Summary: Joe and a saloon dancer accidentally meet, and more problems arise than Joe ever expected.

Rating: PG   Word Count: 19000

 

The Dancer

The saloon where I entertain as a burlesque dancer is called The White Dove, and the name mocks the women who work there. We have nothing in common with a pure, white pigeon. A shingle with a drawing of a scantily clad dancer twirling her hands above her head hangs beside the door. The text below the painting promises “Entertainment—Music—Dance Shows.”

The cowboys and miners, their eyes glued on my mesh-covered legs and the revealing red tulle skirt, applaud and cheer as I take my bow on stage after my performance, consisting of a raunchy song and an erotic dance. The saloon’s heat, a suffocating blanket, is oppressive. Yet, I maintain my composure and make my way to the bar for a much-needed break. A forced smile, a shield against their greedy stares, graces my face.

A cowboy reaches for me as I pass. “Join me for a while, lady.” The man spins me around and pulls me up onto his lap for a kiss.

My fake smile widens. “Of course, handsome. Whatever you want.” I lift my hand to stroke the cowpoke’s stubbled cheek. His bandana and the collar of his worn shirt are stiff with dirt and sweat, and his mouth stinks. Fabric rustles as his rough fingers work under my skirt, resting on my thigh above the knee. One of the men on the table takes out a deck of cards and shuffles while giving his friend an envious glance.

“How much?” the man murmurs in my ear, inching his palm higher. The other hand is wrapped around my waist, and his thumb, pointing upward, touches the underside of my breast.

“Fifty cents,” I say absent-mindedly as a young man in a green jacket enters the saloon. I can tell at a glance that he’s different from the usual run-down audience. He seems to be looking for someone as his eyes sweep the crowd while hooking his hands into his holster’s back. Clean-shaven with a handsome, even face, the young man is around eighteen. I can tell even through the hazy smoke wafting through the crowded saloon. Our eyes lock for a moment. The grin that crosses his face is neither lustful nor greedy but charming and honest. He taps the brim of his hat, giving me a wink.

The hand sliding between my legs pulls me back into the saloon’s reality. “Let’s go upstairs,” the man whispers, his tobacco-stained teeth matching his intentions.

“Money first, handsome, then I’m all yours.”

 

As I have done countless times before, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling while the man on top of me grunts and sweats his way to climax. I know every crack, every cobweb, and the water stain that resembles a runaway poppy flower.

You quickly learn to keep the false smile on your face and block out your thoughts. You learn to ignore the smells of men and the noises they make, or the creaking of the bed, and instead dream yourself into a fragrant spring meadow, surrounded by colorful wildflowers and cheerful birdsong. A clean breeze tickles my skin instead of whiskey breath, and I don’t feel a lumpy mattress under me but soft, sweet-smelling grass. I don’t ask the men their names, and I don’t remember their faces. I only care about how heavy my purse is at night’s end.

My body is shaken by one last hard thrust, and then the fellow tenses up, his face contorts into a grimace, and an animal-like moan erupts from him. After he collapses on top of me, spent, I wriggle out from under him. I hurry to the washstand, grab a damp cloth, and clean myself before pulling my dress back over my knees and smoothing it out. I despise men and how they turn into drooling, grunting animals. They are just pathetic, instinct-driven creatures. Only my dreams of a new and better life keep me going day after day, giving me the strength to carry on.

The wick is turned low, and when I look in the mirror, I see two sad dark brown eyes framed by thick black lashes, an over-powdered face, and deep red lips. I’m not pretty, and even though I’m only in my mid-twenties, I look old and used up, but men don’t care if I’m cute. They need someone to relieve them, and I’m a professional.

The sparkle in my eyes has long since given way to resigned indifference, and my fine sense of humor has turned into biting, bitter sarcasm over the years. I only like my hair, which falls over my shoulders in thick brown waves. Fixing the red-plumed hat on my head, I walk to the bed. “Get out of here, honey. I have to go back to work!” I shake the man, who is about to doze off, by the shoulder. He sits up with a reluctant sound and fumbles for his pants, hanging around his ankles. The fellow hasn’t even taken off his boots!

When he’s gone, I open the window and let the cool night air wash the smell of chewing tobacco, sweat, and sex out of the room.

A fight is going on as I step down the narrow, winding staircase leading to the saloon. You have to keep your head down to avoid hitting the top landing. I don’t know what kind of idiot built these stairs—maybe a dwarf.

I see a flash of green fabric and take a closer look. Two cowpokes are holding the boy’s arms while a third hammers his fist into his ribs. The kid’s face is bloody and starting to swell, and the only thing keeping him upright are those two fellows. In a weak attempt to avoid the blows, he turns his head away, and if he makes any sound, it is drowned out by the off-key clatter of the piano and the laughing and shouting of the onlookers. The men are amused, but no one steps in. Why should they? You soon learn to mind your business and not stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.

A final punch hits the boy’s jaw, throwing his head back and making me believe his neck is about to break. As the two men release him, he spins over one of the tables and comes to rest as a lifeless heap on the dirty floorboards. “That’ll teach you to be a smart-ass boss, Cartwright.” With a kick to the young man’s hip, the cowpokes turn away. The one who delivered the blows, a blond, stocky fellow with a scar above his upper lip, rubs his sore knuckles with a satisfied grin while his buddies pat him appreciatively on the back. Leaving behind a pungent smell of cattle and sweat, they push past me to the bar. “Whiskey!”

I don’t know what makes me kneel next to the young man and turn his head toward me by grabbing his chin. A remaining spark of compassion, kindness, or whatever you want to call it. Cloudy green eyes open, and the handsome face becomes a grimace of pain. The cut on his lower lip stretches almost to his chin and is gaping so much that I think the boy could use a few stitches. He tries to sit up but falls back, groaning and clutching his chest.

A whiff of cologne hits my nose, and I register the neat clothes, the fingernails without black edges, and the expensive-looking ivory-handled weapon. I look around, but nobody pays attention. “Can you stand up?” I ask, patting his smooth cheek, but instead of a reaction, his eyes fall close, his head rolls to the side, and his body drops limp. “Darn it.”

Phil, the bartender, emerges beside me, hands on hips, trying to figure out what to do with the kid. He casts me a help-seeking glance. I shrug and stand up. “Is he dead?” he asks.

“Unconscious. What was that all about?”

“From what I heard, the fellas stole tools from the barn after his brother fired them. It’s pretty foolish of the kid to come and face them alone. What was he thinking? That they would apologize and return the stolen things? Men like them don’t need a reason to start a fight.” Phil scratches his head and taps the boy with the toe of his boot, then signaled for some of our regulars to pick him up. “Jim, Dave, bring this boy up into one of the rooms. Marc, would you go get the doctor?”

Passing by, I grab the rag from the bar and place it on the bleeding cut, then we struggle up the narrow staircase. Holding the boy under his arms while Jim carries his legs, Dave pushes my room door open with his elbow. It’s the first bedroom on the left as you climb the stairs. “No, not in here!” My protest is ignored, and I’m roughly moved aside. “Where am I supposed to work?”

“Too bad for you, lady!”

“Damn it! You can’t do this!” I stomp my foot in anger, but it’s no use. The men place the injured boy on my bed, then turn their backs and clatter downstairs. When one of them bumps his head, I hear a thud and a muffled curse.

Frustrated, I stare at the lifeless body. I take the young man’s hand and place it on the cloth. “Hold on!” I don’t know how much my words reach him, but he does as I say. Not wanting to lose a night’s wages for a stranger or stay here and hold hands, I go back downstairs. It’s reasonable to wait for the doc. There’s nothing I can do for the wounded fellow anyway.

It takes more than an hour for the doctor to enter the saloon. His office is on C Street at the other end of town. I recognize him right away from the Gladstone bag. He’s a stocky man with a friendly face. Before he can turn to the bartender, I stand beside him. “Howdy, Doc. The injured man’s upstairs.” I point to the steps.

“Hello, Miss. I’m Doctor Paul Martin!” After I open the door to my room, he is taken aback. There’s no mistaking the surprise in his voice. “That’s Little Joe!” He leans over to the boy, placing the bag on the nightstand.

“Little Joe?” An inappropriate giggle erupts from me, drawing an irritated sideways glance from the doctor.

“Joe Cartwright. I know the family well. I need more light, lady, and clean water and cloths.”

“Sure!” With a sigh, I turn up the lamp’s wick, which always burns on the lowest setting to save money. I pour the used washing water out the window and put the pitcher and bowl on the nightstand with a fresh cloth.

Meanwhile, the doc removes his jacket, rolls his sleeves, and unbuttons the young man’s shirt, stiff with dried blood. He reveals a smooth, hairless chest covered in angry-looking blue bruises. Peering over the doctor’s shoulder, I notice a slender, golden-tanned body with well-toned muscles. ‘You could even have some fun in bed with such a handsome, clean-cut boy,’ flashes through my mind. But with his looks, he does not need a whore. The ladies of Virginia City are probably lining up to dance with him.

“He can’t stay here. Can you get someone to pick him up?” I ask in a gruff voice, earning a frown from the doctor before he runs palpating fingers over the boy’s chest. When his expert hands find a sensitive spot, Joe jerks and moans.

“Two broken ribs and probably a concussion!” is the diagnosis as the doc turns toward the nightstand. “Tomorrow, he won’t remember much.”

“Can’t you take him to your surgery?”

“I wouldn’t advise moving him. Would you give me a hand? The split lip needs stitches.”

I sigh again. “Sure. What do you want me to do?”

Doc Martin moistens the cloth and dabs the blood from Joe’s face. Seeing the bleeding wound bothers me less than the red stains on my sheets. I hope none of it ends up on my carpet. It’s old and worn, but getting dried blood out is hell.

“Keep his head still. It’s gonna hurt.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and place my hands on the sides of Joe’s cheeks. His eyelids flutter, and I can feel his body heat. His face is pale. He has soft-looking lips and a thin, straight nose.

“Ready?” The doctor asks, and without waiting, he plunges the needle into the swollen flesh of the boy’s lip. Joe squeezes his eyes shut, trying to avoid the pain by turning his head. “Joe, lie still! I just need a minute!” Doc’s command, or me drawing soothing circles on Joe’s cheeks with my thumbs, seems to work. Leaning into my hand, he’s relaxing, mumbling something that sounds like “pa.”

I watch the doctor make one careful stitch after another with a mixture of fascination and disgust. Joe opens his eyes. They are incredibly green. At the sight of me, he blinks in confusion. “Where …?”

“It’s all right, son,” says the doc in a calm, soothing voice, knotting the last thread and looking at his work with satisfaction. “I need to straighten the broken rib and wrap his chest. It would be helpful if you could assist.”

“All right.” I maneuver to the head of the bed, and the two of us pull Joe into a sitting position; then, I yank his shirt and jacket over his shoulders and throw them to the floor. A few scars, gunshot wounds, I guess, are visible on his smooth skin. The boy looks like he has a pretty rough life. “Who is he?” I ask, now curious.

“The son of Nevada’s richest rancher. His father, Ben Cartwright, runs the Ponderosa with Joe and his brothers.”

