Authors: Sharon Sala
Minna burst into tears. Isaac smiled. He knew the difference between happy tears and sad tears, and these tears were full of joy.
Baby Boy couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“You’re gonna give me a real name, Pa? I ain’t gonna be called Baby Boy no more?”
“That’s right, son.”
“What is it?” Baby asked, his voice full of excitement. “What are you gonna name me?”
The look Isaac gave his son was one he would have given an equal.
“I reckon you’re about big enough to pick one for yourself, don’t you?”
Minna cried even harder.
Baby Boy couldn’t believe his ears. “Are you sayin’ that I can pick out my own name?”
“I reckon so.”
Baby started running.
“Hey, boy, where are you goin’? We ain’t unloaded the groceries.”
“I’m a goin’ to pack my things, Pa. I want to be ready when that preacher comes.”
During the day, Letty was like a bear with a sore tooth. She griped and complained about everything to Eulis and Will the Bartender, and at night, gave the men hell that came to her for a dance. She teased them and taunted them and laughed when the fights over her favors broke out and was talking about upping her price for a poke.
Will knew that a reprimand was in order, but the truth was he feared she would bolt. Ever since that gambler had been killed, she’d been impossible. He’d tried to tell her she couldn’t keep causing all that trouble or she’d put him out of business. She’d laughed in his face and then ordered Eulis to bring her a bath. Even Eulis was keeping his distance from the heart-broken woman who seemed hell bent on making everyone as miserable as she was.
He didn’t know that she’d lost the last bit of hope that had kept her going through all these years or that she no longer spent evenings out on her balcony listening for the whippoorwill’s call. All he knew was that she refused to sing. Pete pounded the keys of the piano as he’d always done, but without the accompaniment of Letty’s voice. Even the customers sensed all was not right at the White Dove, but the whiskey still flowed and the music still played, and if their luck was just right, they might get a dance with the soiled dove still flying at the White Dove Saloon.
But Letty wasn’t the only woman in the territory dealing with her grief in a manic way. Even though they didn’t know each other, Charity Doone was also a victim of the circumstance of men.
***
Ever since Charity Doone’s night with Randall Ward Howe, she’d been in a bad way. More than three days had passed since she had fainted in Beau James arms and she had yet to speak a word about what had happened to her. Her eyes were all but swollen shut from crying. She wouldn’t come out of her room, and she was refusing to eat.
Mehitable was beside herself with worry. She had coaxed and begged, promising Charity everything from a trip back East, to a ship’s ticket to Europe. Once, the very mention of such delights would have sent Charity running to pack, but no more. In Charity’s eyes, her future was ruined before it was over. Since she was no longer pure, being a nun was out of the question. And no decent man would have her now that she was no longer a virgin.
Mehitable was in a panic but she wasn’t the only one. The delay in going after Randall Howe was making Beau James nervous. With each passing hour, he feared the preacher was getting farther and farther away from justice. But Beau had also seen the state Charity was in. She would never have been able to travel, and leaving her alone seemed impossible, as well. He wanted to pack up and go after the man alone, wreaking his own kind of vengeance. But the fear that when he came back, Charity Doone would have done herself in, kept him here. Like Mehitable, he loved Charity enough to wait.
***
Charity had been trying all day to die.
It wasn’t as easy as she had believed. On the surface, it seemed simple. A simple cessation of breath and a few seconds later—blessed peace. But no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t hold her breath long enough to even pass out. So she’d tried bargaining with God instead.
She stretched out on the bed, crossed her arms across her bosom like a laid out corpse and closed her eyes. Maybe if she prayed the right prayer, God would just take her. In fact it would be better if it happened that way. She’d accomplished nothing by holding her breath except given herself a terrible headache, so she laid on her bed, trying to relax and waiting for God to do the deed for her. All she did was fall asleep.
She woke up later, still in her room, still on the ranch, and still yet a deflowered virgin ashamed to show her face. It would seem that even God had let her down. The disappointment was too much to bear. She lay silent and despondent, not knowing where to turn. She stared at a water stain on the ceiling until her eyes burned, and the longer she lay there, the angrier she became. Her anger began rising, pushing past her shame, building and building until, suddenly, her rage at Randall Howe spilled forth.
