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

Rating: PG   Word Count: 22600

 

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, my shield against the patron’s greedy stares, graces my face.

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

My false smile widens. “Sure, 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 he slips his rough fingers under my skirt, where they come to rest on my thigh inches above the knee. One of the men at the table takes out a deck of cards and shuffles while giving his friend, who’s breathing a little faster now, envious glances.

“How much?” the man murmurs into my ear, voice hoarse, inching his palm higher. His 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 entering the saloon catches my attention. 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 thumbs into his holster. 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 smile flickering across his face is neither lustful nor greedy but charming and honest. He taps the brim of his hat, giving me a wink.

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

“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 contorting into a grimace, an animal-like moan erupting from him. I let out a long breath, taking care not to show my relief.

After he collapses on top of me, spent, his weight threatening to crush me, I wriggle out from under him. I hurry to the washstand, grab a damp cloth, and clean myself before pushing my dress back over my knees and smoothing it out. Even though I make a living from men, I despise 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 only 5′ 3″, and I’m not pretty, and even though I’m still in my twenties, I look old and used up. Makeup can work wonders; it makes my thin lips fuller, and my eyes look bigger. Men don’t care if I’m pretty anyway. 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 nudge the man, who is about to doze off, pulling a reluctant grunt from him.

“Gimme a minute,” he mutters, sitting up and fumbling with his pants that are twisted around his ankles. I wrinkle my nose at the sight of him. The fella hasn’t even taken off his boots!

When he’s gone, I open the window wide to let the cool night air wash the smell of chewing tobacco, sweat, and sex out of the room. One last glimpse in the mirror, then I’ll head back downstairs.

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

It’s louder than usual in the saloon, and between the patrons who crowd around some fighters, a flash of green fabric catches my attention, so I take a closer look. Two cowpokes are holding the arms of the young man who’d earlier entered the saloon, 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 is 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 blow strikes the boy on the jaw. His head snaps back so violently that I think his neck is broken. With looks of disgust on their faces, the two men give him a push. The boy spins over one of the tables, slams onto the floor, coming to rest as a lifeless heap on the dirty boards. “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 toward the bar. “Whiskey,” the blond one orders.

Since the show is over, the crowd scatters, and I make my way through to the motionless boy. He’s a pitiful sight.

I don’t know what makes me kneel next to him and grab his chin to turn his head toward me. A remaining spark of compassion, kindness, or whatever you want to call it.

He’s a mess—blood everywhere, dark bruises marring his smooth skin. At my touch, he opens his green eyes, and the handsome face becomes a grimace of pain. The bleeding 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 ribs.

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 cheek, but instead of a reaction, his eyes fall closed, his head rolls to the side, and his body drops limp. “Darn it,” I mutter.

Phil, the bartender, emerges beside me, hands on his hips, a frown on his face, 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, two of those fellas were hired at the Cartwright Ranch. They stole tools from the barn after his brother fired them. It’s pretty foolish of the kid to come and face them alone.” Phil scoffs. “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 signals for some of our regulars to pick him up. “Jim, Dave, each of you gets a free drink if you carry this boy up into one of the rooms and get the doctor.”

The two customers rush to help. Free drinks always do the trick. One grabs Joe under the arms, the other takes his legs.

Passing the bar, I grab a rag and place it on Joe’s bleeding lip, then we struggle up the narrow staircase. Dave, or is it Jim, 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!” I whine, but my protest is ignored, and I’m roughly moved aside. “Where am I supposed to work?”

“Too bad for you, lady,” Dave, or Jim, says.

“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.

The last thing I hear is a thud and a muffled curse. “Ow! Darn!”

The fact that one of the fellas bumps his head gives me a bit of satisfaction, which quickly disappears as I turn toward the lifeless body. With a sigh, I take the young man’s hand and place it on the rag that’s already half soaked in blood. “Hold on!” I don’t know if my words reach him, but he does as I say. Wounds on the face always bleed heavily, but I’m sure the young man will be fine.

I don’t want to lose a night’s wages for a stranger by staying here and holding his hand, even though he’s handsome. So, I go back downstairs. It’s best to wait for the doc 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 in his hand and the slightly lost look on his face as he glances around the room. He’s a stocky man with a friendly face, wearing a slightly rumpled suit. Before he can turn to the bartender, I hurry to his side, not bothering to introduce myself. “Howdy, Doc. The injured man’s upstairs.” I point to the steps.

“Hello, Miss. I’m Doctor Paul Martin!” His friendly eyes sweep over me, and he waves his arm in a polite gesture. “After you.”

“Watch your head,” I warn as we climb the stairs. I open the door to my room and step inside, with Doc right behind me. “Here’s the boy. He’s been beaten up.”

Doc stops dead. There’s no mistaking the surprise in his voice. “That’s Little Joe!” Placing the bag on the nightstand, he hurries to the bed to lean over the kid.

“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.” Doc Martin sounds annoyed. “Unlike you, I don’t find this amusing.”

“Sorry,” I say with a sigh and 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 up 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. But right now, he’s lying in my bed, occupying my room.

I chew my lower lip. “Sorry, Doc, but he can’t stay here. When you’re done, you have to get someone to pick him up,” I say in a gruff voice, earning a frown from the doctor while he prods and pokes the boy’s chest. His expert fingers find a sensitive spot, causing Joe, Little Joe, to jerk and moan.

“Two broken ribs and probably a concussion!” is the diagnosis as the doc turns toward me, ignoring my request. “He’s pretty out of it. He won’t remember much tomorrow.”

“Can’t you take him to your surgery?”

The doctor exhales heavily and rummages through his bag. “I wouldn’t advise moving him. That would only cause him unnecessary pain or nausea. Would you give me a hand, lady? The split lip needs stitches.”

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

Doc Martin, seated on the edge of the bed, moistens the cloth to dab the blood from Joe’s face. Seeing the gaping 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.”

Perched on the mattress beneath Joe’s head, I place my hands on his cheeks. I feel a hint of stubble and catch a whiff of sweat mixed with a trace of his expensive aftershave. Joe’s eyelids flutter, and I can sense his body heat. His face is pale. He has soft-looking lips and a thin, straight nose.

“Ready?” The doctor asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. Without missing a beat, 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 his calm voice, knotting the last thread and looking at his work with satisfaction. “Are you okay, lady?” he asks, checking on me with a glance. “I need to straighten the broken rib and wrap Joe’s chest. It would be helpful if you could assist.”

“All right,” I agree, biting my lip to hold back from mentioning I’m a whore, not a nurse. The faster we’re done, the sooner I’ll get rid of Joe. I shuffle 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.”

I shrug. That name doesn’t ring a bell. Well-off people hardly ever end up at the White Dove.

With a dull crack, followed by Joe’s agonized cry, the doctor pushes the rib back into place and wraps a tight bandage around his torso while I support Joe by the shoulders. When he’s done, we lower the boy back onto the bed. A fine film of sweat shimmers on his skin, and his jaw is clenched tight against the pain. The color of his face, beneath the black bruises, matches the color of my sheets.

Doc nods with approval and stands. “It’s best to 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? So, I guess I can forget about taking any men to my room tonight. “I don’t have a choice, do I? The fella’s in my bed!”

“Well, I’m definitely not moving Little Joe until morning,” Doc says with a hint of annoyance in his voice that tells me he thinks I’m a heartless person.

The silence hangs awkwardly between us while the doctor washes his hands, rolls his sleeves down, and pulls on his jacket. Then he reaches for his Gladstone bag, his tone more forgiving. “Thank you for looking after him. I know he’s not your responsibility. “In case that helps: I’m sure the Cartwrights will pay you for your trouble.”