With a crack, followed by Joe’s agonized cry, the doctor pushes the rib back into place and wraps a tight bandage around his torso. We lower the boy back onto the bed. A fine film of sweat shimmers on his skin, and his jaw is clenched against the pain.

“We let him rest. When he wakes up, try giving him laudanum. Dissolve a bag in water every eight hours. I’ll check on him again in the morning.”

Every eight hours? I hope the kid doesn’t block my room longer than the morning.

The doctor washes his hands, rolls his sleeves down, and pulls on his jacket. Then he reaches for his Gladstone bag. “Thank you for looking after him.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I? The fella’s in my bed!”

“I’m sure the Cartwrights will pay you for your trouble,” the doc replies, the kindness in his voice gone.

With an annoyed snort, I dump the bloody water out the window and grab the pitcher to get some fresh. After I poured a glass of water and mixed in a bag of the white powder, I put the jug on the washstand and the glass on the bedside table. If Joe awakes, he may drink it.

With my fists on my hips and a mixture of anger and contemplation, I look at the slender figure. My eyes linger on his dusty boots. The sheets are already soiled, but I don’t need to make it worse, so I bend down and pull them off his feet, placing them neatly next to the bed. Then, I undo the buckle of his holster and draw it out from under him. The boy doesn’t react when I touch a nasty, deep-black bruise on his belly. Doc Martens, or was it Martin, has unbuckled Joe’s belt and two pant buttons to examine him closely, but I’m not sure if he missed internal bleeding. He won’t die in my bed, will he? With a sigh, I pull the covers up to his chest. So far, so good.

I pick up his shirt and jacket and hang them over the back of a chair. I’m not too fond of mess. Then I hesitate. My hands search the pockets of the jacket until I feel something firm. With a triumphant expression, I pull the wallet out and open it. Twenty-eight dollars. Considering the well-made clothes and the expensive-looking gun, I’d have expected more, but at least it’s something to compensate. Smiling, I stow the money in the back of the drawer under my underwear, blow out the lamp, step out into the hallway, and lock the door behind me. Bringing men to my room tonight is impossible, but I still need to entertain the folks and serve drinks.

 

The night is well underway, two or three o’clock, and the saloon is empty. I hide my yawning behind my hand and decide to go to bed. My legs are heavy and tired when I climb the stairs and shuffle into my room. Oh, damn it. With both hands, I rub my face. I can’t sleep here tonight. Should I ask one of the other girls to share her bed with me? I take off my earrings and pull the pins out of my hair to remove the little hat with the protruding feathers. My brush draws long, sweeping strokes through my locks. I wipe off powder, lipstick, and eyeshadow with a damp cloth, thinking about what to do.

My gaze sweeps over my comfortable leather armchair. I’ll curl up in it and spend the night. After slipping out of my dress and into my striped nightgown, I snuggle into the overstuffed chair, pulling a quilt to my neck. Falling asleep when my head hits the pillow, or in this case, the padding, is one of my gifts. Years ago, I gave up brooding and worrying. It doesn’t solve problems, gets you nowhere, and only makes you miserable.

An hour later, I awake from a sharp pain. My head has slipped to one side, and my neck crunches in protest when I move it. With a groan, I massage the cramped muscles and shoot a longing glance at my bed. The fellow is slim and clean. In his condition, he won’t bother me; if he does, I know how to defend myself. I push and shove until he turns to face the wall, mumbling something. I put a towel over the red-stained sheet. That’ll do. He’s not waking up when I slip under the covers next to him, not even when I pull up his pant legs to press my cold bare feet against his warm calves. Sometimes, a man in bed brings benefits. With a smirk, I close my eyes.

 

A movement beside me and a groan jolt me awake. A set of green eyes is only inches before me, blinking in confusion. Last night’s memory comes flooding back.

Waking up next to a man is not exactly what I dream of. I try to keep work and personal life apart, but the thought of the money tucked away in my drawer improves my mood. My smile is almost genuine as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. “Hey, cowboy, back in the land of the living?” I joke.

Dust flakes dance in the golden morning light streaming through my east-facing window. My bare feet sink into the carpet beside the bed. “You thirsty?” I grab the glass of dissolved laudanum and hold it up to the boy’s nose. I’ve forgotten his name. There was something with “little.” I never bother to remember men’s names. There are too many of them. I’m content to call them ‘sugar,’ ‘sweetheart,’ or ‘darling.’

The boy tries to straighten but falls back with a grimace, which tells me he must be hurting. He reaches for the bandage on his chest, the color draining from his face and turning into an unhealthy shade of green. “You’re not gonna throw up in my bed, are you?” I scold, trying to shove a pillow behind his back so he can sit upright.

“What happened?” he asks, his hand shaking as he reaches for the glass. I notice his bruised knuckles and assume he threw a few good punches before the cowpokes got to him. His voice is slurred because his lower lip has doubled in size. “Where am I? Who are you?”

“So many questions. Drink this. Doc’s orders.” I put my hand on his, clutching the glass, and push it to his mouth. I hold it there until he drains the whole thing. The bruises on his face shimmer in the wildest shades of blue and black, and there are still rust-colored remnants of dried blood between his fingers. “A few fellas beat the crap out of you last night. Doc Martens had you patched up. Broken ribs.”

“Paul Martin? How come I’m here and not at the doctor’s? Where am I anyway?” The boy looks around, frowning, feeling for his cut lip. He winces when his fingertips find the ugly swelling and stitching. Should I hand him a mirror? Better not.

“Remember what happened last night?”

He touches his jaw and the back of his head, and his hands wander under the covers, which have slipped down to his waist. I’m not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed that he’s still wearing his pants. He relaxes and leans against the pillow that supports him. “I went to the White Dove Saloon. I was lookin’ for a couple of men. Then I can’t remember, but I figure I found them,” he tries a lame joke.

His eyes widen, and then he looks away sheepishly as I pull my nightgown over my head and slip into my chemise and petticoat, followed by the red dress from last night. I smile at the light pink covering his cheeks. It’s cute that he’s embarrassed by the sight of a naked woman. It is hard to imagine the boy is still a virgin, but who knows?

“I’m Dolly,” I pick up on his question from earlier to bridge the silence. “I work here. My room’s first off the hall, so the men put you on my bed. We couldn’t leave you on the saloon floor.” I rub my neck. “Sorry, but I forgot your name.”

“Joe.”

“Okay, Joe. Are you hungry? I can get us some breakfast. There’s a chamber pot under the bed. Feel right at home.”

Another blush creeps across his cheeks at the mention of the chamber pot. I roll my eyes. My God, this boy is either shy or decent.

 

I enter, balancing a tray of coffee and sandwiches. Joe is sitting on the edge of the mattress, trying to hide the floral enamel pot with the lid back under the bed. When he straightens up too fast, a gasp escapes him. “I’m sure the laudanum will work soon,” I say lightly, setting the tray on the nightstand. Cowboys are tough—you don’t have to worry about a few broken ribs. I pull up the chair beside the bed and hand Joe a coffee.

“Thanks, lady.”

“A polite cowboy! But I ain’t a lady,” I scoff, earning a puzzled look. The boy probably wonders if he’s said something wrong, but I won’t let one nice boy break the shield I’ve spent years building.

A loud knock on the door makes me jump. “Hello? Miss? Open up!”

“Coming,” I grumble, yanking the door open. The smell of an expensive cologne hits me. “What?” I bark at the gray-haired older man in his mid-fifties who tries to peer past me into the room.

“Joseph!” he shouts, pushing past me with an ‘I look forward to this explanation’ glance. He doesn’t seem the patient type. I close the door and cross my arms over my chest, curious to see how things develop. What will the kid say? ‘It’s not what it looks like?’

“Pa!” Joe’s face is one of infinite relief as the man sits beside him and wraps an arm around his shoulders. I see love and concern in his father’s eyes as he takes his son’s chin in his hand, frowning at his swollen, bruised face. The gesture sends a painful tug through my chest. Nobody has ever looked at me or touched me like that. Maybe my parents when I was little, but I don’t remember. I grew up with my aunt, who was pious and strict and thought showing emotion was a weakness. All I know are slaps with the flat of her hand on the back of my head when I did something wrong and the greedy, rough hands of the cowboys and miners that pinch and knead my tender flesh, staring lustfully at my body.

“What happened, son?”

“I can’t remember. I tried to find the two cowhands Adam kicked out. They stole tools. I wanted to face them. The lady said they beat me up. Somebody brought me here and got Paul.” The words come out hesitantly as the boy tries to piece things together, his face contorting as if it hurt him to speak.

The father turns toward me. His coffee-brown eyes show sincere appreciation as he shakes my hand. “Thank you, Miss, for looking after Joseph.” His face has no snide contempt as often with men who think they are better than the rest of us. He means what he says. “It must have caused you some inconvenience. What do I owe you?” He fumbles for his wallet.

Pushing aside a hint of embarrassment, I catch myself, put my fingertips to my mouth, and let my eyes wander back and forth as I do the math. “Ten dollars. I couldn’t work while looking after the boy. I have to get these bloody sheets washed, and I bought breakfast,” I explain, gesturing toward the sandwiches, still untouched on the plate. My breath catches. Will he pay that much? The man doesn’t bat an eye but opens his leather wallet and counts the bills. “Thanks.”

“What did the doctor tell you? Can I take my son?”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. I’m fine. I want to go home.” Joe interjects, pushing the empty coffee cup aside.

His father sighs and brushes over his holster buckle as if trying to make up his mind. “I understand he can’t stay here. Would you mind helping me get the boy down? I have a buggy.”

The man assists his son in pulling on the shirt, jacket, and boots, and then we snag him under the armpits to lead him downstairs. None of us listens to his feeble protests that he’s okay and can walk alone because it’s obvious he can’t.

“Watch your head!” I warn at the narrow spot.

After we’ve maneuvered Joe onto the buckboard seat, his father wraps him in a blanket and settles beside him, grabbing the reins.

Joe shoots me a weak smile that’s supposed to be charming but doesn’t come across very well since a pained expression flickers across his face. “Thanks, Miss! See you around.”

‘Not likely,’ I think, turning away after raising my hand to wave goodbye. Now that I have the bed to myself again, I will lie down for a couple of hours.

++++

Two weeks have passed, and I’ve almost forgotten the incident with the young cowboy. Only the money in my underwear drawer proves it happened. The men come and go, and I don’t bother to look at them closely or try to remember the stories they tell me. I just spread my legs, stare at the ceiling, and wait until it’s over. For money, I do almost anything these fellas dream of.

“Hey, Dolly!”

Someone greets me as I push through the crowd to a corner table with a tray full of beer glasses. One glance over my shoulder reveals a green jacket. I serve the men their drinks, collect their money, and then turn to the boy. “Didn’t think I’d see you again, John.”

“Joe!”

“I can’t keep track of names. There are too many Jims, Jakes, and Bills,” I apologize with a dismissive gesture. “What’s the matter, Joe?”

“I came to say thanks. Will you join me for dinner?”