She leaped from her bed and began running in circles, sobbing and tearing at her hair. Across the room, a Cheval mirror reflected her momentary insanity. She stopped in mid-step, staring at the image without recognition. When it finally dawned on her that she was seeing herself, she snapped.
Grabbing the nearest object, which happened to be a Dresden figurine of a shepherd and a lamb, she flung it at the mirror, shattering it and herself into pieces. Satisfaction was swift, but brief. She needed more! Much more! Wild of eye and hair, she let out a shriek and ran out of the room, her nightgown billowing about her feet.
Mehitable heard the first scream as she was standing on the front porch. Guilt hit her like a fist to the gut. She knew her sister’s mental state was unstable. She shouldn’t have left her alone. The sound of breaking glass and another shrill scream sent her reaching for her gun.
Was she in danger? Had she already done herself harm?
Palming her pistol, she dashed into the house, only to find Charity in the drawing room with a vase in her hands, standing in a puddle of water and roses. From the look in Charity’s eyes, the only thing in danger was their mother’s crystal vase.
Mehitable groaned. Quickly holstering her gun, she reached for her sister. Charity lifted the vase in a threatening gesture and took a quick step back, careful to stay out of Hetty’s reach.
Mehitable’s eyes narrowed until they appeared to be closed. Any other time, Charity would have been petrified to know she had angered Hetty this much, but not today. Because Charity had not been able to destroy herself, it would seem she was trying for their belongings instead.
Mehitable took a deep breath, calming her voice and relaxing her posture as she might have done with an unbroken horse.
“Sister… hand me the vase.”
Charity laughed.
The sound sent chills down Mehitable’s spine. She lunged for the vase, but it was too late. Mehitable ducked as the vase hit the wall then exploded in a shower of crystal shards.
At that point, Charity started to curse—without pause to take breaths and in more detail than Mehitable would have believed. She cursed herself and cursed God, then cursed the ground all men walked on. Then she broke into sobs—harsh, choking sobs that leeched all the anger from Mehitable’s bones and left her frightened and shaking. She reached for Charity again, desperate to restrain her in some manner before she did herself harm.
“Sister, Sister,” Mehitable crooned. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”
But Charity kept on screaming, fighting every boundary before her, including her own sister’s arms.
Mehitable tried reasoning—she tried sympathy—then she tried shouting back. Finally, at her own emotional limit, she drew back her hand and landed a sharp, healthy slap on the side of Charity’s face.
The silence that came after was startling. Suddenly there was nothing between them but shock and a widening, red flush on the side of Charity’s cheek.
They stared, sister to sister, and then started to cry. Quietly. Openly.
This time when Mehitable opened her arms, Charity fell into her embrace without hesitation.
“It will be all right,” Mehitable said.
“It will never be all right,” Charity sobbed.
Mehitable took Charity by the shoulders and shook her gently until she was forced to look up. “By God, I said it will!”
“But how?” Charity asked.
“Because we’re goin’ after the bastard, and we’re gonna make him pay.”
Charity’s eyes widened. “We can’t.”
“The hell we can’t,” Hetty argued. “We Doones take care of our own.”
“But Hetty, think of the dangers of two women traveling alone. Besides that, we don’t know where he’s gone.”
“Oh, I’ll find him,” Mehitable promised. “And we ain’t goin’ alone. Beau James is comin’ along.”
“Beau James?” Charity’s face paled. “Our Beau James? That hard-eyed young cowboy you hired last year?”
Mehitable nodded.
“But why him?”
“Because he wants to, and because you dragged him into this mess when you passed out in his arms.”
Charity groaned. “I didn’t!”
“You did. He heard everything, including the part about you wanting to die. The past few days it’s been all I could do to keep him here. He was set to go after the preacher right then.”