Grabbing his bag, the doctor heads for the door. I stay behind. The possibility of getting paid does little to ease my anger.

With an annoyed snort, I dump the bloody liquid out the window and grab the pitcher to get some fresh water. 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 awakens, he may drink it.

Hand on hips, I gaze at the slender figure with a mixture of anger and contemplation. 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 his hips. 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. Joe won’t die in my bed, will he?

I shudder. I could never sleep in that bed again if a man had died in it. “No, it won’t come to that,” I tell myself, trying to shut out the thoughts circling the worst-case scenario.

With a sigh, I pull the covers up to Joe’s chest. He looks kind of peaceful, his face smooth and relaxed, even though he’s a bit pale. So far, so good.

Picking up his shirt and jacket, I drape them over the back of a chair. I can’t stand a messy room. The jacket feels heavy, and the inner pocket is bulging. I only hesitate a second before I slip my hand inside the pocket. With a triumphant expression, I pull out a wallet and open it. A wad of greenbacks flashes at me. Wetting my finger, I flip through the bills. 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 can entertain the folks and serve drinks.

 

The night is well underway, two or three o’clock, and the saloon is empty. While the owner stacks the chairs, the swamper sets to work cleaning the floor. I hide my yawning behind my hand and decide to go to bed. My legs are heavy and tired when I drag myself upstairs toward my room. I unlock the door, turn on the light, and then it dawns on me. Oh, damn it! The boy’s still in my bed, his body a blurry shape beneath the sheets. I nearly forgot.

With both hands, I rub my face. I can’t sleep here tonight. Maybe I should ask one of the other girls to share her bed.

After kicking off my high heels, I plop down on the chair in front of the dressing table and take off my earrings. It’s a relief to pull the pins out of my hair to remove the little hat with the protruding feathers, letting my curls fall heavily onto my shoulders. With a contented sigh, I close my eyes and draw my brush with long, soothing strokes through my hair. That’s always the best part of the day.

Wiping off powder, lipstick, and eyeshadow with a damp cloth, I think about what to do. I don’t want to share a bed with another girl. When you’re around people all day, you’re glad to be alone in the evening and have some peace.

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 try to turn it. With a groan, I massage the cramped muscles and shoot a longing glance at my bed. The fella is slim and clean, and in his condition, he won’t bother me. If he does, I know how to defend myself.

Pushing and shoving, I move his body until he faces the wall. He merely mumbles something unintelligible.

I’m hiding the red-stained sheet under a towel. That’ll do. Joe’s not waking up when I slip under the covers next to him, not even when I wriggle my cold, bare feet under his pant legs, resting them 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. I need a moment to get my bearings until last night’s memory comes flooding back.

I wrinkle my nose. 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, turning to 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 croaks, 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, palpating his cut lip. He winces when his fingertips touch the ugly swelling and stitching.

Should I hand him a mirror? Better not. I place the empty glass back on the nightstand. “Remember what happened last night?”

He palms his jaw and the back of his head, then his hands wander under the covers, which have slipped down to his waist. I guess he’s relieved he’s still wearing his pants, since he relaxes and leans against the pillow I stuffed behind his back. “I went to the White Dove Saloon. I was lookin’ for a couple of men. I can’t remember much, but I figure I found them,” he tries a lame joke.

As I pull my nightgown over my head and slip into my chemise and petticoat, followed by the red dress from last night, his eyes widen, and then he looks away sheepishly. I smile at the light pink covering his cheeks. It’s cute that he’s embarrassed by the sight of a naked woman. Hard to imagine the boy’s 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. You were unconscious, and 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 pretty uptight.

When I return to my room, balancing a tray of coffee and sandwiches, Joe’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, trying to hide the floral enamel pot with the lid back under the bed. A gasp escapes him as he straightens up too fast, blood draining from his face.

“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.” Joe smiles at me—which, with his swollen face, looks more like a grimace—and reaches for the mug.

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

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

“Coming,” I grumble, rushing to the door and throwing it 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. Mornings are my free time, when I don’t see any men.

“Joseph!” the man shouts, pushing past me with an ‘I look forward to this explanation’ glance. They don’t look alike, but I suspect the older man is his father, and 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 did 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 got were slaps with the flat of her hand on the back of my head when I did something wrong. These days, touch consists of the greedy, rough hands of the cowboys and miners that pinch and knead my tender flesh while they ogle my body lustfully.

“What happened, son?” the older man asks, his voice warm as honey and full of concern.

“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 stands to shake 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 him 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. I hardly feel guilty about accepting them. “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 both grab Joe 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 that we must shout to be heard. It’s hot and stuffy in the room, 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 bow 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 live 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.” That’s a lie. I’ll be turning thirty next year, but nobody needs to know that.

“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 admit, throwing 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 your visit? Do you feel sorry for me? Save yourself the trouble.” I study Joe 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 make sure 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 gets to his feet as well. “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.” 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. “Bye, Dolly.”

Oh yeah, my remark really got to 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 that 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 until a green jacket catches my eye. It’s Joe. Again.

I suppress a sigh my professional smile never leaving my face. I didn’t expect him to be so stubborn. He’s leaning against the bar. A broad grin flickers across his face when our eyes meet. I know he likes what he sees, but I ignore him and float back to the stage, where I finish my performance.

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 this time.

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.” After ordering drinks, I take him by the arm and lead him to one of the tables.

Unfortunately, I drink too quickly on an empty stomach, and too much whiskey makes me sentimental.

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, since I was relieved to leave my family behind and never missed them. I’ve struggled on my own since I was a young girl.

Alcohol is the reason I’m breaking my rule about not sharing anything personal. “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 earn 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 come upstairs with me? I can help you relax a little.” I’ll rest my hand on his thigh, wondering why this question slipped out. Maybe I wanted to know whether Joe, like so many men, only ever had one thing on his mind.

Joe shifts back and forth in his chair, his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink. “Uh, no! I just want to talk to you and get to know you better.”

I take my hand away. The boy is a stubborn bullhead, but also kind of sweet. The more I try to keep him away from me, the more it spurs him on. Telling him private stuff was a big mistake. “You wouldn’t wanna know me, Joe. I don’t think much of men. Sure, there may be a handful of decent ones, but for the most part, I have nothing but contempt for them.”

For a moment, Joe looks at me with something almost like pity. Then his familiar charming smile returns, a spark lighting his eyes. “Look me in the eye,” he says softly, “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 built over the years, and I can’t let that happen. Without this shield, it wouldn’t be possible to continue working in the saloon.

I know I will hurt him, but ending this before it goes too far is best. With a deep breath, I meet his gaze, keeping my voice gentle. “Go home, Joe. Don’t come back, do you understand? There’s no future together.”

Disappointment flickers across his face. Joe drains the rest of his beer and rises from his chair. He presses a soft kiss to my forehead before turning toward the saloon door, his shoulders slumped, and his head bowed.

My hands tremble as 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 always tell myself 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 and forcing a smile, I lift my chin and step onto the stage to lose myself in the one thing I do best, if only to stop thinking about Joe.

“How about another song, folks?” I ask the audience.

 

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 patrons don’t care. They come for the cheap female entertainment.

I want to make one last attempt to talk to Dolly, a chance for us to get to know each other truly. I want to convince her that there are still decent men in the world—and that I’m one of them. I can’t imagine she enjoys spending night after night being pawed at by drunken men or sleeping with them. She deserves better than that.

Sometimes I catch myself dreaming about what it would be like to be with her. Dolly is beautiful, but it’s more than that. She’s sharp-tongued, stubborn, and has an edge.