I throw my head back and let out a harsh laugh. “Eat with you? I’m not the kind of woman you take to dinner. Although we call ourselves dancers, I’m just an ordinary whore.” Joe jerks at the word as if under a whiplash. He drops his eyes to his hat, kneading it in his hands in embarrassment. I almost feel sorry for him, so I relent. “But we can have a drink together. What would you like?”

“Beer.”

We managed to get seated at the last available table. Fortunately, the piano player takes a break, but it’s still so loud we must shout to be heard. It is hot and stuffy, with wisps of smoke from cheap cigars in the air. Joe’s curls are damp against his temples, and he fiddles with his collar. This draws my attention to his string tie and his pressed white shirt. Has he spruced up for me? That’s cute! Most men don’t even feel the need to clean up first.

“Look, Joe. I don’t know what you want or expect from me. It’s best to drink your beer, get out of here and go your way. We are in different worlds. You can have any girl you want with your good looks and wealth. So why are you sitting here with a used-up whore?”

“The way you talk, it sounds like you’re old. You’re not much older than I am, are you?”

“Eighteen?” I let out a laugh. “I’m in my mid-twenties.”

“I’m twenty-one!” Joe’s outraged voice makes me stifle a grin. His young look seems to be a sore point.

“I have done this since I was fourteen. It makes me feel old.” I throw back my shot of whiskey.

“Why?”

“Why what? Why am I doing this? It’s a job like any other. I make good money, and when I have enough, I buy myself …” I fall silent, about to break one of my rules. No private talks with customers. “What’s the real reason for this? Do you feel sorry for me? Save yourself the trouble.” I study him with narrowed eyes. “Or would you like to come upstairs with me?”

“No! I just wanted to thank the girl who looked after me and got the doctor.”

“I took your boots off and put the laudanum on your nightstand. That’s all I did. You don’t owe me a thing.” I push back the pang of guilt at the memory of raiding his wallet. What does a few dollars mean to him? He’s got a rich daddy. I don’t care if the kid worked hard to earn it. I also have to ensure I have enough to survive, right?

Joe plays with his glass and looks me in the eye. “Why do you work as a … dancer?” From the short pause before the word “dancer,” I can tell that what he means is “whore.”

“You’re not giving up, are you? I didn’t choose it. I just fell into it. Heck, Joe.” I jump up, the legs of my chair scraping the floor. “I don’t talk about my personal life with customers. Make sure you get home.”

Joe looks disappointed when he also gets to his feet. “That’s what I am to you? A customer, right?”

“Yes, exactly. And if you want to spend more time with me, you’ll have to pay for it.”

“I got it, Dolly. Goodbye.” He drains the last of his beer, slams the glass on the table harder than necessary, and presses his hat down on his head with a determined gesture. My remark has annoyed him.

I watch the slender figure as he strides toward the swinging door. His hips are narrow, his butt well-formed, and his holster hangs low. I almost open my mouth to shout after him, but I pinch my lips and turn away. This has no future. A used-up whore and a wealthy rancher’s son? That’s a laugh!

++++

Stage is a big word for the roughly nailed-together platform at the back of the saloon, framed by dusty, moth-eaten curtains that must have once been bright red. The gaps between the planks are so wide I have to watch where I step to avoid breaking my heel.

My performance and the song “The Cuckoo’s Nest” are very popular with men. They clap and cheer, especially when I show my legs or move between tables, putting my hand on one shoulder or another, or caressing a cheek. A green jacket catches my eye. I didn’t expect Joe to be so stubborn. He’s leaning against the bar with a broad grin on his face. I know he likes what he sees, but I ignore him and float back to the stage, where I finish and bow.

Before I can disappear upstairs for a break, Joe stands beside me. “Shall we have a drink together?” The boy is smart. He’s not asking for dinner.

I look at him with a corner of my mouth raised in amusement. Why not? He’s a paying customer like any other. “All right.”

Too much whiskey makes me sentimental, and that’s the case tonight. When Joe talks about his brothers and the ranch, I can hear the pride in his voice about what his pa accomplished, and I can sense his love and connection with his family. That feeling is foreign to me. I have struggled on my own since I was a young girl.

“I grew up with my strict aunt and decided at fourteen that I’d had enough. I took off with a young drifter. In Virginia City, we ran out of money. While he was trying to get a job in the livery stable and I waited for him on the street, a man in a suit came up to me and asked if I wanted to make a dollar,” I hear the words pour out of me. “Despite little education, I didn’t fall on my head. I quickly realized it was an easy way to make money.”

Joe places his hand on mine and gives me a compassionate look. “I’m sorry.”

I pull my hand away. “Don’t be sorry. It’s the life I chose. Do you want to relax upstairs with me?” Why did that question slip out? Am I trying to determine if Joe, like all men, has only one thing in mind?

“No. I want to talk to you and get to know you better.”

The boy is a stubborn bullhead. The more I try to keep him away from me, the more it spurs him on. Telling him anything private was a mistake. “You wouldn’t wanna know me, Joe. I have nothing but contempt for men. They push women around and take advantage of them.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you despise me.”

I gaze at the bottom of the empty glass and shake my head. Joe is about to crack the shell I’ve worked so hard to build over the years. I can’t let that happen. I know I will hurt him, but ending this before it goes too far is best.

With a deep breath, I meet his eyes. “Go home, Joe. Don’t come back, do you understand? There’s no future together.”

With bitter disappointment on his face, Joe stands up. He plants a kiss on my forehead and leaves the saloon, his shoulders slumped and his head hanging. With shaking hands, I pour myself another glass of whiskey. The sharp liquid burns my throat as the tears burn in my eyes. I know I’ve let Joe down, but it won’t work. I will not become dependent on a man to tell me how to live, what to do, and what not to do. Most women would be happy making such a good catch, but not me. I value my freedom, or is it just an excuse because I’m scared of a relationship? Because I’m afraid to give my heart to a man and then be hurt? Blinking back the tears, I lift my chin and step on the stage. “How about another song, folks?”

 

Joe

As I enter the smoky saloon for the fourth time in three weeks, I stifle a cough. The White Dove is a lousy place to work. The smell of cheap perfume, tobacco, sweat, and dust is sticky on my skin and seems twice as bad as in the Silver Dollar. The beer is watered down, and the piano is so off-key that you must strain to catch the melody. But the men don’t care. They come for the cheap female entertainment.

I’m determined to get Dolly out of this place. She deserves a better life than getting pawed by horny men night after night. I can’t get that woman out of my mind. I’ve tried to think of something else, but every time I’m in town, I’m drawn to the White Dove Saloon. Only Hoss knows about it. Pa would disapprove of me meeting a dancer. Hoss told me to forget about the girl, but I’ve decided to listen to my gut and ignore his advice.

A blonde woman in her thirties in a yellow frilly off-the-shoulder tulle dress is on stage singing “She May Have Seen Better Days.”

Where is Dolly? I turn toward the bar. “Howdy, bartender. I’m lookin’ for Dolly.”

His eyebrow raised, the man glares at me. “I sell drinks, no information.”

Sighing, I slide a dollar bill across the counter, hoping money will loosen his tongue. “Beer for me.”

As his eyes glide over the still prominent scar on my lower lip, recognition flashes in the man’s eyes. The drink arrives along with the requested information. “Dolly won’t be in until tomorrow. She has the day off.”

“Thanks!” I let out a frustrated sigh and leave without touching my beer. As Pa asked, I’ll be a good boy and pick up the mail and the paycheck for the hired hands. Then, I’ll ride back to the ranch without dawdling around town.

When I walk into the Virginia City Bank, my eyes are fixed on the bundle of letters I’m holding and flipping through. A hard barrel jabbing into my ribs makes me jump. I lift my gaze and stare into two cold, steel-blue eyes over a bandana covering the man’s mouth and nose. Heck!

‘How stupid can you be, stumbling into the middle of a bank robbery,’ says his shaking head and narrowed eyes. With a quick movement, he pulls my gun out of my holster and tucks it into the back of his belt. Raising my hands to show I won’t try anything, I look around. A pale-faced woman with two hectic red marks on her cheeks stands against the brick wall, clutching her purse. Another masked man, tall and slender, points a gun at the teller who’s behind the counter, stuffing coins and bills into a bag. I can see his hands shaking and smell the pungent sweat of fear hanging thick in the air. No one in the room says a word.

The bank robber with the black hair and brown hat grabs the two bags of money. They look heavy. “Let’s lock these three up in the back room and get out of here!”

“Move!” Another jab to my ribs underscores the man beside me’s order. He looks familiar. Blue eyes, sandy wavy hair … that’s Stanley, and the other dark-haired fellow is Albert, his pal. The two ranch hands Adam fired a few weeks ago and who beat me up have decided there’s a faster way to get money than to bend their back for it.

My fists clench. I consider a surprise attack, but I guess they’re not shy about using their guns. Even though it’s hard to do nothing, I don’t want to endanger the woman and the cashier, so I settle for waiting and obedience. They will lock us up and leave. No one will get hurt.

Another customer walks into the bank. Like me, he has missed or ignored the “closed” sign, but he reacts faster. Before anyone has time to stop him, he retreats into the street. At that moment, I know we are in trouble. “Bank robbery!” I hear him shout in alarm.

“Crap! What do we do now?” Stan asks, hurrying to the window, pushing aside the blind and peering out. I imagine men running from everywhere, guns drawn.

Albert scratches the back of his head. His gaze flickers around the room with a nervous twitch of his lid. He twists the lady’s arm behind her back and pushes her toward the door, his gun muzzle pressed against the back of her head. “We’ve taken hostages!”

The woman’s wide eyes meet mine. It’s only now that I recognize her! It’s Dolly. Without makeup, without the protruding earrings, in a simple teal calico dress, her hair pulled back in a neat bun, she looks nothing like the tantalizing burlesque dancer from The White Dove.

“Don’t shoot, or the lady and Cartwright will die!” Albert’s voice booms across the street as he makes his way to his horse, using the woman as a shield. Stan yanks my arm back as well and drives the barrel of the gun deep into my side. ”

I pray that the men surrounding the bank will keep their nerves, and I try to signal them with my eyes and a tiny shake of my head to stay calm. If one of them starts shooting, all hell will break loose, and there’ll be a bloodbath.

Stan nudges me toward his bay gelding. “Get up!” He mounts behind me and grabs the reins. The barrel of the gun never loses contact with my body. Albert forces Dolly to get on his horse and swings into the saddle. He takes the time to yank another horse’s reins from the hitching post. The circle of armed men opens to let us pass. I guess they will start chasing as soon as they see us from behind.

“If you follow us, the hostages will die!” Al’s cold voice leaves no doubt that he means business and will not hesitate to make good on his threat. The two men kick their heels into their horse’s sides, and we flee town at full gallop.

After riding a few miles, the cowboys rein in their heavily breathing horses, struggling under twice their weight. I look around, my heart beating fast. No one is on our tail.

