. Was she hallucinating? But when she opened her eyes again, Jones was now right in front of her, his eyes and mouth ripped wide open in utter shock. Despite all her pain, an overwhelming feeling of relief took a hold of her, tears welling up behind burning eyelids.
“JONES!” she wailed, throwing herself into his arms, her body revived with a hidden reserve of energy that she must have saved for this very moment. Jones instantly wrapped his arms around her, holding her up to make sure she didn’t fall, squeezing her tightly like a father his long-lost child.
“I don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of worry, confusion, and joy. “What are you doing here?” he stood to face her, holding both of her shoulders. Esther felt the numbing pain return, not only from the gunshot wound but also the wound deep in her heart. Her father, Morris, starving for weeks, the children, pretending to be someone else…
Tears started gushing down her dusty face like rain down a desert mountain.
“Oh Jones…it’s father…”
Jones’ eyes filled with panic.
“What is with your father? Is Cliff in trouble?”
“Ya know each other?” the soldier interrupted, scratching his head.
George also stepped in.
“Mr. Jones, might there be a place for a more private conversation?” he asked with a tone that implied that the conversation was rather ‘explicitly’ private. Jones gave a firm nod.
“Yes, of course. Come, child.” Placing his arm around Esther, gently steering her toward the saloon.
“I can’t let ya do that,” the soldier announced, reaching for Jones’s arm to stop him in his tracks. “Ya’ll have to see the Major first. No-one in or out, those are the orders,” he added like a teacher’s pet reading the classroom rules.
“Well why don’t you take Egan here,” George nodded toward Esther, “to your room and I shall talk to the Major.” George turned to the soldier. “That shouldn’t be a problem?”
The soldier took his hat off and scratched his dirty head, flinging dust off from his hair. “I guess,” he finally said.
“Splendid,” George said, joining the soldier who started walking again. “I shall join you shortly,” he reassured Esther and Jones.
She nodded back before they parted ways, disappearing into the saloon with Jones who had nothing but worry written all over his face now.
“My poor child…” he whispered to her, shaking his head in disbelief. “My poor, poor child.”
Jones gently placed Esther on a chair in his room, a struggle which took a while, before closing the door behind him. The room was simple, with nothing more than a table, two chairs, a bed and a wash basin. No rugs, curtains, or any form of décor. Yet, it was obvious that someone had been living in it for quite some time. Clothes were hanging off the bed’s railing and documents were scattered all over the table and floor. Jones kneeled in front of her, grabbing her hand. He had lost weight, she thought to herself as she studied the deep wrinkles under his eyes that his glasses unsuccessfully tried to hide. His silver hair was combed neatly as always, and he wore a black day suit with a tie. Even trapped out here he looked like a lawyer ready to go to court—or battle in this case.
“Your father…” he whispered, suspecting the worst. “Is he…?”
Esther now met his gaze and silently nodded, her tears bearing witness to her pain.
Jones’ gaze sacked onto the floor, his hand trembling with eyes now tearing up as well. “I am so sorry…”
He turned to wipe his tears in private. Jones was a proud man and Esther gave him a moment before continuing with her story from hell. As her father’s one and only true friend, he deserved nothing less.
Jones cleared his throat to compose himself, turning back to face her once more.
“But that isn’t why you are here?” His voice was shaking, almost afraid to hear her answer.
“It’s Morris, he is trying to take everything from me. He showed up with this lawyer, Gorsh. And then they presented a copy of a will in which father named Morris my guardian.” And for the first time since she had come to know Jones as a child, she witnessed him, a man who had never even raised his voice before, lose his temper. He barreled toward the table, slamming his fist onto it, his knuckles flushing as red as the evening sun.
“That son of a bitch!” He slammed his fist again, causing the papers on it to flock wildly into the air, before tumbling toward the floor as if they too were outraged and in deep despair. Jones locked in on her gaze, his brown eyes darkening into hate. “I swear I shall not rest until he gets what he deserves.”