My gaze sweeps over the crowd. 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.” But where’s Dolly? She’s probably off duty, or she’s taken a customer to her room. With a frown, I turn toward the bar. “Howdy, bartender. I’m lookin’ for Dolly.”

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

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

As his eyes glide over the still prominent scar on my lower lip, recognition flashes in the man’s eyes, and the drink arrives along with the requested information. “Oh, you’re the fella who got beat up. Well, Dolly won’t be in until tomorrow. She got her day off.”

“Thanks!” I let out a frustrated huff and leave the saloon without touching my beer. I’m going to stop dwelling on Dolly. I’ll pick up the mail, go to the bank, just as Pa asked, and then ride home straight, without detours.

When I walk into the Virginia City Bank, my attention is fixed on the bundle of letters in my hands, which I flip through as I step inside. I don’t realize anything is wrong until someone jabs a gun barrel into my ribs. Startled, I lift my gaze to stare into two cold, steel-blue eyes, set against a face partially hidden by a black bandana. Heck! How stupid can you be, stumbling right into a bank robbery!

The man pulls my gun out of my holster and tucks it into the back of his belt. Another masked man, tall and slender, has his gun trained on the teller behind the counter. “Damn it, I told you to lock the door,” he scolds his partner.

I raise my hands to make clear I won’t try anything, and look around. A petite, pale-faced woman with two hectic red marks on her cheeks stands against the brick wall, clutching her purse.

The teller glistens with sweat as he stuffs bills and coins into a bag with trembling hands. The sharp, sour scent of fear hangs heavy in the air, and no one dares to speak.

The tall bank robber snatches up the two bags, both bulging with money. “Let’s lock these three up in the back room and get out of here,” he tells his comrade.

“You heard him. Move to the back room!” Another jab to my ribs emphasizes the command of the man pointing the gun at me. His voice—he has a lisp—sounds familiar. When I take a closer look, it dawns on me. Blue eyes, sandy wavy hair … that’s Stanley, and the other dark-haired, tall fellow is Albert, his pal.

The two ranch hands Adam fired a few weeks ago, who beat me up, have decided there’s a faster way to get money than to bend their back for it.

Heart pumping hard, I clench my fists, considering my options. I could launch a surprise attack, but I quickly dismiss the idea as too risky. 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.

The door swings open, and another customer walks into the bank. Like me, he has missed or ignored the “closed” sign, but he reacts faster. His eyes widen, and his mouth falls open in surprise. Before anyone has time to stop him, he retreats into the street.

Now, we are in trouble.

“Bank robbery!” I hear him shout in alarm.

“Damn! What do we do now?” Stan asks, hurrying to the window, pushing aside the blind, and peering out. I catch a glimpse of 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 eyelid. 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 got hostages!” He shouts out into the street through the partially open door.

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.

“We’re getting out of here! If anyone starts shooting, the lady and Cartwright will die!” Albert yells, kicking the door open with his boot. Using the woman as a shield, he makes his way to his horse, which is tethered in front of the bank. No one in the crowd dares to shoot, because Albert has his finger on the trigger of the gun, which is pressed against Dolly’s temple.

Stan yanks my arm back, nudging me with his gun. “Move, Cartwright.”

I break out in a sweat as we step out onto the street, praying that the men surrounding the bank will keep their nerves. I try to signal to the two standing closest to me by shaking my head: Stay calm. Don’t do anything. If one of them starts shooting, all hell will break loose, and there’ll be a bloodbath.

Stan pushes me toward his bay gelding. “Get up!” When I’m in the saddle, he mounts behind me and grabs the reins. The barrel of the gun never loses contact with my body.

Albert grabs Dolly and hauls her up onto the saddle in one swift motion. He swings up behind her. Then he bends down to loosen the reins of another horse, a black one, from the hitching post.

“If you follow us, the hostages will die!” Albert calls out a sharp warning to the ring of armed men as they part, his cold voice leaving no doubt that he means business and won’t hesitate to make good on his threat.

Albert and Stanley drive the horses forward, and we burst out of town at a breakneck gallop.

Some of my tension slips away as we leave Virginia City behind.

After riding a few miles, the cowboys rein in their heavily breathing horses, struggling under twice their weight. They pull the bandanas from their faces, and Albert wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

I look back, my heart still beating fast. No one is on our tail yet, but it’s only a matter of time before the sheriff rounds up a posse.

“Why don’t you let us go? We’re only slowing you down!” I suggest.

In the long run, it’s too cramped for two grown men to ride in one saddle, and the horses can’t keep that up for long.

I shift, since my crotch is pressed uncomfortably against the pommel, and I can feel Stan’s hot body behind me. One glance shows me his pistol is holstered again. Stanley’s distracted, his attention fixed over his shoulder as he checks for any sign of pursuit.

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 my shoulder to pop out. I’m forced to release my grip. A heavy blow from the gun butt hits the back of my head, knocking me off the horse and into the dirt.

Dazed and spitting out grit, I slowly sit up, a sharp pain shooting through my skull. When I feel the back of my head, I find a big lump, and a bit of blood stains my fingers.

“You try anything like that again, I’m going to really hurt you!” Stan dismounts and kicks me in the ribs, and sends me sprawling. 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 at me squirming. “We won’t let you go. You’re our life insurance! The posse will keep their distance! No one will risk us killing a precious Cartwright, will he?”

Albert glances around several times and fidgets on his horse. He looks nervous. “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!”

Dolly stares at me, her eyes wide and full of worry, her lips pressed into a thin white line. I want to tell her that everything will be alright, but that would be a lie.

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 to complain.

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. No pursuers will show up until morning, and our tracks are barely visible on the rocky landscape. Since we ride in darkness, we have several hours’ advantage.

“Is there any shelter nearby, Cartwright?” Stan steers his horse beside me and jabs his gun 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 need to let them rest for a few hours.”

Not only the mounts but also the riders are worn out by the time we reach the cave. Dolly, who hasn’t made a sound during the trip, for which I admire her, collapses onto a rock after Albert has dragged her off the horse. Exhaustion and fear are written all over her pretty face, and I’m sorry she has to go through this.

Swinging my right leg over the horse’s neck, I land on the ground. My bladder has been feeling full for hours. “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. A glance over my shoulder confirms that Stan’s gun is still holstered. His attention is on Dolly—leaving him careless, barely aware of me. This is my chance

With a couple of long strides, I slip into the cover of the bushes. I break into a sprint, a hot wave of energy surging through my body as I put distance between myself and the men.

“Goddamn!” I hear Stanley curse behind me.

“Stan, you fool. Get him back!” yells Albert.

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 strikes the ground beside me, kicking up dirt.

The next 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.

“I’m hurt,” I force out.

Noticing my distorted face, Stan kneels and pushes my clothes up, poking at my waist. “I got you alright,” he chuckles.

I move away from his fingers and squirm, trying to catch a glimpse. How bad is the wound? I can’t see much, since it’s too dark to make out anything other than black, viscous moisture glistening in the moonlight.

The bullet hit me 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. If Stanley had loosened his tight grip on my arm, I would have fallen far more often. It was stupid and reckless to try to escape like that—but there’s no point in getting angry about it now. The damage is already done.

Albert has started a small fire. Since the cave’s entrance is overgrown with bushes, it won’t be visible. Besides, we’re several hours ahead of the posse.

Stan pulls me inside and pushes me to the ground. When I hit the unyielding rock, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out loud.

“I got him,” Stan says, sounding very smug. “Unfortunately, he’s got a hole in the side.” Without paying any further attention to me, he steps up to the fire. “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. It would be a waste if he bled to death. Maybe we still need him.”