“Why don’t you let us go? We’re only slowing you down!” I dare to suggest. It’s too tight with both of us in the saddle. My crotch is pressed uncomfortably against the pommel, and I can feel Stan’s body heat on my back. His pistol is holstered again. Maybe I could … In a flash, my hand shoots backward and closes around the gun, but Stanley has the reflexes of a striking snake. Before I can clear the leather, his sinewy fingers grip my wrist. We wrestle for a moment for the .45, but Stan has the advantage of being behind me. He twists my arm so far I expect to dislocate my shoulder, so I’m forced to release my grip. A hard blow from the gun butt hits the back of my head, knocking me off the horse and into the dirt. Dazed and with grit in my mouth, I sit up, a sharp pain shooting through my skull. When I feel the back of my head, I find a big lump. A small amount of blood clings to my fingers.

“Don’t try anything like that again, or I’m going to really hurt you!” Stan dismounts and kicks me in the ribs, landing me in the dust again, this time flat on my stomach. His mouth is twisted into a constant mocking smile from the poorly healed scar above his upper lip. He pins me to the ground with the heel of his boot digging into my lower back, pulls my hands behind me, and ties them with a strip of rawhide. He chuckles as I squirm as if he’s enjoying it. “You are our life insurance! The posse will keep their distance! No one will risk us killing a precious Cartwright, will he?”

Worried about spotting any pursuers, Albert glances around several times. “Come on, we have to keep going! Get Cartwright on the spare horse!”

“Then, at least let that lady go,” I beg.

Stan yanks me to my feet by my jacket, takes hold of the stirrup to put my boot in, and pushes me up. “Shut up. If you don’t, I have no problem gagging and throwing you over the saddle belly down!”

Stanley seizes the spare black horse’s reins and mounts his bay. Albert, one arm wrapped around Dolly’s waist, takes the lead. We head east at a brisk trot. Riding with my hands bound behind my back is a challenge, but I know it’s no use complaining.

With the full moon providing enough light to see our way, we travel well into the night. The terrain becomes hilly, and stony ground replaces the pastures. The horses’ shod hooves clatter through the silent night. Our tracks will be more challenging to follow on the rocks, and since we ride in darkness, it gives us several hours’ advantage.

“Is there any shelter nearby, Cartwright?” Stan steers his horse beside me and jabs the rifle into my side. A wave of pain ripples through my neck and shoulders as I lift my throbbing head.

“There’s a cave.”

“All right, you lead the way. The horses are spent. We’ll let them rest for a few hours.”

Not only the mounts but also the riders are worn out when we reach the cave. Dolly, who hasn’t made a sound during the trip, for which I admire her, sits down groaning on a rock after Albert has helped her dismount. Exhaustion and fear are written all over her face.

“I have to go too,” I murmur to Stan after he relieved himself against an alder with his back to us.

Stan unties my hands and gives me a shove. “Hurry up. No tricks!” I take a few steps forward, rubbing my wrists. Thick, man-high brush grows between the rocks, with a few leaf trees in between. This is my chance! A glance over my shoulder shows me that Stan’s gun is in his holster. I’m going to take advantage of this carelessness! As I sprint away, a hot wave of energy shoots through my body. “Goddamn!” I hear a curse behind me.

“Stan, you fool. Get him back!”

I can barely feel the branches whipping my face or the thorns tearing at my clothes. As a shot rings out, I move in a zigzag course. I hear Stan breaking through the underbrush behind me. It’s dark enough to give me a good chance to escape, and shooting a man on the run is almost impossible. Another shot hits the ground beside me, kicking up dirt—the third one hits. Hot pain rips through my left side. My legs buckle under me, and the ground is gone. Blurry twigs, dirt, and dust swirl in front of my eyes as I roll over an edge and flip several times on the slope. Boots plow through the loose debris above me. A sharp scream escapes me as I slam into a tree trunk, coming to a stop.

Stan is on top of me before I can catch my breath. His blow knocks my head back. Thick, metallic blood joins the dirt in my mouth. “You’re gonna regret this, Cartwright!” the cowboy hisses, trying to pull me up by my jacket. Noticing my distorted face, Stan kneels and pushes my clothes up. “I got you alright,” he chuckles.

How bad is the wound? I try to get a glimpse, but it’s too dark to see anything more than viscous moisture glistening black in the moonlight. The bullet hit me half from the side, just above my hipbone. I try to ignore the searing pain and focus on my breathing as the robber pulls his bandana from his back pocket, tears off a shred and crumples it up. As he forces the fabric into the wound like a cork into a bottle, I almost faint. It’s impossible to suppress another scream.

Stan hands me the remaining scarf. “You brought this on yourself. Hold it tight.”

Warm blood runs down my skin, soaking the cloth and my waistband. Kneeling in the dirt, I wait for the nausea to subside and my head to stop spinning.

“Get up, Cartwright. Come on.” Stan tugs at my jacket until I stagger to my feet. Each step sends flashes of pain through my left side as I drag my feet back to the cave, and if the man had let go of my arm, I would have fallen many more times. It was stupid and reckless of me to try to escape. But there’s no point getting angry about it now. The damage is done.

Albert has started a small fire. Since the entrance is overgrown with bushes, it won’t be visible outside. Stan pulls me inside and pushes me to the ground. I bite my lip to keep from crying out loud.

“I got him. Unfortunately, he has a hole in the side.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all but rather pleased. “I’m darn hungry!”

“Make yourself useful, girl!” Al grabs Dolly’s arm, shoving her in my direction. “First, you tend to Cartwright’s wound. We may need him. Then you cook us some food while I care for the horses.”

“I’m a dancer. I’m not a nurse!” she hisses. The girl has guts.

“As you wish. I’m sure a dancer wouldn’t mind keeping me company later on if you know what I mean.”

I hear the sound of fabric ripping, and then the woman pushes up my shirt, wrapping the strip of her petticoat around my waist and tying it. She frowns at the result. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” I force a smile. “Worst bandage I’ve ever had.” My attempt to cheer her up fails. Dolly walks back to the fire, crouching with her arms wrapped around her chest.

Albert tosses a can of beans and a piece of bacon into her lap. “Prepare the grub!”

With a resigned sigh, the lady places the pan in the flames and throws the bacon. It sizzles, and the tantalizing aroma soon fills the cave.

With a few strips of rawhide in his hand, Stan steps up beside me. He kicks me in the ribs, making me roll on my belly and tying my hands again. I’m too exhausted to put up a fight.

Unlike me, Dolly gets a plate of beans and bacon, but I wouldn’t have been able to force food down anyway. Lying on the hard, rocky floor, I watch the small group through lowered eyelids. A beautiful woman in the hands of two men—I know what awaits Dolly.

“You’re not as stupid as Cartwright, are you? You won’t try to escape?” Albert asks as the three of them eat.

“Where would a woman go alone in the middle of the wilderness? I got a better chance if I cooperate, don’t you think?”

Al sets down his empty plate, burps, and wipes his mouth with his forearm. “How about you and me getting comfortable, sweetheart? Stan, you watch the kid and keep an eye out for followers.”

“‘Darn! Why me?”

“Because I’m in charge.”

Stan needs someone to vent to, and that’s me. As Albert picks up his bedroll, seizes the girl by the arm, and retreats with her, Stan spits and gets to his feet. He kicks me twice in the hip, pulls my boots off and ties my ankles together, then lifts my feet to my wrists.

“I prefer you that way, Cartwright. All tied up and helpless.” He squats down next to me, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands toying with the jackknife he used to cut the leather straps. The steel glints in the firelight. “Three weeks ago in the saloon, Dolly seemed to care about you. Tell me, did she let you fuck her without paying? How was she? Or does a purty rich boy like you do not screw soiled doves? You don’t need to, do you? Got a pretty little gal waiting for you?”

He grabs my chin, forcing me to face him, bringing the blade close to my face. I flinch and close my eyes, which makes him laugh. A bead of sweat forms on my temple, and I clench my jaw. ‘No, please not my face,’ I think, my mouth dry with panic, but I’m determined not to give in to his games.

I can’t keep from jerking when I feel the cold steel on my face. The knife tip is thrust against the skin under my eye, and with gentle pressure, it’s pulled to my chin. My body tenses, expecting pain, but it doesn’t come. He used the blunt side of the knife.

“You care about your appearance, don’t you?” Stan brushes the back of a finger across my cheek. His voice is hoarse. With my lips pressed into a thin line, I withstand his gaze. He closes his eyes and sucks a deep breath through his nose. “Hell, I like that. I can smell how fear seeps from your every pore and see your sweating and trembling. Torture makes some people pee in fear, but you seem quite tough, aren’t you?”

What makes him stop, I don’t know. Maybe he’s bored with my lack of response or remembers Albert’s instructions to keep an eye out for pursuers. My muscles go slack with relief as he folds the knife and gets up. I roll onto my side, trying to relax despite the uncomfortable hogtie, but it’s impossible. My head throbs, fire rages through my side, and cramps shoot through the muscles of my shoulders and thighs, almost bringing tears to my eyes, but I push them back. I clench my fists and bite my lip hard to keep from moaning aloud.

My attempts to suppress the thought of my failure are in vain. I should have protected Dolly. I should have had a better plan for my escape. While Dolly is going through something far worse than a gunshot wound, here I lie, feeling sorry for myself. She’s not screaming, but I can’t ignore the unmistakable sounds of two people having sex. The thought of what Albert is doing to Dolly makes me sick and distracts me from my predicament. Is it less harmful for a whore to be taken by force than for a decent girl? I hope he won’t hurt her.

 

Despite the awkward position, I doze off and spend a few hours between restless sleep and feverish drowsiness. When Stan cuts my restraints in the morning, my whole body is so stiff that it takes me several long minutes even to sit up. I’m glad the men help me outside, allowing me to take care of my personal needs.

The pain rages down my entire left side, and the wound feels hot and swollen. The bullet is still inside, but there’s nothing I can do. I hope the posse will find us soon. My brothers and Pa must be with them, and they’ll demand everything of themselves and their horses to catch up with us.

Without offering me water, Stan, my guard, pushes me back into the cave and ties my hands behind my back again. He also binds my ankles, but fortunately not in a hogtie.

While the cowboy rekindles the banked fire and puts on coffee, I sit leaning against the hard rock wall, trying to penetrate the darkness at the back of the cave with my gaze. Where is Dolly? Is she all right?

I don’t have to wait long for the answer. Her dress is wrinkled and dirty, her hair disheveled, and she looks pale as she steps up to the fire and hunkers down, followed by Albert. He hands her coffee and offers her a piece of hardtack. I try to make eye contact with her, but she avoids my gaze, concentrating instead on the cup, which she clutches with both hands as if the warm drink will comfort her.

Stan is in a bad mood. He kicks a rock aside, steps next to Dolly, grabs her hair, yanks her head back, and forces a kiss on her lips. “Now we’re going to have some fun together.”

Tears in her eyes, Dolly tries to get the hand out of her hair. “Please!”

Albert shoots his pal an evil glare. His threatening voice leaves no doubt that he means business. “There’s no time for that. Leave her alone!”

“Just give me five minutes. She doesn’t belong to you! We share her, like the booty!”

“We don’t share her! Keep your hands off her, drink your coffee, and let’s get out of here.”

“Why? Has she got you wrapped around her finger?”

“She’s coming along with us. I’ll explain later.”