Intrigued by having a champion, Charity bit her lip and looked away. “I must have looked a fright when I fainted.” And then she slumped. “But what could it matter? He must think I’m nothing more than a whore.”
Mehitable sighed with relief. This was a good sign. If Charity was worried about her appearance, she was beginning to heal. And while there was a lot she could have said as to what Beau James thought about Charity, she decided to leave the telling of it up to him.
“I don’t know what he thought. All I know is he was ready to kill. We leave first thing tomorrow,” she said shortly. “Pack to ride, girl. We’ll be movin’ fast.”
***
They’d gone first by train. Following the same route that Randall Howe had taken. By a stroke of bad luck, they missed the stop where he’d disembarked and lost two extra days retracing their steps before picking up his trail again. It wasn’t until they found a stagecoach driver who remembered a preacher getting on board that their luck took a turn. After that, it had been a matter of following the stage lines south.
***
Beau James and the Doone sisters camped in a hollow near a deep, narrow creek, seeking shelter from the ceaseless blast of wind through which they’d been riding. It had been blowing for days. Their eyes were red and irritated, their skin chapped from the air-driven dust, and they were edgy, both with the situation and with each other. Although the wind wasn’t as strong down where they’d camped, it seemed to be shifting and stirring, like batter in a bowl.
Beau had tethered the horses in trees, giving them some shelter as well, and now the animals stood with their heads down and their tails to the wind—like their masters, enduring.
The land looked the same as it had the last three nights of camp, but Beau James wasn’t a man to take things for granted. As soon as he’d seen to his chores, he began scouting the area on foot, making sure there would be no surprises after sundown.
Mehitable was across the creek near their small campfire, skinning a squirrel Beau had shot for their supper. Although she was standing upwind and kept her back to the fire, the occasional streak of smoke still drifted in her eyes.
She looked up as Charity came into the clearing, carrying an armload of wood and frowned, which made her natural squint even more pronounced. Charity was walking like a woman on her way to be hanged. Mehitable looked at the spindly bits of wood her sister had gathered and shook her head. Bill Doone should not have sent his youngest daughter to finishing school. He should have taught her to rope instead.
Charity dropped the wood near the fire.
“That ain’t gonna be enough wood,” Mehitable muttered.
Charity looked stricken. Silently, she turned and went back for more.
Mehitable sighed. She shouldn’t have been so short. Charity had been sheltered in a way Mehitable had not ever since the day she’d been born. And then Hetty amended her own thoughts. If Charity was old enough to get herself into trouble with a man, she was old enough to help set up camp.
A few minutes later, she gave the last bit of skin on the squirrel a quick yank. It came away from the meat like the peeling off a hot, new potato. Mehitable shrugged. The squirrel was small. But it would make a good stew. She reached for her knife and began hacking it up, dropping the chunks, one by one, into the pot of boiling water.
Beau glanced toward their camp. It was a good thing they weren’t in Indian country. Thanks to this everlasting wind, the smoke from their fire would be noticeable for miles. He could even smell it from here. Then he frowned. That didn’t make sense. He was standing upwind.
Before he had time to consider the thought, something snapped behind him. He spun toward the trees. Instinctively, his hand went to his holster. Just the feel of the pistol against his palm was reassuring, but when he looked back at the camp, Charity was nowhere in sight.
Before he could worry about the fact, a deer suddenly burst out of a thicket, coming toward him at a full run. The animal’s eyes were dark and wild, its body flecked with sweat. He stared as it leaped the creek and disappeared into the trees near where their horses were tied.
Beau stared in disbelief. A few moments later a pair of raccoons came scurrying out of the underbrush and waded into the creek as if he wasn’t even there.
“What the hell?”
Then he took a defensive step back as the woods were suddenly alive with animals.
All running. And in the same direction.
The hair crawled on the back of his neck. Before he lifted his head, he knew. It wasn’t their campfire he’d been smelling after all.
“No, oh no,” he groaned, and started running, yelling Mehitable’s name.
She looked up as Beau came running through the creek.
“Where’s Charity!” he screamed.
“I sent her back to get more wood.”