“I’m a dancer. I’m not a nurse!” she hisses. The girl has guts, but I already knew that.

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

Too exhausted to keep following what’s happening, I close my eyes for a moment until I hear footsteps approaching. A dress rustles, then I hear fabric rip. Dolly pushes up my shirt to wrap a strip of her petticoat around my waist. With a firm knot, she ties it, frowning at the result. She touches my arm. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” I force a smile. “Worst bandage I’ve ever had.” My attempt to cheer her up fails.

“Hey, what are you two whispering about? Come back, girl!” Albert orders. Dolly walks back to the fire, crouching with her arms wrapped around her chest. She’s shivering as if she’s cold, and she’s certainly scared.

Albert tosses a can of beans and a piece of bacon into the pan. Soon, the fat sizzles, and the tantalizing aroma fills the cave.

It isn’t until I hear gravel crunching under boots right next to me that I open my eyes again. With a few strips of rawhide in his hand, Stan stands beside me. He kicks me in the ribs, making me roll on my belly to tie 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 Dolly as the three of them eat.

“Where would a woman go alone in the middle of the wilderness? I’m a saloon girl, and I haven’t the faintest idea how to stay alive out here. I got a better chance if I stay with you, don’t you think?”

Smart woman! She’s playing a dumb, helpless girl, trying to lull the men into a false sense of security. But will that help her? I hope so.

Alan sets his empty plate down with a burp 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.” Albert picks up his bedroll, seizes the girl by the arm, and they retreat deeper into the cave. Stan gets to his feet with a curse. I guess he needs someone to vent to, and that’s me. He comes over to me, staring at me with a nasty sneer. With a kick to my hip, he flips me onto my stomach and ties my ankles to my wrists.

“I prefer you that way, Cartwright, all tied up and helpless. We don’t want to risk another attempt to escape, do we?” 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 have your way with her? How was she? Or does a purty rich boy like you not bed soiled doves? You don’t need to, do you? Got a pretty little gal waiting for you?”

“I didn’t—”

Albert grabs my chin with a bruising grip, 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 grit my teeth. ‘No, please not my face,’ I think, my mouth dry with panic, but still 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, waiting for the pain to kick in, but nothing happens. When I throw open my eyes, I see he used the blunt side of the knife. I let out a shaky breath.

“You care about your appearance, don’t you?” Stan trails a fingertip across my cheek. With my jaw locked, I hold his gaze without blinking.

He closes his eyes and draws in a slow, deep breath through his nose. “Hell, I like that,” he murmurs. “I can smell the fear sweating out of you. I can see you trembling. Torture makes some people pee in fear, but you seem quite tough, aren’t you?”

I bite my tongue to keep from making a snide remark. One wrong word, and he’ll go for the knife.

What makes Stan stop, I don’t know. Maybe he’s bored with my lack of response, or he remembers Albert’s instructions to keep an eye out for pursuers.

My muscles go slack with relief as he folds the knife, gets up, and returns to the fire.

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. I clench my fists and bite my lip hard to keep from moaning.

Tied up like a Christmas present and doomed to do nothing, I have too much time to think, and any 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.

The cave’s vaulted ceiling amplifies the sounds coming from inside. Dolly’s not screaming or crying, but I can’t ignore the unmistakable noises of two people getting at it. The thought of what Albert’s 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.

Eventually, the sounds fade away, and the noises of the night—tree frogs, rustling leaves, and the soft crackling of the fire—calm my heartbeat. Exhaustion takes over. Despite my awkward position, I doze off and spend a few hours between restless sleep and feverish drowsiness.

 

A kick to the ribs jolts me awake in the morning. I blink my sticky eyes open and lick my parched lips. The thirst is now just as agonizing as the gunshot wound, for no one bothered to give me any water yesterday.

When Stan cuts my restraints, my whole body is so stiff that it takes me several long minutes even to sit up. It feels as if the cold stone floor has drained all the warmth from my body. I’m glad the men lead me outside and allow me a moment to take care of my personal needs.

I would have liked to soak up the rays of the rising sun for a little while, but 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.

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.

While Stan 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’s Dolly? Is she all right?

I don’t have to wait long for the answer. Dolly walks up to the fire, followed by Albert. She looks pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Her dress is wrinkled and dirty, her hair disheveled.

She huddles by the fire, accepting a cup of coffee and a piece of hardtack from Albert, who sat down across from her. At least she gets food and drink—unlike me.

I try to make eye contact with Dolly, but she avoids my gaze, concentrating instead on the cup, which she clutches with both hands as if the warm drink comforts her.

Stan, obviously in a bad mood, kicks a stone and sends it flying before stepping up to Dolly. His fingers tangled in her hair, he’s yanking her head back, forcing a rough kiss on her lips. “Now we’re going to have some fun together, lady,” he announces.

Tears in her eyes, Dolly tries to get his 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?”

Albert empties his cup in one big gulp and stands up. “We’re not going to discuss that now.”

The horses are saddled up, and everything is ready to go. I’m waiting for Stan to cut my ropes, but he seems undecided. He towers over me with one hand on his hip, his thoughtful gaze resting on my miserable form while he snaps his pocket knife open and shut with an irritating sound. Maybe he’s trying to figure out if dragging me on is worth it.

My pulse starts beating rapidly, and my mouth goes even drier. “Come on, cut me loose. I’m fine!” I insist. Ignoring my pounding heart, I push my fear aside and straighten to show I can easily endure another day on horseback.

A smirk plays around the corner of Stan’s mouth while he enjoys my helpless situation. He turns his gaze to Albert. “What about Cartwright? He’s just slowing us down. We don’t need him anymore.”

Albert rubs his jaw, then nods. “You’re right. We only have three horses. Let’s leave him here.”

Stan snaps his knife shut, slips it into his pocket, and draws his gun. “Should I…?”

“Nah, better not shoot him. You can hear a gunshot from miles away!”

Disappointment etched across his face, Stan slides the gun back into its holster.

Only now do I realize I’ve been holding my breath. With a gasp, I draw air into my lungs.

As Albert leads Dolly to the horse, our eyes meet one last time. “Good luck,” I mouth.

She gives me a nod. “Hang in there,” she whispers, before Albert gets her on the spare horse.

Tied up, thirsty, injured, and running a fever, I’m left behind. Nevertheless, I’m grateful I’m still alive.

Soon, the hoofbeats fade into the distance.

The men allowed Dolly to move around freely, but she wouldn’t have had a chance to escape on foot anyway. I’m not sure if she’s still being held captive or if she’s joined forces with the men. Maybe she hopes for a share of the booty and a more comfortable life than entertaining patrons in the saloon?

Too exhausted to keep sitting upright, I let myself slump to the side until my head comes to rest on the cold, uneven ground. Gravel presses into my cheek, but I don’t care. The rawhide biting into my wrists is pulled so tight that I finally stop struggling against it.

The posse will follow the tracks and find this place soon, won’t they?

Even so, despite everything, my eyes grow heavy. Before long, exhaustion drags me into a restless doze.

When I open my eyes, the blinding light penetrating the cave tells me several hours have passed. It’s already noon, and I must face the possibility that no one will come to help me.

How would the sheriff know they’d left me behind? The posse would keep chasing the bank robbers, assuming I was still with them. ‘Move, find a solution,’ I try to motivate myself.

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 need to get water.

I wriggle myself into a sitting position, and once my head stops spinning, I listen for voices, the sound of hooves, anything. I don’t notice men or horses, but instead I hear it dripping—or am I just imagining things?

