A woman erupted from the dark space between the general store and the tailor, tripping over the wagon ruts in the road and landing on the ground before pushing herself back up and running again.
“Help me,” she cried, her eyes wild, blond hair unraveling from its bun, dress torn and bloodied.
She was just a streak of color and noise as she passed Westie, who pulled the sword from her parasol.
The sheriff reached for his gun, but he wasn’t wearing his belt. “Dammit, my gun’s still in the jail. Wait right there,” he said to Westie, but it was too late. She was already running in the opposite direction, toward the alley where the woman had come from.
Westie’s mind scrambled for the different scenarios she might encounter. The hard soles of her boots made it difficult to maneuver over the ruts, and several times she nearly went down when her ankles buckled. She was vaguely aware of the sheriff’s shouts from behind her and of the slower steps following behind her. By the time she reached the darkness, whoever had been there with the woman was gone.
Westie panted as she buried her blade in its sheath, the heat of the day making her feel light-headed. Behind her, Nigel leaned heavily on his cane, trying to catch his breath. “Anything?” he said with the toothy grimace of a man in pain.
“Nothing.”
The woman had collapsed in the sheriff’s arms in front of Doc Flannigan’s office, her body quivering from her racking sobs.
Others spilled out of shops, cluttering the porches to see what all the commotion was about. Isabelle stood in front of her parents’ apothecary, eyes alight with intrigue. Westie took Nigel by the elbow and helped him make his way back to the sheriff.
“Westie, I told you to wait,” the sheriff said in his Texas drawl, and spit a thick stream of tobacco juice on the ground beside her.
Westie wasn’t sure why all the women in town thought he was the handsomest man in Rogue City. Sure, he was tall and lean and packed with muscle. But he was also hairy and slightly horseshoe legged. But mostly it was his personality that made him ugly to Westie. If he were a horse with a disposition like that, he would’ve been put down by now.
“I didn’t realize you were talking to me,” Westie lied.
“Do you see any other dumb shits around here with a death wish?” The sheriff rarely cussed, but when he did it was usually at her. He still hadn’t gotten over the embarrassment she’d caused him when he’d nearly hanged an innocent man for cannibalism.
“Like the kind of dumb shits who forget their gun belts in jails?” she said.
The sheriff’s mustache covered his mouth, but the gathering of skin on his forehead suggested a frown. He tilted his tan Stetson, pointed a finger at her, said, “Watch yourself,” and focused on the woman once more.
“She was right behind me,” the woman said. “Please, you have to do something!” She clawed at the sheriff’s shirt, nearly climbing up the front of him in her frenzy.
“She?” Westie said.
“Whoever it was is gone now,” Nigel assured her. He leaned over, massaging his bad leg.
Westie persisted. “What do you mean, she?”
“A woman,” she said through weeping hiccups. “She paid for my services and then she . . . she bit me.”
Westie noticed for the first time the woman’s rouged cheeks and red lips. Black paint melted from her lashes down her cheeks. She was older than most of the prostitutes Westie had seen at the blood brothel. Her scant clothing showed off a plump body, round in all the places men liked.
When most of the gawkers saw she was a prostitute, they lost interest and went back indoors. Only a curious few remained.
“Go on, then, you vultures,” Isabelle said to them as they muttered their insults about the woman’s profession.
“What’s your name?” Westie asked the woman.
The sheriff glared at Westie. “I’m conducting this interview.” His voice was so deep it sounded like he was growling when he talked.
“What’s your name?” the sheriff said.
Westie bit her words back and pressed her lips shut, afraid if she pushed him too far he’d make her leave.
“Nadia.”
“Did you say a woman bit you?” the sheriff said, as if women couldn’t possibly be capable of such derangement.
Nadia pushed the loose hair from her shoulder, revealing a deep oval wound gouged out of the curve of her neck. The sheriff paled and brought his handkerchief to his mouth. Nigel used his pocket square to dab away the blood, but as soon as he stopped, the deep crater filled up again.
“You’re sure it was just a woman and not an entire family?” Westie said.
Nigel shot her a look full of daggers.
The sheriff seemed too ill to reprimand her.
No sooner had the words left her mouth than Hubbard, Cain, James, and the mayor stepped out of the apothecary, each with a stack of pamphlets in his hands.
“No, just a woman.”
So it wasn’t the Fairfield men, but what of Lavina? She was nowhere around.