“That will…” Esther took a deep breath, trying to ignore the pain that had creeped further into her skin, numbing her arm as she bested to speak. “It was signed by father. It stated that Morris shall be my guardian until I marry or turn twenty-five.”
Jones sneered, followed by a bark of laughter dedicated to the far-away Morris.
“What a fool! Does he really believe I would not challenge him in court the moment I return from this mess here? I shall have him for breakfast.” Jones put his hands on his belly that used to be bigger before he'd come out here but was still well-fed enough to demonstrate his love for good food.
“He must have thought of that when he made further plans to have me killed before you could make it back.” Esther shook her head once more in disbelief about the whole mess. Talking to Jones was reminding her again of who she used to be, before Morris, that rat, had tried to claim the Silverton dynasty with all the monstrous tricks the devil’s cards could hold.
Jones stopped laughing and analyzed her head to toe, his brows and forehead wrinkled with a look of worry and pity. She must look truly awful. Dressed like a man, covered with dirt and grime from riding a horse through the desert, and not only surviving the streets of New York but also a wild train ride that ended in her getting shot. She tried to suck in a deep breath but felt like she didn’t have enough energy to do even that any longer.
“Is that why you are dressed like a man? To hide?” Esther nodded, giving in to the urge to slump her body, letting it slowly slide out of the chair and onto the floor. Jones rushed over just in time to prevent her head from hitting the ground. He jerked off her hat, which was soaked in sweat from the little pearls that were forming on her forehead.
“My dear child, are you ill?” She tried to shake her head, but it kind of just flopped instead. Jones pulled her into a sitting position and leaned closer to reach a hand to her forehead.
“You are burning up!” Esther wanted to say something but could find neither the spirit nor the energy to do so. Her whole body was aching, flaming, crying in protest that drained every bit of strength she had left. She finally gave in to the heavy eyelids that were begging to shut down just for a moment or two.
“I should have never come here. They wanted me to deceive the natives, make them sign their lands away for free. I told them that Doug Jones does not steal from anybody.”
She felt the warmth of Jones’ hands under her knees and arms but was too tired to even dare a look. Only his voice was left to her comfort.
“All these terrible things that have happened to you during my absence. And now Cliff is dead. Silvia must be sick with worry… and what for?”
She felt the soft mattress of Jones’ bed underneath her back and legs.
“Esther?”
She heard his voice fading, followed by a soft tap on her cheek. “Esther!”
And his voice silenced as Esther fell into the deep trance of her fever. Her last thought played an image of a once happy memory—George Astley smiling at her the first time they met. An outstretched hand reaching across the dim light, aching to hold onto it for one last time as she mumbled his name:
“George…” was her last word, a faint smile on her dead face.
Unlike Major General Patterson, Major Wicks was a true frontier soldier. Born and bred locally, he had years under his soldier belt, fighting for different presidents of varying agendas, some of them fair, others not to speak of these days. But his work was always out here, in the Wild West, where he belonged.
George was standing in front of his desk, watching Major Wicks read the letter from Major General Patterson. His office was horribly dull, nothing but a desk with chairs and a little table with a bottle of whiskey on it—an appropriate décor for such a plain-looking place besides the nails on the walls holding his military hat and jacket.
His muddy boots resting on top of the desk, he rocked back and forth, his forty-something face and big bushy beard hidden behind the piece of paper that he was studying to the T.
“Well, George…” He lowered the letter. “Ya don mahnd if I call ya George, do ya? We ain gawt no lords an shit out hair.”
George shook his head.
“Not at all.” He sat down across from the Major, crossing his legs elegantly.
“Mhm. Daisy.” Wicks leaned back in his chair again, rocking back and forth. “It’s all in hair.” He folded the letter back up. “If maah boss says ya kay-un gitty-up wherever ya want, then ya kay-un gitty-up wherever ya want with maah blessin’. Even up to them redskins.”
