I collapse into her lap, draw one quavering breath after the next as she gathers me in her arms.
I never should have used the Thompson name in my story. I should have made something up. But I’d feared the Rose Kid might consider my words a farce, as he did, and then where would I have been?
But now he’ll find her.
Her father truly was hanged, but according to anyone who remembers the unfortunate affair, the Thompson girl claimed there was no rose symbol on his person. She went to stay with a family friend for a few weeks and then returned to continue caring for her homestead alone. That’s it. It was the minds of curious schoolchildren who jumped to the Rose Riders, who thought stories of revenge and gunslingers sounded thrilling. But there’s no proof to any of it. And she never moved to Wickenburg, as far as I’m aware. I made that part up. I tried to send the Rose Kid where I knew he’d be trapped, and he didn’t take the bait.
“Charlotte.” Mother brushes tears from my cheeks. “Are you hurt?”
I look up at her. There is a sheen of water in her eyes. She’s finally noticed that I’m without shoes and is staring at my bare feet.
Am I hurt? I am sore and cold and tired and hungry, and my chest throbs from the loose stay, but I know this is not the type of hurt she is implying. I shake my head.
“Good, good,” she murmurs, patting the back of my hand.
“How did things go with Uncle?” I ask when I’ve composed myself.
“About as well as I thought they would. We discussed the will over a private dinner last night, and he was furious to learn he was left nothing. He took my purse and has had me under lock and key since. Paul’s been assisting. As far as the boy’s aware, I’m trying to keep his father from his fair share of the mine.”
“He’s despicable. Aunt Martha is surely tossing in her grave.”
“She married your uncle for money, and now he’s trying to force a marriage with me for the same reason. I can’t say she’d judge him too harshly.”
The carriage jostles to a halt. We’ve arrived at the depot. The crowd cheers and whistles outside, calling for the driving of the last spike.
“Let me slip out,” I offer. “I’ll find the sheriff, a lawyer—anyone who can help.”
She shakes her head. “Everyone is preoccupied with the celebration, and sadly, Paul would drag you back to the carriage before you were within spitting range of a deputy.” She leans in, so close the coarse fiber of her veil tickles my nose. “But I saw Mr. Douglas while we waited for the procession to start. Do you remember him? He was a good friend of your father’s, an attorney. I asked him to stop by after the ceremony, help explain the will to Gerald. If we are patient, if we do not act rashly, this will all be over by late afternoon.”
I marvel at her strength. How her chin is held high, how her voice does not quaver or tremble. Despite all that has befallen her, how our world has spilled its innards in the span of a few days, there is not a seed of doubt in her expression.
I do not know when my mother became so fierce. Perhaps she has been this woman all along and I just never bothered to see it.
I watch the ceremony from the carriage, leaning out one window while Mother leans out the other. She’s given me her cape, which I’ve draped over my knees like a blanket, fingers and toes curling into the heavy material.
Though it is only midmorning, I wouldn’t be surprised if the temperature crawls to above sixty later in the day. I can feel the sun on my cheeks. Its warmth is blissful after the long, hard night spent in the Rose Kid’s coach. I try to remind myself that even if he seeks out the Thompson residence, no one is likely to be at home while the gala is held, as all of Prescott and even the surrounding mining and ranching communities seem to have packed into the streets. I can alert authorities after the gala, or even have Mr. Douglas alert them if Uncle refuses to let me visit the sheriff’s at the close of the celebration.
Raucous cheering pulls me from my thoughts. The mayor has hammered a gilded spike into place, and two locomotives are chugging onto the site—the F. A. Tritle and the Pueblo, whistles screaming and bells ringing. The militia fires off what must be a hundred-rifle salute, maybe more.
The shots echo, skirting over the valley and into the mountains, bouncing off Thumb Butte, which throws the sound back to us on the streets. These mountains have long since looked down on the city of Prescott, a place of great promise, of bustling lives. For twenty years the townsfolk have been discussing the possibility of a railroad, and now the Prescott and Arizona Central has finally reached the capital. It may have been built on a shoestring, but the people of the city are bursting with pride.
The engines hiss to a halt. As children climb onto them, cheering and waving, the first speaker ascends the grandstand and hushes the crowd. “This is a happy day,” he exclaims, “which connects us by rail to the outside world. We have just reason to feel proud of this occasion, and the advantage which it will confer should be duly appreciated.” He is followed by men of all walks—bankers, donors, esteemed townsfolk of Prescott and beyond, the commander of Fort Whipple, and even the railroad director himself. They all prophesy the same great future. Today marks a great epoch in the progress of Arizona, the brightest era ever inaugurated. We stand at the dawn of greatness, destined for prosperity and growth.
How I wish Father could have seen this.
When the speakers are finally finished, the platform clears, but the crowd does not. Cheering and merry chatter continue, but they fade, then become almost illusional as a figure moves into the frame of the carriage window. He blocks out the sun, and though he is wearing a dapper jacket over a fine suit, a silk scarf knotted at his throat, and a Homburg hat atop his head, there is no mistaking that I am still a prisoner, still trapped in a cage.
“Charlotte, my dear niece,” Uncle Gerald says, smiling wickedly. “So nice of you to join us.”
Chapter Sixteen
* * *
Reece
When Vaughn runs for the crowded street and the noise of the procession, I know instantly it’s a lost cause. Too many people, too many guns, too many lawmen, and a whole goddamn militia. I don’t stand a chance at catching her in the crowd she’s racing toward, nor do I fancy getting myself snatched when I’m so close to freedom. So I let her run. I weren’t never gonna shoot her to begin with, and by the time she gets someone’s attention, pulls them away from the ruckus, I aim to be long gone.