Moving with my hands and feet tied is hell, but I manage to crawl deeper into the cave. Every movement sends agonizing pain down my side. After a few yards, I come to a halt, panting hard. The water—unless it was just a hallucination—seems a mile away. But I was never the type to give up easily.

I don’t know how long it takes me to creep toward the puddle, a shallow pool right next to the damp, glistening rock face. Only my stubbornness and willpower pushed my body forward. Rolling onto my stomach, I dip my mouth in the puddle and lap it up. The fresh water is earthy and bitter with minerals, but it’s lovely and cool on my glowing face.

With every sip, new hope and strength fill me. I’m not going to die, and I will find 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 softens and stretches.

I turn until I can dip my hands and wait a few minutes before moving my wrists. The straps are still tight but not as firm as before. With renewed energy, I twist and tug at the ties until my arms tremble from the strain. After a while, the blood oozing from my chafed wrists makes the rawhide slippery, which is also a help.

Relief washes over me as the ties snap, and I’m free. My body is soaked with sweat, and I shiver with cold and pain. It takes forever for my numb fingers to undo the leg restraints.

As life returns to my numb hands and feet with a stinging, tingling sensation, I crawl toward the light. After a long time in the twilight, my eyes are sensitive, and I have to squint against the piercing sun.

I stand up, my legs wobbly, one hand braced against the rocks, the other pressed firmly against the gunshot wound. 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 darn posse? Have they lost the tracks in the rocky terrain? I’m miles from the Ponderosa, and in my condition and without a 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 warms my body, 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 a gentle animal that gives me no trouble. What bothers me, though, is Stan insisting on tying my hands. He rides behind me, keeping an eye. Unlike his buddy, he doesn’t have a lot of trust in me.

My thoughts keep circling my situation and the night I spent with Albert. Sleeping with him wasn’t any worse than having sex with paying clients, except that I prefer the softness of my mattress to the hardness of a cold stone floor.

Albert wasn’t particularly rough with me; I played along, whispering that he was a great lover and moaning in all the right places. I’ve always been a convincing performer and learned early on how to turn bad situations to my advantage.

I don’t spend much time out in the open, and it feels like traveling through an oven. Thank God Al remembered to give me Joe’s hat. Otherwise, the sun would have cooked my brain and burnt my fair skin.

Around noon, we stop at a stream to give the horses a drink of water. Albert removes my restraints and helps me get off the horse. My leg muscles are so stiff that I can only walk with pain.

On the riverbank, I wet my handkerchief to wipe the sweat and dirt from my face while the men feel safe enough to empty the two canvas bags labeled “Virginia City Bank” and count their haul. The amount of money makes them cheer with delight.

“Ten thousand bucks!” shouts Albert, dividing the coins and bills into two piles. I step up behind him and place my hands on his shoulders, kneading his tense muscles.

“I hope you’ll share it with me?”

Albert, so gullible and naive that he trusts me after just one night, reaches up to rub the back of my hand. “Sure, darling. I’ll buy a little farm in Montana, we’ll raise horses, and make a good life of it. How does that sound?”

“It sounds wonderful!”

Stan stuffs his share into one of the bags. “Montana? So you’re headin’ north? Then we’ll part here. It’s better to split up anyway. It’ll throw the posse off the trail.”

He gets up, brushing the dust off his pants. “I’ll be on my way to Texas. A girl’s waiting for me.” With a slap to Al’s shoulder, he bids farewell. “Take care, partner. Don’t get caught.” Then he makes his way to his horse, strapping the money bag behind the saddle, and mounting. Leaving behind a trail of dust, he quickly disappears behind the next hill.

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

Albert is rough 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, palming my breast and caressing 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

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.

Kneeling on the stone floor beside the puddle, I wince as I try to remove as much blood and dirt from my side 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 difficult to dig out the slug myself.

I pull Dolly’s bandage back over the wound and lie down in the partial shade at the entrance of the cave. Even though I try to stay awake, I keep drifting off. When the sun approaches the western horizon, and the worst of the day’s heat has passed, I start walking.

Each step is excruciating, sending pulsing pain down my left side. The branch I collected from a tree to lean 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.

After an hour or so, 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 stings in my eyes. Sometimes, I think I see a waterhole ahead, but every time it turns out to be a mirage.

A patch of green far down the slope keeps my eyes fixed on it. If I’m correct, these are desert willows, and I guess I’ll find water there. This thought keeps me going, and I stumble on, 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 perched in the saddle. Confused, I blink to clear my vision, trying to figure out who it might be. Has the posse finally found me?

The next thing I know is me lying on my back, and somebody’s hovering over me. A moment ago, I was on my feet, heading for the water. I didn’t even realize I passed out, but I’m lying on my back, staring at the sky, which turns blue-gray with dusk. I reach out my hand to touch the figure, to see if it’s real.

A hand props up the back of my head while a canteen is held to my lips. Sweet, cool, refreshing water! Nothing has ever tasted better! I drink greedily.

“Dolly,” I murmur in disbelief as the face above me comes into focus. Her hair is tousled, and a few leaves have gotten caught in it. A bloody scratch adorns the soft skin of her cheek. Her dark brown eyes are full of worry. “They let you go? How are you?” I ask.

“Don’t try to talk. I’ll get help.”

I grab her arm and hold her back when she tries to stand. The water has revived me enough that I can think more clearly again. “Bullet’s got to come out.”

“No, Joe, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I’m going to get an infection. 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. 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, and the makeshift bandage, her fingers probing around the wound. I hold my breath, muscles tense, waiting for the blade to sink into my flesh, but nothing happens.

Fabric rustles as Dolly stands. Her cheeks are pale, and she swallows hard. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry, Joe.”

Three gunshots echo through the deserted landscape. Suddenly wide awake, I prop myself up on one elbow and try to pierce the twilight. “That’s our distress signal! My family … Dolly, can you go get them or give them a sign?”

I don’t have a gun, but Dolly can ride out to meet them.

Dolly walks over to the horse and digs around in the saddlebag again. She pulls out a pistol, fumbles with it awkwardly for a moment, then points the gun at the sky and pulls the trigger. Three shots shatter the silence.

I listen with bated breath until I hear the sound of rapidly approaching horse hooves. They’ve found me!

A moment later, Pas’s booming voice rings out. “Joseph? Where are you?”

“Here!” I shout, my full attention turned to the riders. Now I can see them too—three familiar figures riding toward me, reining in their horses, and dismounting.

Heavy footsteps rush toward me until Hoss and Pa surround me. “Thank God,” I sigh, letting my body go limp with relief. They’ll handle everything.

They waste no time. While Pa holds a canteen to my lips, Hoss 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 déjà vu, but I know it will hurt this time. Pa won’t hesitate to remove the bullet. As Hoss begins to probe the swollen and inflamed flesh, I contort my face and let out a distressed gasp.

“Stay still.” Hoss tugs at the shred, which is still stuck deep in the wound. With a nasty, wet squelch, the fabric slips free. 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 cloth must have kept him from bleeding to death, but it caused an infection,” Pa mutters, his face grim.

“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,” Hoss answers. “It may be too late if we go for the doc. Joe’s burning up.”

I lie there with my eyes closed while the chatter flows over me like gentle waves. My thoughts drift to Dolly. Where is she anyway? Did I imagine it all? But I heard shooting. I’m convinced Dolly fired the gun. It wasn’t me. The crooks took my weapon.

Smoke hits my nostrils. Yellow flames from a fire blaze, and water gurgles into a pot. Is Pa makin’ coffee? I sure 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’s he up to?

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

“Ready?” Pa asks.

I wonder if Pa’s talking to my brother or me.

