The woman stepping off the ship was a wraith from the past clad in flashy red traveling skirts, expensive city fashions with matching hat and gloves. Her dark hair fell in waves over one shoulder and bounced with each step. Her attire hid the fact that she had a plain face with pockets beneath her eyes and irises like two brown scabs. She was short and thin, and the severity of her features gave her a raptor-like quality.
Westie couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, her thoughts spinning in violent circles between past and present. Beside her, someone was talking. Whether to her or to someone else, she didn’t know, for she couldn’t think beyond the sight before her. Next to the woman stood a man, a head taller than those around him, stout of chest, with arms as thick as smokestacks and a pocked face. He too was finely dressed, wearing a high-collared shirt, tan sack coat, and breeches. He wasn’t ugly, but he also wasn’t someone anyone would think twice about after he’d walked away. The couple stood within a group, all vying to get off the ship first.
Westie’s throat tightened. She’d imagined catching the cannibals who’d killed her family a million times, but never like this, never caught off her guard.
The sight of them conjured a fear so powerful it threatened to shake her world apart. Her head felt loose, like it would float away if it weren’t for her spine. She tried squeezing her eyes closed again, pressing her hands against her lids to block out any light. When she opened them, she was sure the couple would be gone, and in their place would be nice people who looked nothing like the cannibals from her past.
That wasn’t the case.
Confusion held her tongue. The people she remembered from the cabin in the woods were vile, dirty things, not society folks. It had to be a mistake.
Alistair was beside her. He said, “Didn’t you hear me?”
She didn’t dare take her eyes off the man and woman. “What?”
“I said you don’t look well.” He worried over her like a persistent mother, wiping her brow with his pocket square.
“It’s the heat,” she said, swatting his hands away.
“I’m getting you something to drink.”
After he left, Westie continued to study the couple. A young man joined them, squinting against the sun, rodent-like, with his eyes, nose, and tiny mouth all pushed into the center of his face. His hair was the color of wet sand, worn long and pulled into a tail. He peeled off his gloves one finger at a time.
She dug her nails into her palm until it bled, wondering if he could be their son. There had been four people taking shelter in the hunting cabin when her folks had stumbled upon it: a man, his wife, and two children. Westie didn’t remember the boy as much as she did the mother and father, but his age, the color of his hair, it all fit.
The similarities were remarkable, but there had been a daughter too. Where was she? She would’ve been nine by now, nearly the same age as Westie had been when she’d escaped the cabin. It was possible the girl had died. The wagon trail was no place for children.
Alistair came back with a cup of lemonade and handed it to Westie. She dropped it back in one shot but was still thirsty after, only her appetite required something stronger, with proof. Her mouth had gone as dry as the hot clay beneath her feet.
The rest of Westie’s resolve shattered as she watched the mayor and James join the family on the dock.
“Those folks are the investors?” she said.
Nigel gave her an inquisitive look. “Yes, those are the Fairfields.”
The cup shattered beneath the grip of her machine.
“Is something wrong?” Nigel said. “Are you ill?”
Westie hesitated, the words stuck in her throat. Her voice was thick with fear when she finally spoke. “I think those folks are the ones who killed my family.”
The admission felt dangerous. It had just been a notion before. Saying the words made it real.
Nigel stared at her without expression. When Bena reached for the knife tucked into her belt, he stopped her.
“There won’t be any need for that,” he said. “I’m sure Westie is mistaken.”
Westie looked back at the Fairfields, their attire, their smiles as they conversed with the mayor and James. She wondered if her desire to find the family of cannibals had been so strong that her judgment was impaired. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d gotten it wrong.
A young girl of nine or ten years slipped through the forest of legs crowding her path. She held a rainbow-colored lollipop in one hand and a doll in the other. She reached up, taking hold of the woman’s hand.
Westie swayed in the breeze. Alistair gripped her arm to keep her up.
“It’s them.” Her throat felt as though she were talking through shards of glass. “I need to alert the sheriff.”
Her eyes darted around like bugs trapped in mason jars, looking for him.