 

The horses are saddled up, and everything is ready to go. Stan towers over me with one hand on his hips, his thoughtful gaze resting on my bloody shirt and glassy eyes as he twirls his pistol around his index finger. Is he trying to figure out if dragging me on is worth it? Will he finish me off with a clean shot in the head? Ignoring my pounding heart, I push my fear aside and straighten to give the impression that I can easily endure another day on horseback.

A smile plays around the corner of Stan’s mouth. He enjoys my helpless situation. “What about Cartwright? He’s just slowing us down. We don’t need him anymore.”

“We only have three horses. We’ll leave him here.”

After a final twist, Stan lets the gun slide back into its holster. He looks disappointed. Only now do I realize I’ve been holding my breath. With a gasp, I draw air into my lungs.

The man’s blue eyes glow cold when he kneels beside me, but I withstand his gaze without blinking. His foul breath hits my face as his rough hands rummage through my jacket. With a satisfied sound, he takes out my wallet and slips it into his pocket.

Before the robbers take Dolly outside, our eyes meet, and I feel like she’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t figure out what. ‘I’m sorry? Hang in there?’ something like that, I guess.

Tied up, thirsty, injured, and running a fever, I’m left behind, grateful I’m still alive. The hoofbeats fade into the distance. Dolly could move around freely but wouldn’t have had a chance to escape on foot anyway. Is she still a hostage, or has she decided to join forces with the men? Does she hope for a share of the booty and a more comfortable life than entertaining men in the saloon every night?

Too worn out to sit upright, I let my upper body sink to the side until my head rests on the uneven, stony ground. Gravel digs into my cheek, but I don’t care. The rawhide is so tight around my wrist that I give up to wriggle free. The posse will follow the tracks and soon be here, won’t they? Although I don’t want to, I find myself dozing off.

When I open my eyes, the blinding light penetrating the cave tells me several hours have passed, and it’s already noon. ‘Move, find a solution,’ I try to motivate myself. I must face the possibility that no one will come to help me. How will the sheriff know that the men left me behind? They will continue to pursue the bank robbers.

A chill runs through my body, causing my teeth to chatter. Unlike the sweltering heat outside, it’s cold in the cave, and I know my fever’s rising. My tongue is dry as an old dishrag in my parched mouth, and my skin feels so hot you could bake an egg on it. I last had a drink yesterday, and I have to find water. Is my brain playing tricks on me, or do I hear dripping?

With my hands and feet tied, crawling deeper into the cave is hell. Every movement sends an agonizing pain down my side. After a few yards, I come to a halt, panting. The water seems a mile away. But I’m not the type to give up easily.

I don’t know how long it takes me to creep toward the puddle; only my stubbornness and willpower push my body forward. Rolling onto my stomach, I drink straight from the shallow pool. The fresh water tastes earthy and mineral and is lovely and cool on my glowing face. New hope and strength fill me. I’m not going to die. There must be a way to get rid of these bonds. Maybe a sharp rock ledge, or—wait! They’ve tied me up with rawhide. When rawhide gets wet, it stretches. I turn until I can dip my hands and wait a few minutes. Then, I move my wrists. The straps are still tight but not as firm as before. The blood oozing from my chafed wrists makes the ties slippery, which is also a help.

Relief washes over me as I manage to wriggle my hands free. My body is soaked with cool sweat, and I shiver with cold and pain. As life returns to my numb hands and feet with a stinging and tingling sensation, I feel my way along the rough rock face to the cave entrance. After many hours in the twilight, my eyes are sensitive, and I have to squint against the piercing sun.

A barren landscape spreads before me, rocks interspersed with bushes and lean, dry grass, dust, and shimmering heat. Not a rider to be seen. Where is the posse? Have they lost the tracks in the rocky terrain? I’m miles from the Ponderosa, and in my condition and without my horse, I won’t make it home.

A buzzard circles in the cloudless sky, and its wailing cry sounds as lonely as I feel. Is it hoping for me to die so that it can pick the flesh off my bones?

“You can wait a long time,” I whisper, then I lie down on my side, pulling my legs up to my chest, enjoying the warmth on my skin. The shivering stops soon, for the sun raises my temperature, causing my tense muscles to relax.

 

Dolly

Albert has taken the lead, and we drive our horses without mercy. I can’t ride very well, and the pain in my thighs is killing me, but the black horse is an obedient animal that gives me no trouble.

Stan has insisted on tying up my hands. He rides behind me, keeping an eye. Unlike his buddy, he doesn’t have a lot of trust in me. It feels like traveling through an oven, and I’m thankful Al remembered to give me Joe’s hat. Otherwise, the sun would have cooked my brain.

Around noon, we stop at a stream to give the horses a drink of water. My leg muscles are so painfully tight that I can only move with stiff steps. During our short break, the men pour out the two canvas bags with the words “Virginia City Bank” printed on them and count their haul. They grin with satisfaction.

“Ten thousand bucks!” cheers Albert, dividing the coins and bills into two piles. I come up behind him and put my hands on his shoulders. “I hope you’ll share it with me?”

“Sure, darling. We’ll buy a little farm in Montana, raise horses, and make a good life of it. How does that sound?”

“It sounds wonderful!”

Stan gets to his feet and brushes the dust off his pants. “You’re headin’ north? Then we’ll part here. I’ll be on my way to Texas. A girl is waiting for me.” He stuffs the money into his saddlebag and mounts his bay horse.

I don’t let my relief show. Stan is a fellow who gives me goosebumps. He has fun hurting people. I know this type of man. To feel strong, he has to humiliate others and inflict pain.

Albert is brutal but not completely heartless, and he’s taken a fancy to me. I can handle him. Acting is second nature to me, and I’m very convincing.

Al stands up, grabbing my breast and stroking it through the fabric. “Now that you and I are alone with no pursuers in sight, we could have some fun. What do you think, girl?”

While my brain works out a plan, I keep the false smile on my face.

 

Joe

I have to figure out how to get out of here. I have no choice but to walk. With no way to carry water, I must wait for the cooler evening hours. It will be challenging, and I doubt I can walk for miles, but I must at least try.

‘The bullet has to come out,’ I think as I kneel on the cold stone floor beside the puddle, wincing as I try to remove as much blood and dirt as possible. I’m going to leave the cloth stuffed in the wound because I’m afraid it will start bleeding again if I remove it. Even if I had a knife, it would be impossible to dig out the slug myself.

Late in the afternoon, I start walking. Each step is excruciating, sending pulsing pain down my left side. The branch I’m leaning on is of little help. Several times, I stumble over roots or slip in loose gravel. It takes all my will to keep going and not just stay flat on my belly and wait for help. I drag my boot along the ground, no longer able to lift my left leg. A blind man could follow my tracks. Acrid sweat mixed with dust burns my eyes. Sometimes, I think I see a waterhole ahead, but it turns out to be a mirage the closer I get. A patch of green far down the slope keeps my eyes fixed on it. If I’m correct, these are desert willows, so I hope to find water there. With this thought, I stumble forward, praying the trees won’t disappear as I approach.

When I see the horse, I believe it’s another hallucination. It’s black, with a figure wearing a bright hat sitting in the saddle. Confused, I blink to clear my vision, trying to figure out who it might be.

The figure leans over me, wiping dirt from my brow. Over me? A moment ago, I was on my feet, heading for the water; now, I’m lying on my back, staring at the sky, which turns blue-gray with dusk. Had I lost consciousness? A canteen is held to my lips. I drink greedily.

“Dolly,” I murmur to the face hovering over me, lined with tousled hair. She has a bloody scratch on her cheek. Her dark brown eyes are full of worry. “They let you go? How are you?”

“Don’t try to talk. I’ll get help.”

I grab her arm and hold her back when she tries to stand. “Bullet’s got to come out.”

“No, Joe, I can’t.”

“Search for a knife.”

Dolly shakes off my hand and takes a step back. Her nervous fingers run over the collar of her dress as she tries to make a decision. Tense, I watch her walk over to the horse, rummaging through the saddlebags and returning with a jackknife. She opens it, frowning at the chipped, rusty blade reflecting the orange sunset. Then she kneels next to me. I can see that the top of her gown is ripped, revealing the creamy white of one breast, but she doesn’t seem to mind, and I have other things to worry about.

“Let me have a look!” Dolly’s tiny hand rests on my hip to roll me sideways. I gasp in pain. She inches up my shirt and jacket, her fingers probing around the wound. I hold my breath, muscles tense, waiting for the blade, but nothing happens. As she stands, fabric rustles. Her cheeks are pale, and I see her swallowing and pressing her lips together. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

Three gunshots echo through the deserted landscape. Propping myself up on one elbow, I look around. “That’s our distress signal! My family … Dolly, can you give them a sign?”

Shortly after the woman fires three shots, the sound of hoofbeats approaches, followed by Pa’s booming voice. “Joseph?”

Again, I look up at two worried faces floating above me, only this time, it’s a pair of blue eyes and a pair of dark brown eyes—Pa’s and Hoss’. My body goes limp with relief. They’ll handle everything.

They waste no time. While Pa holds a canteen to my lips, my brother feels my arms and legs and makes a satisfied sound when he finds no breaks. Pa rests my head in his lap and wipes my face with his scarf. Meanwhile, Hoss fiddles with my bloodstained clothes, exposes the wound, and rolls me onto my side. It’s a déjà vu, but I know it will hurt this time. Hoss and Pa won’t hesitate to remove the bullet. As my brother begins to probe the swollen and inflamed flesh, I contort my face and let out a distressed gasp.

Hoss tugs at the shred, which is still stuck in the wound. As he removes it, a stream of sticky liquid, blood or secretion, pours down my hip. I can tell from Pa’s pinched face it’s not a pretty sight. “The fabric must have kept him from bleeding to death, but it caused an infection.”

“Yeah, that ain’t good, but I can feel the slug. It’s in the back muscle alright.”

“It has to come out.” Pa runs a reassuring hand over my upper arm.

“I know. He can’t ride, and it may be too late if we go for a doc. He’s burning up.”

My thoughts drift to Dolly. Why aren’t Hoss and Pa surprised to see her free? Where is she anyway? Did I imagine it all? But I heard shooting. Who fired? The crooks took my gun.

Flames from a fire blaze and water from a canteen gurgles into a pot. Is Pa makin’ coffee? I could use some. It would clear the cloudy soup in my brain.

“The water’s hot. We can start.” Pa says in a grim, determined voice.

“Coffee?” I ask.

“Later, son. Hoss, you hold him down.”

Instead of a cup, a piece of leather is shoved between my teeth. One meaty hand grabs my shoulder, and the other my hip. My brother’s face is close to mine. I can smell him—sweat, leather, horse. What is he up to?

“Lie as still as you can. Pa’s going to get the bullet out. Hold on to me.”

“Ready?”

I wonder if Pa’s asking me or my brother.

Hoss nods. “Yeah.”

As the blade cuts deep into my sensitive flesh, I let out an agonized moan. My body involuntarily jerks and twitches to escape the overwhelming pain while Hoss struggles to hold me down. I dig my fingers into his vest and bite down hard on the piece of leather. Tears well up in my eyes, but I try not to make another sound. Pa has a hard enough time without me showing him with my screams how much pain he causes me. Just before I think I can’t take it anymore, my body decides it’s enough, and I slip into a pleasant unconsciousness.

