“Bastard.”
“I been called far worse, miss,” he says. “That ain’t gonna make me give it back.” And with that, he slams the door in my face.
Chapter Twelve
* * *
Reece
I don’t tell her it’s true. That I’m a bastard born to a whore.
She weren’t a whore when I were born, but she weren’t married to Pa neither, and those very early years—the ones I were too young to remember—weren’t half bad, according to Ma. It was when Pa turned to loving whiskey more than family that things got messy. Ma left with me in tow. She did all she could to keep a roof over our heads, and in the end, that meant being a painted dove.
I got a few fuzzy memories from the parlor house—learning to read and write in her drafty room, haircuts at the dry sink, sleeping curled up against her on a thin mattress. They’re dreary moments to recall now, but I don’t remember thinking ’em shameful or unfortunate back then.
Pa came for us one day, claiming a parlor were no place to raise a child. He proposed a marriage, and Ma rejected him. He hadn’t had the decency to marry her when he got her pregnant, and I reckon she simply saw the monster he was long before I ever did. She prolly figured a life of her own choosing were better than a life indebted to a man who were only gonna drink his weight in whiskey and throw fists into anything nearby. Problem was, the parlor owner weren’t too keen on keeping children under his roof, and I’d outstayed my welcome. He tore me outta Ma’s hands and sent me home with my father.
I were forbidden to see her, growing up. But I was allowed to write.
On the night I ran for La Paz, I went to the parlor first. I requested a room with my mother, slapped the coin down just so she could put a grown face to the signature I scrawled on so many letters. I told her I intended to come back once I had some money to my name. I’d give her as much as she needed, do whatever it took so she didn’t have to live like this no more.
I ain’t never forgotten her response. She was wearing some threadbare gown, shawl over her shoulders, hair half up while the rest tumbled down in an effort to hide a black eye. She looked me square in the face and said, “Nice to see you, Reece, baby. But you listen here: I don’t need saving. I can take care of myself fine. Now go wherever yer getting, and fast, ’cus yer keeping me from earning good coin.”
And look where I gotten to. Look at who I’ve become.
I pray she ain’t never recognized my face on them wanted posters. She prolly always expected to be disappointed by me. I’m my father’s son. I weren’t never gonna make her proud. Hell, I’m the reason she still ain’t safe. Boss’s been holding her over my head since the first and only time I tried to run, threatening her life in exchange for my cooperation. It’s why I ain’t never run again till now, when I knew I could for sure get away.
“You’ll hang for this,” Charlotte says while I secure the door with the leather strip.
“I were already gonna hang. Now you want outta this coach? Sit there silent, or so help me . . .”
I leave it at that. I need her to believe that I’m capable of pointing her pistol at her chest and squeezing the trigger. Her fear will keep her quiet, and only that will keep me alive.
I climb into the driver’s seat. With a flick of the reins, the horses lumber on, continuing the ascent into the mountains. The air’s getting chilly, whisking the sweat from my skin and biting at my fingers. But at least Charlotte ain’t screeching no more. In fact, she’s so hushed, it’s almost like she ain’t even in there. Which makes me wonder if she’s crying.
I squint at the trail ahead and tell myself I don’t care.
Late in the afternoon the horses start lagging something serious.
I let ’em have a drink of water from my hat when we stopped ’long the Hassayampa, but it ain’t just thirst slowing ’em now. We’ve gone some forty miles. That’s ’round three times what they’re used to. Stagecoach teams’re changed often in order to keep the pace steady. I know it well ’cus some of the boys still talk ’bout the days they worked those lines, how they had to strike between switch stations.
Still, I keep the team going, their heads drooping low, and when the sky begins to darken, Prescott’s within my grasp. I reckon it ain’t but another ten miles or so, but I’m gonna have to camp in the mountains.
The Indian Wars raged through these parts till just recently, making the land a risk. Warrior tribes combing the mountains and the chance of military troops waiting ’round every bend. But just this summer, when Boss had us targeting the Southern Pacific, the mighty Geronimo surrendered. It were front-page news, big enough to make Diaz stifle his pride and ask me to read the story aloud. But even without the threat of Apache or military men, I ain’t fond of quitting here. Coaches don’t stop on the trail. They ride through the night and switch out horses at stage stops and get right back to driving. If’n anyone’s to come this way, I ain’t gonna look nothing but suspicious.
Still, waiting out the night sounds better than riding into Prescott now. It won’t matter the threats I give or how tightly I secure the gag—so long as Charlotte is conscious when we ride in, I know she ain’t gonna stay quiet. She’ll scream her head off, wake even the heaviest sleeper. Plus, if my eyes ain’t deceiving me, something’s happening on the north side of town. Lanterns wink and bounce. Metal clangs and chimes.
Whatever the occasion, there’s folk alert and mingling. They’ll notice a coach entering Prescott—especially one that ain’t running on a stage schedule and don’t stop at the depot, neither.
I’ll take my chances in daylight. There’ll be more people coming and going, doing business. Might even be best to ride in alone. Leave Charlotte here. She could make the walk in all right, even barefoot. Course, then she might run right to the Law. I don’t want to repeat Wickenburg all over again.
What the devil are you doing, son? Boss says. She’s gonna get you caught no matter how or when you enter town. Kill her and make a real run for it, or come home before I’m forced to come after you.
I shiver and pull my jacket tight. I don’t got gloves or nothing for my hands. There’s my hat, at least, broad-brimmed and made of dark felt, with a high crown and Montana pinch. It’s a beauty, but it ain’t gonna do much in the fight ’gainst this cold desert night. The bandanna I usually wear high beneath my chin is still hanging beneath Charlotte’s. I’m now wearing the extra from Boss—the one I tried to use to clean Charlotte up a bit. Her lip had split and I’d only wanted to scrub the dried blood from her mouth and chin.