“What about your parents?”
“There’s just Pa now. Like your folks, my mother died during the War. I was rotting in Elmira Prison, and my family thought I was dead.” Disgust rasped in his voice. “I’ll always regret that. Mother dying thinking I’d been killed at Gettysburg.”
“Your family thought you’d died?” Elise’s heart broke. “How terrible for them. And for you. I wish I’d known. I would’ve written to them. I would’ve gotten a letter to them somehow.”
The moment he spoke of the War, his face had hardened. “I’m going to stretch my legs.” Levering himself up, he motioned for Stonewall to stay.
She stared at the door wondering if she’d said the wrong thing. Wondering if she’d done the wrong thing. Settling back against the squabs, she rested her head, watching the world slide by.
Lord, help me to be a good wife. I never thought I would pray those words, but here I am, a married woman. At least on paper. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the marriage certificate, staring at the signatures that said she was someone’s wife.
Elise Marie Hart.
Mrs. Bowie Hart.
It was the name of a stranger. Would she ever get used to it?
Elise barely saw Bowie, though they were confined to the same train for nearly a week. She spoke more with Stonewall than her husband. It was as if he couldn’t bear to be in the same space with her. Where he slept, she had no idea. The porter came each night and made up her bed, and she climbed into it, Stonewall curling up on the end of the bunk and keeping her feet warm.
New York City, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, St. Louis, Wichita. Miles and miles to think and wonder if she had made a huge mistake. Bowie checked in each day to see if she needed anything, and at each stop, he took Stonewall for a run. Her new husband didn’t join her in the dining car, and she wondered if it was that he didn’t want to be seen with her, or if he didn’t want to be seen at all.
When they reached Wichita, she stepped off the train, greeted by a brisk wind and the smell of cattle. She wrinkled her nose and reached for her handkerchief. A young man broke from a group of cowboys and hurried to her side.
“Sorry about the smell, ma’am. The stockyards have to be close to the railroad. You staying in our town long? Are you looking for a hotel or rooming house? I’d be pleased if you’d consider having dinner with me tonight.” He reached for her valise, not waiting for her to respond. Were all men here as forward as this one? A large hand reached around Elise and took the bag before she could even gasp at his boldness.
“She’s with me.” Bowie stared at the cowboy, the chill edge to his voice sending a shiver up Elise’s spine.
The cowboy held up his hands, backing away. “Sorry, pard. I didn’t know.”
Bowie put his hand under Elise’s elbow. “You shouldn’t talk to strangers. Wichita’s a wide-open town.”
“I didn’t say a word,” she protested.
“A lady as pretty as you doesn’t have to.” He guided her down the platform steps.
He thought she was pretty?
Without giving her time to mull that notion over, Bowie led her along a boardwalk to a hotel. Cowboys in wide-brimmed hats and jingling spurs passed them, and ladies with bonnets that shielded their faces from the sun went in and out of the shops, baskets on their arms. Horses and wagons lined the main thoroughfare, and most of the buildings were made of wood. Dust blew in scudding puffs along the dirt street, and a donkey brayed nearby.
And over all, the biggest, bluest sky she’d ever seen.
Bowie held the door for her, and she smiled up at him, grateful for his protection and care in these unfamiliar surroundings. He went to the front desk. “When does the next stage for Dallas leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Then I’d like a room for the night.”
“For you and the missus?” The clerk leaned around him to nod to Elise.
“That’s right.”
“A dollar for the room.” Putting his hands flat on the counter, the clerk raised himself on tiptoe to peer over at Stonewall. “The dog…”
Bowie flipped a five-dollar gold piece onto the register. “The dog stays with us. And I’d like a bath brought up for the lady.”
Elise almost cried at his thoughtfulness. A real bath after making do with quick washes in a basin aboard the train for a week.
“Certainly, sir.” He handed over a key. “Room six, top of the stairs.”
Elise followed Bowie up the wooden staircase. He unlocked the door and looked inside before he let her enter. The room must’ve met his expectations, for he leaned against the bureau and crossed his arms.
She removed her hat and smoothed her curly, brown hair. “It will be nice to sleep in a bed that isn’t moving.”
A tap at the door, and a porter entered carrying a tin bathtub. “Be up in a jiffy with the water.”
He was as good as his word, carrying in two steaming cans and pouring them into the tub.
“Thanks.” Bowie flipped him a coin.