When I wake up, it’s midnight, as I can tell by the high moon. The smell of coffee hits my nose, and the fire still burns. “Pa?”

The figure sitting beside me stirs. “Joseph, how do you feel?”

“Thirsty.” Pa helps me lean against my saddle and hands me a cup of coffee. He puts his hand on my cheek to check my temperature and replaces the wet cloth on my brow with a fresh, cool one, brushing the hair from my forehead. I feel a tight bandage around my waist.

“Where’s Hoss?”

“He went to get a buggy to take you home.”

“And what about Dolly?” Trying to make out my faint voice, Pa leans in.

“Who’s Dolly?”

“The other hostage. Is she here?”

“No, there’s nobody else. Did you fire the three shots?”

“No, Dolly. Did you catch them outlaws?”

“Hoss and I separated from the posse. Hoss noticed the tracks weren’t as deep as before. He said it was only three riders on three horses, which made us think …” Pa falls silent.

“You searched for a body,” I whisper.

“Do you know anything about the woman? Is she still held captive?”

“No. Guess she escaped.” I shake my head, rejecting Pa’s hardtack but accepting another cup of coffee. My eyelids are heavy, and all I want is a few hours of sleep, a few hours away from the angry throbbing in my side.

Pa reads my expression right. “Get some rest, Joe. We’ll bring you home tomorrow.”

 

Dolly

The stage rumbles west. As the driver pushes the team of horses to top speed, shouting and cracking his whip, we quickly leave Virginia City behind. My life as a dancer and a whore stays behind as well.

Deputy Foster came to question me about the days I was held hostage. Without batting an eyelid, he swallowed my explanation that there had been a fight over the loot, and Albert was shot by his buddy. If he doubted that I’d escaped with the black horse, he didn’t let on.

With $5000, I can fulfill my dream. I will open a small café in San Francisco and offer homemade fruit tarts, perhaps even supplying the surrounding hotels. No one there knows me or my past, and they will treat me like a decent woman.

Do I have a guilty conscience? No. $5000 is a small amount for a bank. And shooting Al was in self-defense. After all, he kidnapped me, took advantage of me, and left Joe to die. I don’t feel sorry for him. I quickly dismiss the thought of his surprised look when the bullet struck his chest.

Will Joe be all right? He’s a nice, decent boy, and I hope he survives. He was the first man who took an interest in me as a person and didn’t just want to use my body. Nevertheless, a relationship with him would have no chance. He needs a girl more suited to his youthful energy and enthusiasm than a tired, bitter whore.

 

Joe

My recovery is long and painful. Most of the time, I’m delirious with a fever or on painkillers.

The infection has spread despite Hoss and Pa’s quick action. Pa told me later that Paul had to open the wound again to remove a collection of pus and then flush it once a day. All I remember is the endless sea of pain and the feeling that my body was on fire. Every time I woke up, someone would force broth or bitter medicine down my throat. I remember merciless hands holding me down while Paul worked on the wound, gentle hands tending to my personal needs, changing damp sheets, and placing cold cloths on my forehead, and soothing voices trying to calm and comfort me.

Caught between blazing fever and drugged sleep, I didn’t know which was dreaming and which was real. Sometimes, when I awoke, I lay next to Dolly. Her hair cascaded over the pillow, tickling my nose; her big brown eyes, framed by thick lashes, were right before me. Her mouth formed words, but I couldn’t understand them. The soft flesh of an ample breast, only covered by a thin nightgown, pressed against my arm. She smelled of sweet floral perfume, and her hands cupped my head while her thumbs stroked my cheeks in circles.

Then Dolly stood in front of me with a pistol in her hand. She was wearing her dress, but it was torn. As I reached out to cover her, she pressed the gun against my left side and pulled the trigger. Searing pain ripped through my back. I heard Stan’s harsh laugh and saw his mouth twisted in mockery as I writhed on the floor. He held a rusty knife as he knelt beside me.

“Not my face!” I screamed, thrashing around, but someone held my wrists clasped in an iron grip.

The smell of familiar pipe tobacco was in my nose, and a command droned painfully loud in my ears. “Joseph! Lie still! You’re safe.” I stopped struggling. Maybe he wouldn’t cut my face if I did as he said. Stan’s sniggering grimace disappeared and was replaced by Pa, brushing the hair from my brow and wiping the sweat from my chest, hovering over me with concern in his eyes.

 

When I can think straight again after the fever breaks, I am surprised to find the sheriff in my room. Wasting no time, he gets right to the point.

“Little Joe, I have to ask you something. What happened exactly after they took you hostage? Did you kill Albert?” Roy stands at the foot of my bed with his arms crossed over his chest. I am propped against the headboard using two soft pillows.

“He’s dead? I didn’t shoot anyone.”

Pa, sitting on an armchair beside me, stands. His voice is angry as he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Why all these questions, Roy? You know they left Joe tied up in that cave!”

The sheriff runs a hand over his mustache. “There’s something wrong with this story.”

“Did you catch Stan?” I ask.

“Yes, him and $5,000 loot. He’s in jail awaiting trial, but we need you to testify. The trial will be delayed until you can get into town. Stan claims they divided the booty and separated. He had no idea his friend was dead. He looked stunned, and I believed him. Also, the other half of the money has disappeared.”

Pa rubs his chin in thought. “When we found Joseph, he mumbled something about Dolly, that she was with him and fired the three shots, but we thought Joe was delirious. He was running a high fever, and we saw no sign of a woman. Might she have taken the money?”

“Clem questioned her the same night. She gave him a convincing story that she got away after Stan shot his buddy. Of course, another scenario would be possible, but the woman’s gone. Although there was no Dolly among the passengers, she may have taken the stagecoach or gone into hiding. I’m afraid we’ll never know.”

“Roy, that’s enough for now. Paul says my son needs rest. Come back when he’s better if you have any more questions.”

Exhausted, I sink into the soft pillow and let it envelop me. Dolly’s gone before I’ve had a chance to know her better. I had plans to get her out of the saloon and into a better job, but maybe that wasn’t what she wanted. The sadness hurts almost as much as my wound. I heave a sigh.

Pa reads my mind. He squeezes my shoulder. “You need to rest and concentrate on getting better, son. That’s what’s important right now. The Sheriff will take care of everything else.”

 

Part 2—One and a half years later

Dolly

I didn’t expect to be so successful, but if my customers are to be believed, my little café and my fruit cakes are known all over San Francisco. Satisfied, I count the money for the day as the bright bell above the door rings to let people in. I’m already closed for the night. I must have forgotten to lock the door and turn the sign around.

“Good evening, Miss!” The dark-clad cowboy greets me politely by tapping the brim of his hat. The other, a tall man in a white hat, nods at me before his eyes wander over the pies displayed. He licks his lips, eyes gleaming. I smile at his audible, rumbling stomach. “I was just closing, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

The dark-clad man removes his hat and grins, revealing a delightful dimple. “Knowing my brother, it’ll be worth it to you, Miss!” His clothes are gray with dust, and the smell of unwashed bodies wafts toward me. “Please excuse our rough appearance. We had a cattle drive to Sacramento and added a few days of vacation in San Francisco. When Hoss spotted your café, he decided a piece of pie was more important than a bath.”

“One piece? You’re kidding, Adam!”

I hide my smile at their banter behind my hand. “Have a seat. I’ll make some fresh coffee.”

Leaning against the kitchen table, I put my hand on my chest to calm myself. Does love happen at first sight? I always thought it was a rumor, but this dark-suited cowboy with his beard shadow makes my heart beat faster, and I have trouble breathing.

By the time the water boils and the coffee is ready, I have regained my composure. Only my hands tremble as I pour coffee for them, spilling a little. I can almost see the sparks flying when the polite cowboy puts his hands on top of mine, taking the enamel pot from me. His smile is the most charming.

“I’ll take care of this. You may serve the pie.”

“This is Linzer cake, a recipe from Vienna. There’s an almond cake, a cream cake with cherries, chocolate, and schnapps, and one with peaches.” I rattle off.

“One of each,” the big one says, showing a gap between his front teeth as he grins.

When he digs into his pies, I turn to walk back to the kitchen, but his brother catches my arm. “Miss … Won’t you join us?”

I rub my damp hands on my apron, trying not to show how nervous the man makes me. “All right. I could use some coffee.”

 

Sleep doesn’t come. My thoughts circle the cowboy. “Adam,” I whisper, listening to the sound of the name melting on my tongue sweeter than candy. He caught me a few times staring at him and pierced me with chocolate-dark eyes, his mouth twisted into a friendly, amused smile. It was as if he knew what was going on inside of me.

I’ve never experienced anything like this. A whirlwind of unfamiliar emotions shakes my principles and convictions, and my hard shell begins to crack. An unexplainable longing to kiss his lips, run my fingers over his dimples, and stroke the wiry dark hair on his chest almost drives me crazy.

I can tell by his manner and choice of words that he had an education and wasn’t just a simple cowhand. He wanted to have dinner with me tomorrow night, and I said yes. I’m jittery as a schoolgirl when I think about it. Where has my cool distance towards men gone? Oh, my God, what have I gotten myself into?

 

Joe

“Hey Pa, Adam sent a wire. He says they sold the herd for a good price. They only lost three. Hoss is on his way back, but Adam is going to stay in San Francisco for another week,” I explain, interrupted by a cough shaking my body.

Pa gives me a look that says he thinks the trip to Virginia City was too strenuous. But I insisted on going, and the doctor gave his okay, too. The two weeks I’ve been in bed with the flu and missing the cattle drive have left me irritable and restless. Worst of all, I had missed the following trip to San Francisco. The thought of my brothers having fun on the Barbary Coast while I was sick in bed almost made me climb the walls in frustration. The ride was just the thing to get rid of some of my tension.

“Adam didn’t write why he’s staying in San Francisco. What do you think, Pa? Business? A girl?” I rub the back of my neck, rereading the telegram as if I might find an answer between the lines.

“I wish it was a girl.” Pa sighs. I know he hopes one of us will get married and have grandchildren running around the house, but it has yet to work out. The ranch is the most successful in Nevada, but we Cartwrights don’t have any luck with women.

 

I storm out the door as Hoss rides into the yard a week later. I’m dying to know. “Hey, Hoss. Why didn’t Adam come back? A girl?”

“Hello, little brother. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You’re right. It’s a girl. She has a café and sells the most delicious cakes you can think of—with cream, chocolate, almonds …” The memory makes Hoss beam, and a dreamy expression veils his sparkling blue eyes.

“How does she look?”

“She had them fancy cakes from foreign countries, like Vienna and Germany, with fruit and schnapps. You can’t imagine how well she bakes.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Huh?”

“The girl!” I follow him into the barn, where he starts unsaddling Chubb and Sport, whom he brought. I won’t mention that Vienna is a city, not a country.

“Yeah, she’s a cute little filly. Thick brown hair, big dark eyes. I can see why Adam’s courting her.” Hoss chuckles. “Her name’s Eliza Watson. Don’t let Hop Sing hear it, but I’ve never had such tasty pies!”