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 mist my vision while I try not to make another sound. Pa has a hard enough time without me showing him how much pain he causes me. Just before I think I can’t take it anymore, my body decides it’s enough, and I drift 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?” I croak.

The figure sitting beside me stirs, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Joseph, how do you feel?”

“Thirsty.”

Pa helps me up to lean against a saddle and offers me a cup of coffee, which I gladly accept. He puts his hand on my brow to check my temperature. When I reach for my waist, I find a tight bandage wrapped around the small of my back. I guess they removed the bullet.

The coffee is hot, strong, and refreshing. I drain the cup in small sips. “Where’s Hoss?” I ask, handing Pa the cup to refill it.

“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?”

Pa’s eyebrows arch upward. Does he think I’m confused? “No, there’s nobody else. Didn’t you fire the three shots?”

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

“I don’t know. Roy Coffee is hot on their trail. Hoss and I separated from the posse when 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.

“What do you know about the woman? Is she still held captive?”

“No. She got away. I told you she was there, right before you found me. You know, Dolly, the dancer from the White Dove Saloon?” My eyelids grow heavy, and all I want is a few hours of sleep, a few hours away from the angry throbbing pain in my side.

Pa reads my expression right. “Get some rest, Joe. We’ll take you home first thing in the morning.”

 

Dolly

The stagecoach with me as a passenger on board rumbles west, my tension melting away. The driver pushes the team of horses to top speed, shouting and cracking his whip. Virginia City disappears behind us, as well as my life as a dancer and a whore.

The night before, Deputy Foster came to question me about the time I was held hostage. He said they found a body at the end of the trail. It was Albert, one of the bank robbers. There was no sign of the other one, nor of the money. Foster said that he and the sheriff would investigate the case, and since Joe is unable to testify, I am the only witness.

Without batting an eyelid, he swallowed my explanation that there had been a fight over the loot, and Albert was shot by his buddy. During the fight, nobody paid any attention to me, so I was able to escape on the spare horse.

If the deputy had any doubts about my story, he didn’t let on. Do I feel guilty about lying to him? Nope.

Well, I had enough money for a ticket to San Francisco, and before Foster could ask me any more uncomfortable questions, I decided on the spot to get out of there.

The bag with the booty is stowed under the bench, since I’m determined not to let it out of my sight. 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. Since no one there knows me or my past, they will treat me like any decent woman.

I wonder if Joe will 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, rather than just wanting 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 painful as hell and lasts forever. Most of the time, I’m delirious with a fever and dazed from 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, while soothing voices tried to 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. The tip of his rusty knife touched my skin.

“Not my face!” I screamed, thrashing around, but someone held my wrists 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, replaced by Pa, who brushed the hair from my brow and wiped the sweat from my chest, hovering over me with concern in his eyes.

 

After days, when I can think straight again, and the fever’s down, I wake up one morning to find the sheriff in my room. Rubbing my eyes, I prop myself up on my elbows because I don’t want to talk to Roy while lying flat on my back.

Pa, who is seated in an armchair next to my bed, hurries over to help me, sits me up, and tucks a pillow behind my back so I can rest against the headboard.

Wasting no time, Roy Coffee gets right to the point. “Little Joe, I have to ask you about the hostage. Do you remember everything?”

I nod. “Almost.”

“What happened exactly before Ben and Hoss found you? Was there a fight between the bank robbers? Or was it you who killed Albert before you could escape?” Roy stands at the foot of my bed with his arms crossed over his chest.

Rubbing my forehead, I try to recall the details. “Albert is dead? He was still alive when they left me behind. I didn’t shoot anyone.”

Pa stands beside me, his hand resting 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 the other one, Stanley?” I ask.

“Yeah, he and $5,000 loot. He’s in jail awaiting trial, but we need you to testify. We waited to bring the case to court until you were well enough to be questioned. Stanley claims they divided the booty and separated. He had no idea his friend was dead. He sure looked stunned, and I believed him. But there’s a problem. The other half of the money has disappeared.”

Pa rubs his chin. “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 since he was running a fever. There was no sign of a woman. Maybe she took the money?”

“Maybe. But Clem questioned her the same night. She gave him a convincing story about Stanley and Albert arguing over the money, and a shootout in which Albert was killed. Of course, a different scenario would be possible, but the woman had disappeared, too. Although there was no Dolly among the passengers, she could have taken the stagecoach or hidden somewhere. I’m afraid we’ll never know.”

A tightness spreads across my forehead as I try to follow Roy’s explanation. I massage my brow, trying to ease the pressure.

Pa steps toward the sheriff and takes hold of his arm. “Roy, that’s enough for now. Paul says Joseph needs lots of 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. It makes me sad that 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 hollow feeling in my chest hurts almost as much as my wound. I heave a sigh.

As always, 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’d never expected 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 with today’s income, I count the bills and coins as the bright ringing of the bell above the door announces customers. “Damn,” I scold myself for being so absent-minded, because I must have forgotten to lock the door. At this time of night, I’m usually already locked up.

Stuffing the money into a box, I hurry to the front of the café, where I display the cakes and set up a few tables. The place is small but cozy, with pretty tablecloths, flowers on the tables, and colorful pictures on the walls.

Two cowboys have entered the room. They stand in the doorway, looking a bit lost, letting their gaze wander over the interior. “Good evening, Miss!” The dark-clad man greets me politely by tapping the brim of his hat. The other, a tall fella with a huge white hat, gives me a brief nod, his eyes glued to the pastries displayed. His tongue darts out, licking over his lips, while a loud rumble from his stomach sounds through the room.

I can’t suppress a smile. “Come on in, fellas. I was about to close, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

The dark-clad man removes his hat and grins, revealing a delightful dimple in his cheek. “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 as the two approach. With an embarrassed grin, the man rubs a dirt stain on his black pants. “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-clad cowboy with his five o’clock shadow makes my heart beat faster.

By the time the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the small kitchen, I have regained my composure. I’m back to being the confident and independent saleswoman I used to be. Only my hands tremble as I pour coffee for the cowboys, who had taken a seat at one of the tables, their long legs stretched out in front of them.

I can almost feel the sizzling of sparks 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.”

Taking a deep, calming breath, I point to the glass box with the remaining slices. “Well, this is Linzer tart, a recipe from Vienna. There’s an almond cake, a cream pie with cherries, chocolate, and schnapps, and a pie with peaches,” I rattle off.

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

I place a plate of assembled pastries in front of the men, who waste no time digging in. Just as I’m about to head back to the kitchen, the polite fella stops me, his fingertips brushing my arm. “Miss… why don’t you join us?”

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

 

Sleep won’t come. My thoughts circle the cowboy. “Adam,” I whisper, listening to the sound of the name melting on my tongue sweeter than candy. While the two of them were eating their slices of cake, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Embarrassing, I know.

He caught me staring at him a few times and pierced me with chocolate-dark eyes, his mouth twisted into a friendly, amused smile. Could he see what was going on inside of me?

Is this love? I’ve never experienced anything like this. A whirlwind of unfamiliar emotions shakes my principles and convictions, and my hard shell begins to crumble. Until now, I’d only felt contempt for men, and very rarely respect. But this feeling—my heart fluttering like a bird flapping its wings wildly—is new.

An unexplainable longing to kiss his soft-looking lips, run my fingertip over his dimples, and stroke the wiry dark hair on his chest, visible through the neckline of his shirt, almost drives me crazy.

I can tell by Adam’s manner and choice of words that he had an education and wasn’t just a simple cowhand. He asked me to have dinner with him 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? Maybe it’s time to try something new. Romance. Being courted. A relationship

With that thought—frightening, yet also enticing—I drift off to sleep.

