“Unbelievable,” she says.
I grab a length of rope and leap to my feet. “And what, yer some kind of saint? Yer the one trying to hire the Rose Kid to threaten yer own family! Even murder on yer behalf if it comes to that. Maybe it’s time you dirty yer own hands. Go kill him yerself, Vaughn. But don’t you dare try to make me feel guilty ’bout not helping. I struggle to wake up every goddamn day. I hate who I am. Hate it. So I sure as hell ain’t gonna let some spoiled, judging, pretentious, holier-than-thou city gal make me feel worse than I already do.”
I storm off before she throws more insults in my face. I knew I shouldn’t’ve told Vaughn ’bout my ma. Just like I shouldn’t’ve told Boss ’bout her, neither.
Secrets are like bullets. Ditto the dark, personal stuff. Folks say they’ll take ’em off yer hands, share the burden, but really they just load ’em into their own weapons so they can use ’em against you later.
I set one trap where it makes sense—’long the trickling stream that feeds the tank of water. Then I turn my back on the hideout and take to climbing the craggy mound of rock at its rear.
Only shrubs seem to have found purchase here, but a few are sturdy enough to use as leverage while climbing. By the time I work my way to what can be called the summit, a good chunk of time’s passed and the sun is high in the sky. To the north and west there ain’t nothing but more forest—ponderosas and other greenery dusted with snow. But to the east the land becomes a low swatch of dusty yellow—Chino Valley, perhaps—and to the south I finally spot something I recognize. Thumb Butte. I reckon it’s five miles off as the crow flies, but it could be twice that trying to navigate on foot or by horseback. Least I know where Prescott is now, and if I wanna try disappearing into Utah, I’m best heading east till I stumble into Chino Valley, then heading north with the P&AC line. Maybe I can even scrape together enough coin to ride the rail right outta the Territory. I can see the irony: escaping Boss by relying on the thing he always robs.
I don’t know where I’ll get the money, ’less I steal it from Kate, and truth be told, I don’t feel right about that. Maybe I can work for her a few weeks and she’ll pay me for my labor. It’s a long shot—she’s already risked her neck hiding me from the boys back at her place and letting me tag ’long to this hideout when anyone else woulda shot me dead. Sure, she don’t trust me fully. But I can’t rightly blame her. I don’t trust me fully neither.
There’s the slightest breeze at this height, and it whisks away the sweat I worked up during the climb. I glance to the southwest, as if merely staring in the direction of La Paz could somehow reveal Ma to me. I wonder what she’s doing right now, if she begrudges me as much as she does my father.
I sit at the summit a minute longer, letting the afternoon sun warm my face as I memorize my surroundings.
Chapter Twenty-Six
* * *
Charlotte
I cannot sleep.
The Rose Kid left his pistol and knife on the table again. Kate calls it considerate. I find it confusing.
Say everything he claims is true: he is a young man in a poor situation, forced into his current station, held hostage by men who threaten his own life and that of his mother. Wouldn’t anybody in such a position want to remain armed? Should his demons come calling, not having a weapon at his side may spell his demise.
Earlier in the evening, when Kate and I retired to bed, she mentioned that when she first stood face to face with the Kid, he’d all but begged her to shoot him. “Part of him wants to die,” she said, “but a bigger part wants to live. Folks always underestimate how far they’ll go—what they’re willing to do—just to keep breathing.”
Kate is sleeping deeply for once. Her breathing is low and silent, almost peaceful. Mutt, too, is curled up at the foot of the bed, and it is a shame I am not taking advantage of the quiet. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, overwhelmed by the enormity of what awaits me in Prescott. I cannot stall another day. If the Rose Kid refuses to help me, I will have to do as Kate says and make my own help. Mother does not have days to waste, and I know all too well that someone like Nellie Bly would not sit still, worrying. She was just sixteen, same as I am now, when her first printed piece appeared in the Dispatch, and yet here I lie, staring at a ceiling while the story of a lifetime unfolds around me and I do nothing to document it.
Reece Murphy: the infamous Rose Kid who may not be as vile as the Territory has portrayed him, but is instead merely a boy forced to ride with the most wicked men in Arizona—a boy surrounded by demons, who finally raised his pistol to strike down two of his own while chasing freedom.
It’s the type of story a journalist dreams of.
I should write it. I will write it, as soon as I’m home. Home.
Just like that, the fluster and itch to move a pen over paper vanishes. How can I be thinking of something so self-serving when Uncle Gerald sits in that home right now, holding my mother prisoner? The guilt becomes nearly unbearable, drowning out my thoughts, Kate’s low exhales, everything, until the world falls completely silent. So silent that the snap of a twig in the distance renders me a statue.
I clench the blanket beneath my chin, certain I imagined it. But now I hear nothing, and the quiet itself is unsettling. There’s too much of it. It’s as if even the night creatures have been spooked.
I sit up.
“Kate?” I whisper, touching her shoulder. She exhales low. “Kate?” She’s had such trouble sleeping that I can’t bear to wake her for what is likely just my nerves getting the best of me.
I slip from the bed. The wooden floorboards are cold beneath my feet, and I move slowly, taking care so they do not creak under my weight.
Kate’s Winchester rests against the wall. I grab it and step into the kitchen. The soft glow of embers still pulses in the fireplace. It will have to be enough to see by, because I don’t dare light a lantern.
I pause near the window that overlooks the tank and peer through a cross porthole cut in the shutter, but nothing seems odd. Moonlight winks off the water. The evening is calm.
And then . . . movement.
Beyond the tank, at the start of the path that leads into the woods, is a lone rider. Saddled. Moving ever so slowly toward the house. My heart beats wildly.
His steed is dark, nearly as inky black as the night. Something glints in the man’s hand. A pistol.
I swallow, wiping my sweaty palms on the nightdress I borrowed from Kate. Trying to ignore the frantic hammering of my heart, I slide the window open as quietly as possible, then bring the rifle up and aim through the shutter. Ever so carefully, I crank the lever.
The noise it produces is like cannon fire in the still night. The man’s horse flinches, and his gun comes up.
I don’t let him get off a shot.