“Adam’s wooing her? Is it serious, then? Gee, I’m happy for him!”

“Me too. I always thought you’d be the first of us to get married, but now it looks like Older Brother is in the running.”

 

A week later, the following telegram arrives, telling us that Adam will stay in San Francisco for some more days. A twinge of anger runs through my body. What does my brother think? Handling all the chores, Hoss and I work from dawn to dusk. Spring is always a busy time on the ranch, and Adam takes two weeks off as if he has no duties or responsibilities here.

Hoss reads my expression well. He squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t be mad at Adam. Give him some time. He’s always put the ranch first.”

“Yeah, it’s just … He doesn’t even bother to ask if we need his help. He presents us with accomplished facts.”

“That upsets you? Come on, Joe, don’t be so hard on him. I’m sure he’ll be back by week’s end.”

 

Hoss was right. Adam arrives today, but he’s not alone. He brings Eliza with him. Pa, Hoss, and I wait at the Wells Fargo counter, dressed in good shirts and ties. To make an excellent first impression, we’ve polished the carriage’s leather seats and brushed the horses to a shine, but of course, everything is covered with a layer of dust again.

“Here comes the coach!” I call without need because Pa and Hoss see it just like me. After the Wells Fargo employee places a step next to the stagecoach, the door opens, and our brother emerges with a big grin spread from ear to ear. He turns and offers his hand to a lady, dressed in a dark blue calico dress and matching hat, and helps her get off. The friendly smile freezes on my face. It’s Dolly! I feel my heart skip a beat, and the blood drains from my face.

“May I introduce you? This is my fiancée, Eliza Watson. Eliza, this is my father, Ben Cartwright. You already know Hoss; this is my baby brother, Little Joe.”

As Pa shakes the woman’s hand, he gives her a warm, welcoming smile. Then he pauses. “Say, have we ever met?”

“I lived in Virginia City before I opened the café.”

“Well, maybe we crossed paths then.”

When Dolly stands facing me, I see a flash of recognition in her eyes. She turns a shade paler but quickly catches herself, forcing a polite expression. “It’s nice to meet you. Adam has told me a lot about you.”

Adam musters me with a frown. Of course, he doesn’t miss that I’m standing there like a fool with my mouth hanging open. “Are you all right, Joe? You look kind of pale.”

I clear my throat and glance at my boots, scuffing in the dust. “Um, it’s probably the aftereffects of this flu. It hit me hard.”

“Let’s not stand around here. Let’s go to the ranch. You must be tired from the trip.” Pa puts his hand on my shoulder, scrutinizing eyes wandering over me.

I’m glad I’m riding Cochise and not having to drive back in the carriage, which only seats four anyway. The excited chatter of Adam, Hoss, Pa, and Dolly reaches me while I fall behind, feeling like a fifth wheel. Am I jealous? Maybe I am. It feels like a betrayal. Dolly turned me down a year and a half ago, saying she wouldn’t get involved with a man, and now she’s rushing headlong into a relationship with my brother. To be fair, she’s had enough time away from her dancing life to change her mind. Did she know Adam was my brother? What kind of game is she playing?

Then there’s the suspected murder and the missing $5,000. Did Dolly shoot the man, take the money, and then run off to San Francisco? It would be a good fit. How else would she have enough cash to open a cafe? I rub my face with a groan. What am I supposed to do? Talk to Roy? Talk to Adam?

After dismounting in the Ponderosa yard, Pa steps up to me. “Joseph, you look exhausted. How do you feel?”

“I’m all right, Pa. I’m just a little tired.” His furrowed brow tells me that my answer wasn’t convincing.

Pa rubs the back of my neck. “We’ll take care of Cochise. You lie down. I’ll check on you later.”

“Okay.” I hand him the reins and walk to the house. Behind my back, I feel my brothers giving each other puzzled looks. Usually, I blossom in the presence of a beautiful woman, flirting or talking excitedly, but not this time. I need to be on my own and think.

I lie on the bed with my hands tucked under my head and stare at the ceiling. What should I do? If Dolly stole the money and shot a man, I can’t watch her marry Adam. I have to tell him. Does he know about her past as a dancer and whore? Maybe she told him, and the way I see my brother, he doesn’t care. Besides, people change, and you must be careful not to judge based on their past.

I miss dinner. When Pa comes to my room later to check on me, I pretend to be asleep. I feel him touch my forehead with the back of his hand—probably searching for a fever—and pull the covers up my neck. Then he slips out of the room.

I spend the night tossing and turning in my bed, unable to sleep. My mind goes in circles, and I can’t find a reasonable solution. The way Dolly looks at my brother, there is no doubt she truly loves him. Should I say what I know and destroy their luck? After Laura Dayton, how will Adam handle another broken engagement?

There’s a slight chance, of course, that Albert was shot by his friend. But where is the money? Assuming Stan had shot Al in a fight, he would have taken all the loot. Would he allow Dolly to take a gun and a horse and let her ride off? None of this makes sense.

The following day, I’m up early. Hop Sing is already in the kitchen as I light the fire. The great room is filled with the smell of coffee and freshly baked cookies. The guest room door opens, and Dolly emerges. She hesitates when she sees me. I expect her to retreat into the room, but then her shoulders straighten, and she steps beside me by the fireplace. “Good morning, Joe.”

“Mornin’, Dolly.”

“My name’s Eliza. Dolly’s not my real name.” Neither of us knows how to begin, and the silence hangs heavy between us. We stare at the flames devouring the logs while I jab the poker to keep my hands busy and mask my discomfort. It’s hard for me to find the right words. I don’t want to hurt Dolly or Adam, and I don’t want to blame her without proof.

“Does Adam know?”

“About my past? Yes, I told him I was a burlesque dancer.”

“Does he also know about …”

“That I used to bring men into my room? I hinted that I don’t have an innocent past—without going into detail—but Adam’s a smart fellow. I guess he suspects what I did besides dancing.”

“Dolly, a year and a half ago …” I take a deep breath, remembering Pa’s advice to start a serious conversation with something pleasant. “I never got a chance to thank you. When you fired those shots, you probably saved my life. I don’t know if my family would have found me otherwise.”

Dolly—Eliza looks at me with narrowed eyes. She knows there’s more to come.

“One of the bank robbers was found shot dead. His share of the loot disappeared. As you did.”

“What are you implying?”

“I want to hear your side of the story.”

“My version? Do you want to hear how I had to ride all day in the heat with my hands tied? Or how Albert forced me to sleep with him? How he took me several times and tore my dress to shreds?” Tears well up in her eyes, trickle down her cheeks, and she sobs. “Leave me alone, Joe!” Little fists drum against my chest.

I jump as Adam clatters down the stairs. Did he hear us talking? Like an angry bull at a red rag, my brother stomps toward me and grabs me by the arm. He slams me against the wall by the fireplace. His face is contorted with rage, and his dark eyes flash. “How dare you, Joe? Did you insult my fiancée?”

“Oh, darling. He blames me for my past as a dancer. We met once or twice, but I didn’t know Joe was your brother. He has implied things about me.” Eliza throws herself into Adam’s arms and buries her face. Her reaction is exaggerated. She’s not as good an actress as she thinks she is, but she convinces my brother.

Adam places his hands on her back to comfort her. His other is clenched into a fist, and I can see the tendons sticking out on his forearm. It costs him everything not to strike me. “Leave, Joe. Get out of my sight. We’ll talk about this later!” Adam’s words are harsh and cold. I turn my back, grab my hat, jacket, and holster, and slam the door shut behind me.

I saddle Cochise, and we rush out of the yard, leaving a cloud of dust. “Joseph!” Pa’s call roars behind me, but I ignore him.

After we’ve raced as if rushed by the devil along the road for a few miles, I calm down. I ease Cooch into a reasonable trot and draw in a deep breath. My stomach is knotted in a painful ball of anger. I’m going to town for a coffee or maybe a beer to calm my nerves. Besides, I need to talk to Roy.

I even take Dolly at her word when she says she didn’t know I was Adam’s brother since she can’t remember names. I was just one more fellow in the stream of men who used to frequent the saloon.

 

“Howdy, Little Joe,” the sheriff greets me, but his smile fades when he sees my expression. “What’s the matter? Trouble?”

Heck, why can everyone read me like a book? Sometimes, I wish I had Adam’s inscrutable poker face. I plant my butt on the edge of Roy’s desk and accept a cup of coffee. “Remember that bank robbery a year and a half ago? The one where I and a girl were taken hostage?”

“Of course.” Biding his time, the sheriff looks at me.

“The woman turned up again. She owns a café in San Francisco.” I make a dramatic pause. “She’s staying at the Ponderosa. She’s Adam’s fiancée.”

“You serious?” Roy sits down and puts his hands on the desk before him as the full extent of the situation sinks into his consciousness. He thinks for a minute, playing with a wanted poster. Then he gets to his feet and reaches for his hat. “I must question her. I’ll ride back with you.”

“Can you talk to Stan again? He’s at Carson Jail, right?”

“Not anymore. He’s dead. He was shot in an escape attempt. We may never know the truth.”

As our house looms, I feel the urge to pull Cochise around and gallop away, but that would be unfair to my brother. I have to tell him to his face what I know about Eliza and give her a chance to defend herself. Maybe I’m wrong and imagining something that never happened.

Roy and I are lucky that Adam is not with the herd but spending the day with his fiancée. They sit on the porch. Adam is strumming his guitar and singing. The woman’s eyes are glued to him in admiration, a smile on her lips. A game of checkers and a glass of lemonade are on the table.

As the sheriff and I approach, Adam stands up. He sets the guitar down in front of him and puts his hands on it. His eyes squint as he waits, lips pressed together, tense with anticipation.

Roy taps his brim. “Howdy, Adam, Miss Watson. I’m Roy Coffee, sheriff of Virginia City. I need to talk to you about the bank robbery a year and a half ago.”

Eliza scratches at the skin above her thumbnail. She turns pale, or is it my imagination? Adam steps beside her in support and puts his arm around her slender shoulders, shooting me a wicked look. If he’s surprised, he hides it well.

Eliza sucks in a deep breath and then turns to face Roy, standing there waiting with his hands on his hips. “What do you want to hear, Sheriff? I was a hostage, just like Joe was. I don’t have a clue what you’re accusing me of. My guess is Joe’s jealous. We saw each other once or twice at the saloon where I worked, and he tried to ask me out, but I turned him down.”

“That’s not true!”

“What isn’t true, Joe? Were you interested in Eliza?” Adam asks with venom in his voice.

“Yeah, I was, but—”

“Are you mad she’s my fiancée and not yours?”

“No! That was eighteen months ago. I didn’t even think about her anymore, but I believe Eliza took the money.”

“Now, stop arguing, boys. Miss Watson, tell me what happened.”

The story Eliza tells the sheriff brings nothing new to light. She claims to have escaped on the spare horse after the men started shooting at each other. She says she rode back to help me.

Roy scratches his head. “And the money?”

“How do I know what the man did with the booty? Bury it?”