 

Joe

Pa is loading the last crate of supplies onto the wagon bed in front of the mercantile in Virginia City when I rush up to him, waving a note in my hand. “Hey, Pa, Adam sent a wire. It says they sold the herd for a good price. They only lost three steers. Hoss is already on his way back, but Adam is going to stay in San Francisco for another week,” I explain, interrupted by a heavy coughing fit shaking my body. I lean against the buckboard, waiting until I can breathe again.

Pa shoots me a concerned look, as if he thinks the trip to Virginia City was too strenuous. But after two weeks of being bedridden with the flu, I insisted on going, and the doctor gave his okay, too. The lack of action has left me irritable and restless. Worst of all, I had missed the cattle drive and the following trip to San Francisco. Thinking about my brothers having fun on the Barbary Coast while I was sick in bed almost made me climb the walls in frustration. The ride to Virginia City was exactly what I needed to ease some of the tension coiled inside me.

Once again, I’m studying the wire as if I might find an answer between the lines. “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.

“I wish it were a girl.” Pa sighs. I know he hopes one of us will settle down and fill the house with grandchildren, but so far, it just hasn’t worked out. Our ranch is the most successful in Nevada, but everyone knows, the Cartwright boys don’t have any luck with women.

 

The week is dragging on, but I’m getting back to doing some light work. When Hoss finally rides into the Ponderosa yard, leading Adam’s horse by the reins, I drop the tack I’ve been cleaning and rush over to him. I can’t wait to hear how the cattle drive went, what the two of them got up to in San Francisco, and what kept Adam from returning. “Hey, Hoss. Why didn’t Adam come back? A girl?” I blurt out.

“Hello, little brother. Are you alright?”

I hold the reins while Hoss dismounts. “Yeah, sure. I’m fine.”

“You’ve got a good nose for that. You’re right. It’s a gal. She has a café and sells the most delicious pies 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 pies 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 Hoss into the barn, where he starts unsaddling Chubb. 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 pastries!”

“Adam’s wooing her? Is it serious, then?” Apparently, Adam feels the same way I do sometimes: seeing a pretty girl and falling head over heels in love with her. “Gee, I’m happy for him.”

Hoss slaps me on the shoulder. “I’m happy, 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.”

 

When another telegram arrives a week later, telling us that Adam will stay in San Francisco for a few more days, a twinge of anger rushes through me. What does Adam think? Hoss and I work from dawn to dusk to handle the countless chores, since spring is the busiest time on the ranch, and Adam takes two weeks off as if he has no duties or responsibilities here. Adam, who’s always telling me I need to grow up and pull my weight!

One look at my face when I return from town with the news tells Hoss everything he needs to know. He takes the telegram from my hand, reads it through, then gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Don’t be mad at Adam. Give him 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 the 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 sent word that he’d be arriving today—and he isn’t coming alone. He’s bringing Eliza with him. I’m curious to meet the woman who’s managed to sweep our brother off his feet.

Pa, Hoss, and I wait at Virginia City’s Wells Fargo counter, dressed to the nines. To make an excellent first impression, we’ve polished the carriage’s leather seats and brushed the horses to a shine.

“Here comes the coach!” I call without need as the stagecoach pulls into the main road, its wheels squeaking and rattling loudly. In a cloud of dust, it comes to a stop.

The Wells Fargo employee places a step next to the coach, opens the door, and helps a couple of elderly people get out. Next, Adam emerges, a huge grin plastered all over his face. He turns to offer his hand to a lady, dressed in a dark blue calico dress and a matching hat.

My welcoming smile freezes. The woman is Dolly! I feel my heart skip a beat as the blood drains from my face. How is that possible? A strange coincidence?

Adam, with his arm around Dolly’s slender waist, looks at us. “May I introduce you? This is my fiancée, Eliza Watson. Eliza, this is my father, Ben Cartwright. You already know Hoss. And this is my baby brother, Little Joe.”

As Pa shakes the woman’s hand, a warm smile spreads across his face. Then he hesitates, a slight crease forming between his brows. “Say… have we met before?”

Dolly’s Smile never wavers. She shrugs. “I lived in Virginia City before I moved to San Francisco to open the café.”

Pa rubs the back of his neck. “Well, maybe we crossed paths then.”

When Dolly turns to face me, recognition flashes in her eyes. The color drains from her face for a brief moment, but she quickly recovers, smoothing her features into a polite smile. “It’s nice to meet you. Adam has told me so much about you.”

Overwhelmed by the situation, I stand there and nod at Dolly without getting a word out. I’ve spent a lot of time imagining what might have happened if she hadn’t disappeared. I wondered if she was still alive, if she was doing well, if she’d stolen the money from the bank robbery. Now she’s standing right in front of me—and she’s my brother’s fiancée!

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

Clearing my throat, I shut my mouth and stare at my boots, scuffing in the dust. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s, um, 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 back, scrutinizing eyes wandering over me.

We walk the few steps to our carriage. Pa and Hoss climb into the driver’s seat, while the couple in love takes a seat in the back. I’m glad I brought Cochise instead of riding back in the carriage—especially since it only seats four anyway.

The excited chatter of Adam, Hoss, Pa, and Dolly drifts over to me as I ride after them, causing me to feel like the literal 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 plenty of time away from her old life to change. But did she know Adam was my brother? Is she after a wealthy husband? What kind of game is she playing?

Then there’s the suspected murder and the missing five thousand dollars. Did Dolly shoot Albert, take the money, and run off to San Francisco? It would fit the story too neatly. How else would she have had enough to open a café?

I drag a hand down my face with a groan. What am I supposed to do now—talk to Roy? Talk to Adam? As we reach the Ponderosa, I still haven’t come up with a solution. I need to think it over carefully.

After dismounting in the yard, Pa steps up to me, looking me up and down. “Joseph, you seem exhausted. Don’t you feel well?”

“I’m all right, Pa. I’m just a little tired.”

Pa’s furrowed brow tells me that my answer wasn’t convincing. He pulls the reins out of my hand. “We take care of Cochise. You lie down. I’ll check on you later.”

“Okay.” Turning, I walk toward the house, feeling Hoss’ and Adams gaze boring into my back.

They’re right to be puzzled. 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, getting my thoughts straight.

After taking off my boots, I flop down on the bed, crossing my arms behind my head to stare at the ceiling.

What should I do? If Dolly stole the money and shot a man, I can’t let her marry Adam. I have to tell him. “It’s not that I don’t want Adam to marry—it’s about justice. Someone who commits a crime shouldn’t get away with it unpunished.”

Is he even aware of 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.

Because of my brooding, I end up missing supper, but that’s not a problem. When I’m worried, I quickly lose my appetite anyway.

I’m not surprised to find Pa checking on me. After a brief knock, he enters my room, but I keep my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. The floorboards creak as Pa steps up beside my bed. He touches my forehead with the back of his hand—probably searching for a fever—and pulls the covers up to my chin, a gesture that shows his love and concern. Then he slips out of the room, his footsteps barely audible.

Unable to sleep, I spend the night tossing and turning. 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 Albert 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 in the main room. The house is filled with the smell of coffee and freshly baked cookies.

I jump when the guest room door creaks open. I hadn’t given any thought to where Dolly was staying. Certainly not in Adam’s room, not as long as the two of them aren’t married!

Dolly, who looks as though she hasn’t slept much either, hesitates the moment her eyes land on me. For an instant, she seems ready to retreat into her room, but then her shoulders square, and she comes to stand beside me at the fireplace.

“Good morning, Joe.”

“Mornin’, Dolly.”

“My name’s Eliza. Dolly was my stage name,” she corrects me.