“You fired three shots when you were with Joe. Where did you get the gun from? And why didn’t you wait until Ben Cartwright and Hoss arrived?”

“My dress was torn, and I didn’t want anyone to see me like that. So, I rode on back to town.”

Roy doesn’t let up, probably realizing she’s avoiding the question. “And the gun?”

Eliza gives Adam a pleading look, wringing her hands. “Um, I picked it up off the ground when Albert died.”

The sheriff strokes his mustache. He doesn’t look too convinced. “And the next day, you took the stage to San Francisco? The bartender at the White Dove said you suddenly quit. You left town in kind of a hurry.”

The tears start to flow again. Adam caresses his fiancee’s back. “I wanted to leave this horrible experience and start over. I’ve been planning it for a long while, and it just seemed like the right time. Besides, I’ve told Deputy Foster everything. I’ve got nothing to add.”

“Roy, that’s enough. Why don’t you drop it and leave my fiancée alone since you can see Joe’s accusations are unfounded?”

“Well, maybe you’re right. I’ll compare the record from back then with your testimony today, Miss Watson, and if both match, we can let the whole thing drop.

“Roy! But you can’t—”

“What, Little Joe? What do you want me to do? Lock the woman in a cell until she says what you want her to say?”

“Why are you so determined to portray Eliza in a bad light?” Adam grabs my arm, his voice cold as ice.

“It’s a gut feeling, okay? You want to marry a woman who lies to you?” I hiss at him.

“Hell, Joe. You just envy me! You’re a selfish little spoiled boy and—”

My fist connects with Adam’s jaw. He staggers but regains his footing fast and strikes back. Before I know it, we’re punching each other. Adam is stronger, but I’m quick and agile, my burning anger spurring me on. I ignore Eliza’s sharp screams and Roy’s cursing, for it’s too satisfying to let the feelings burst out of me unbridled.

A hand digs into my biceps and yanks me back as I’m about to pounce again on Adam, who’s just getting to his feet. “Stop it!” the sheriff yells in my face. “You’re acting like two schoolboys fighting over a girl. At least I thought you had more sense, Adam! As for me, I’m going back to town. Let Ben handle it if you two want to bang your heads.”

I’m glad Pa and Hoss are with the herd. If our father could see us like this—our bloody faces and dirty, wrinkled clothes—God, how embarrassing. We’d never hear the end of it. Roy’s right. Why can’t we act like grown men?

 

When Pa and Hoss come home that night, my father sees my scraped knuckles and bruises on my face at first glance. His concerned expression turns to disbelief when I tell him Adam and I fought.

“I’m disappointed in you, son. I would have thought you’d have grown up enough to know better than solving problems with your fists. Where is Adam anyway?”

With my jaw clenched I hand him the note my oldest brother left on Pa’s desk. It says the two took a hotel room in Virginia City since Adam feels Eliza isn’t welcome on the Ponderosa.

Dumbfounded, Pa reads the note over and over. He shakes his head. “What exactly happened? Why did you fight?”

“Remember the saloon girl in whose room you found me a year and a half ago?”

“What has that got to do with this?”

“She called herself Dolly then.”

I see the realization dawning on Pa. He quickly ties up the loose threads. “Dolly! She was the one who was taken hostage in the bank robbery. I had no idea … and Dolly is Eliza? I knew I had met her before.”

“Right, one and the same. I told Roy. He came to the Ponderosa to ask if she had taken the money and shot the man. I’m pretty sure she did. Otherwise, the whole story wouldn’t make sense. Adam didn’t want to listen.”

Pa rubs his temples as if he has a headache. I know he’s surprised at his eldest’s reaction. Leaving in such a hurry would have suited me more than it suited Adam. He’s the one who always tries to find a reasonable and considered solution. I’m the one who jumps on a horse and gallops away to get out of a difficult situation so I can think about it. Could Adam be so in love that he doesn’t care what his fiancée has done? Can he disregard the facts and ignore the accusations? There is no room for both of us on the Ponderosa until this is settled.

 

Adam feels the same way. He packs up his things and leaves for San Francisco with Eliza at the end of the week without saying goodbye. I’m mad at my brother. He hurt Pa and Hoss a lot more than he hurt me. I don’t feel guilty. I feel right, and until Adam realizes that, we have nothing to say.

 

Life goes on. It always does. Working on the ranch keeps me busy, and I have little time to ponder. The atmosphere at our meals is awful, and I started skipping breakfast and riding into town for a steak instead of sitting at supper exposed to Pa’s mournful gaze and Hoss’s sheepish silence. I don’t know if he thinks I’m falsely accusing Eliza or if he’s upset by Adam’s rash reaction and ignorance, but I avoid talking about it. It feels like my father blames me for the whole situation, so I stay out of his way as often as possible.

It’s late evening when I open the front door and tiptoe into the main room. The house is dark, and only the remnants of embers in the fireplace provide an orange glow.

After I made it clear to Pa that I wanted to be left alone, he stopped waiting for me in the evenings or commenting when I stumbled into the house far too late, scraped knuckles, bruised face, smelling of whiskey. Even though I enjoy not having to explain myself, it somehow feels wrong. It appears like Pa doesn’t care anymore if I was in a fight or riding to work hungover in the morning.

I hang my jacket and hat on the hook and unbuckle my holster. My heart almost stops when Pa rises from the blue chair by the fireplace. I notice how old and exhausted he looks. He hands me an envelope. “Adam wrote a letter. He and Eliza are planning to marry.”

“A wedding?” I stare at the white rectangle of the envelope, which blurs before my eyes. “When?”

“I don’t know. They haven’t made definite plans yet, but I suppose they will marry in San Francisco. Read the letter. I’m tired. I’m turning in. Good night, Joseph.”

I swallow several times, trying to push back nausea, a combination of too much whiskey and the news rising in my throat. I overstepped, didn’t I? I was convinced Adam would eventually apologize, but he can be as stubborn a mule as me.

“Hoss, what should I do?” I ask the following day as my brother and I dig holes for fence posts. My hangover gives me a roaring headache, and as Hoss hammers the post into the ground, each blow sends a painful flash through my skull and eyes. My stomach churns at the mere thought of food, and I imagine the sweat that clings to my shirt and drips into my eyes smells like whiskey. I sure as hell won’t be much help at work this morning.

Hoss drops his hammer. “I’ve waited two weeks for you to ask, Joe. You almost ripped my head off whenever I tried to talk to you about it.”

“Was I that much of a jerk? I’m sorry, Hoss.” I rub my palm across my thigh.

“You can’t keep this up anymore. You know what Adam used to say? ‘The smarter one gives in.’ How about you’re the smart one this time?”

Hoss is right. With my stubborn conviction and my dogged determination to believe that Eliza is a murderer and a thief, I’ve driven both of them off the ranch, and it’s time for me to apologize. Roy always says that when in doubt, give the defendant the benefit of the doubt, and until a person is convicted, they should be considered innocent.

After dinner, I sit at my desk, a blank piece of paper in front of me, chewing on the end of my pen. What should I write? How shall I begin? I am not as well-spoken as my brother, and I struggle to find the right words to express my feelings. Admitting you’re mistaken is not easy.

 

Dear Eliza, dear Adam

First of all, congratulations on your planned wedding! I’m happy for you, and I mean that. We, especially Pa, would like to celebrate the marriage with you.

I’m sorry for the beating I gave you, Adam, and for the accusations I made about your fiancée. Maybe I was wrong, and I’m willing to let the matter rest.

You can imagine how hard it is for Pa that you left and broke off contact. I hope you’ll accept my apology. Please think about returning to the ranch, for Pa’s sake.

Joe

 

I’m satisfied with the fifth version of my letter. The others lie crumpled and torn on the floor. As I fold the paper and place it in an envelope, a heavy weight falls from my shoulders. Tomorrow morning, I will drop it off at the post counter.

The reply arrives a good week later, and it is not from Adam as I had expected, but from Eliza.

 

Hello Little Joe

Your letter has reached us, and I have persuaded Adam to answer it on behalf of both of us. I feel ashamed and must also apologize for what you suspected was partly true. I shot, but I’m not a murderer. It was self-defense. And I took that money.

A dear friend of mine is going to Virginia City this week. I gave him a draft for $5028 and asked him to leave it at Sheriff Coffee for you. I beg you to cash it at the Harrison Bank branch. Send the $5000 anonymously to the Virginia City Bank. That will settle my debt.

I don’t know if you noticed $28 missing from your purse after you lay injured in my bed, but I took it, too, and will pay you back. My café and cake sales have been doing well, so I can afford it.

Adam doesn’t know about the stolen money yet, but you can be sure I will tell him before the wedding.

We have planned to live in San Francisco for now, but I will suggest to Adam that we get married on the Ponderosa.

I’m looking forward to your reply.

Eliza

 

“Good news?” Pa asks as I put the paper down, a questioning look on his face. With a wry grin, I hand him the page, and he skims the lines. The change he is going through is amazing. The tension of the last weeks and the gloomy mood fall away from him. His shoulders straighten, the corners of his mouth lift, and I see the spark in his eyes that had been missing for so long. He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. I can hear how moved he is. “I didn’t know you’d written, son. That’s great news.”

“So, what do you think? Should we agree to Eliza’s request and hide who really stole the money? That doesn’t seem right.”

“I’ll talk to Roy without mentioning names. It’s his decision, but I’m sure there will be a good solution for all parties. Besides, the director of the Virginia City Bank is a very good friend of mine. I think he’ll let it slide if I tell him the story over a good bottle of brandy and some of those expensive cigars he appreciates.”

I stifle a surprised sound. Pa is considering bribery? Although he wouldn’t call it a bribe, but an arrangement. “Yeah, you’re right.” With a sigh, I enjoy the warm feeling of Pa’s hand still resting on my shoulder. I drop my head. “Still, it’s my fault they left the Ponderosa. I drove Adam away. And it doesn’t look like they want to live here again right now.”

“Let me tell you something. I’ve long suspected Adam isn’t as happy and content here as you and Hoss. He often used to talk about how much he’d like to travel and use his skills as an architect. I tried to close my eyes and didn’t want to admit what I’d known for a long time – that Adam would leave one day. It was easy to blame you these past weeks because I didn’t have to face the fact that my dream might not be my sons’. It’s not your fault, Joseph.”

“You may be right. Still, it won’t be easy to get used to the idea of moving on without Adam.”

“The three of us are more than capable of running the ranch. You and Hoss are good, hard-working men who carry more than their weight, and I have no doubt we’ll get along just fine without Adam.”

We have always managed to overcome challenges together as a family. We’ll manage again. A broad grin appears on my face at the next thought. “Come on, let’s go tell Hop Sing and Hoss the good news. They’ll both be delighted. I wonder if Eliza will bake some of those extraordinary cakes for the wedding?”

The End

May 2024

Author’s notes:

In 1852, a Boston newspaper printed a letter from a woman in California reporting that she had baked and sold $18,000 worth of fruit pies in less than a year, some of them on a small iron stove over a campfire. (From the german book “Pulverdampf war ihr Parfüm.”)

Inspired by Tina Turner’s song “Private Dancer”