Neither of us knows how to begin, and the silence feels as uncomfortable as a damp, cold blanket. 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.

I clear my throat. “Um … 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 fella. I guess he suspects what I did for a living besides dancing.”

“Dolly, a year and a half ago …” I draw in a deep breath, trying to start the conversation with something pleasant. “I never got a chance to thank you. I guess it was you who fired those three shots?”

Dolly nods her head.

“Well, you probably saved my life. I don’t know if my family would have found me otherwise. I was pretty much out of it.”

Dolly—Eliza looks at me with a raised eyebrow. 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.”

Eliza narrows her eyes. “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. “Leave me alone, Joe! Why do you have to bring all that up again? Can’t you just let the past rest?”

I reach out to put my hand on her shoulder to calm her down, but she slaps it away. “Don’t!”

Adam rushes down the stairs. There’s no way he didn’t hear part of our argument. Adam grabs me and spins me around. I’m sure he’s leaving bruises on my arm. His face is contorted with anger, and his dark eyes flash. “How dare you make my fiancée cry?”

Eliza dabs her face with a handkerchief to wipe away the tears, which I suspect to be just an act. “I haven’t told you I met Joe in Virginia City. You know, at the saloon where I worked, but I had no idea Joe was your brother-until yesterday.”

I pull free from Adam’s grip. “The fact that Dol—, um, Eliza was a dancer bothers me less than the fact that I had to testify in a trial about murder and bank robbery, and the key witness has disappeared. I think it should be sorted out if—”

Adam, rubbing Eliza’s back while his other hand clenches into a fist so tight the tendons stand out along his forearm, won’t let me finish. “Leave, Joe. Get out of my sight. We discuss this later.”

The words come out cold and sharp. I turn away without answering, snatch up my hat, jacket, and holster, and storm out of the house, slamming the door behind me. After I saddle Cochise, we tear out of the yard in a storm of dust.

“Joseph!” Pa, stepping out of the house right now, calls behind me, but I don’t stop.

After racing down the road for several miles as though the devil himself were at our heels, I finally rein Cooch into a steady trot and drag in a deep breath. My stomach is twisted into a hard knot of anger. I’m heading into town for a coffee—or maybe something stronger—to settle my nerves. Besides, I need to talk to Roy.

“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 a girl and I 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 in. 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.”

“What about Stanley? He’s still at Carson Jail, right?”

“No. He’s dead. He was shot in an escape attempt. I guess 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. I even take her at her word when she says she didn’t know I was Adam’s brother. And maybe I’m totally wrong, and my hunch that Eliza is a thief and a murderer isn’t correct.

Roy and I are lucky that Adam is not with the herd but spending the day with his fiancée. They sit on the porch, and it looks like a romantic picnic. Adam is strumming his guitar and singing. The woman’s eyes are glued to him, her mouth curved into a smile. A game of checkers, pie, and a glass of lemonade sit on the table.

As the sheriff and I approach, Adam stands up. He sets the guitar down in front of him, clutching the headstock. His eyes narrow as he waits, lips pressed into a thin line, 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 a shade paler, or is it my imagination? Adam steps beside her in support and puts his arm around her slender shoulders, shooting me a wicked look. I guess he’s surprised I showed up with the sheriff.

Eliza draws in a deep breath as she faces Roy. “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.

“Well, yeah, I was, but—”

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

Darn, this isn’t going where I thought it would. Why am I the one having to defend myself? “No! I ain’t mad! I didn’t even think about her anymore, but I believe Eliza is lying about the money.”

Maybe I’m overreacting instead of simply letting it go. Banks and stagecoaches are robbed every day, and the culprits often escape with the money. Some banks, especially those back East, are even insured against such losses. Five thousand dollars isn’t a devastating amount for a bank. Still, to me, it’s a matter of principle. Stealing is wrong.

Roy takes a step forward. “Now, stop arguing, boys. Miss Watson, tell me what happened.”

Eliza folds her arms across her chest. “I already told the deputy that back then. Surely there are notes. I have nothing more to add. But if you insist, I can go through all that again. ” Then she repeats the story about the fight over the booty and how Stan shot Albert. “I got away on the spare horse. Then I rode back to help Joe. I knew he was badly hurt.”

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. The Cartwrights were right nearby. I knew they’d find Joe. There was no reason for me to stay.”

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

Eliza wrings her hands. To me, it looks like she’s lying. “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.”

Tears well in Elizas eyes. “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 your deputy everything.”

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

Roy rubs his neck. “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.”

I can’t believe what he’s suggesting. “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?”

Adam grabs my arm, his voice cold as ice. “Why are you so determined to paint Eliza in the worst possible light?”

“It’s a gut feeling, okay? You don’t want to marry a woman who lies to you, do you?” I hiss at him.

“Hell, Joe. You’ve dug yourself into a hole. I think you envy me! You’re a selfish little spoiled boy and begrudge—”

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 arm muscle 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 bust your heads.”

I wipe the blood from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand, the sting quickly cooling my temper. Roy’s right—that was embarrassing. We behaved like a pair of hotheaded boys, not two grown men.

Good thing Pa and Hoss aren’t here—they’re out checking on the cattle. If Pa could see us like this—our bloody faces and dirty, wrinkled clothes, we’d never hear the end of it.

Of course, Pa still notices that we’d gotten into a fight. There is no way to hide my grazed knuckles and Adam’s black eye at supper, not to mention the awkward tension between us. We don’t look at each other or exchange a single word.

After dinner, Adam and Eliza had slipped outside to take a walk in the fading light. Pa catches me before I can slip away to my room.

“I’m disappointed in you, Joseph. I would have thought you’d have grown up enough to know better than solving problems with your fists. I want to know what exactly happened. Why did you and Adam fight?”

I let out a deep sigh. I probably should have gone to Pa first to ask him for advice instead of talking to Roy. “Remember the saloon girl in whose room you found me a year and a half ago after I got beaten up?”

“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, 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. And, of course, Adam wants to protect Eliza. He said I was jealous because she’d turned me down.” Back then, no one realized I’d been to the saloon several times trying to ask Dolly out.

Pa rubs his temples as if he gets a headache. “It probably wasn’t wise to involve the sheriff without talking it over with the family first. I’m sure you understand why Adam is upset. And as they say: when in doubt, give the accused the benefit of the doubt. We won’t be able to prove that Eliza is guilty.”

Well, the damage is done and cannot be undone. I still think Eliza couldn’t have had enough money to buy a ticket to San Francisco and open a café, could she? What makes the whole thing even worse is the possibility that she may have killed a man.

 

Life goes on, but since Adam and I are both stubborn, neither of us is willing to give in. So, we eat together, work together, and carry on as usual, yet there’s an icy tension between us. We only speak when necessary. Adam can’t understand why I won’t let it go. He says Albert wasn’t a good man, that he got what he deserved, and that I should leave the matter alone.

Mealtimes together are more than just awkward because Eliza and Adam ignore me, and vice versa. Hoss, the most sensitive of us all, is probably the one suffering the worst from the situation.

Last night, Adam announced that he and Eliza were getting married. I pushed my plate away, got up without saying a word, and went to my room. I couldn’t pretend to be happy.

 

“Hoss, what should I do?” I ask the next day, as my brother and I dig holes for fence posts.

The lack of sleep has left me with a pounding headache, and every strike of Hoss’s hammer as he drives a post into the ground sends a sharp throb through my skull. I’m irritable, distracted, and sure as hell not going to be much use out here this morning.

Hoss drops his hammer. “I’ve waited days for you to talk to me, Joe. Whenever I tried, you almost ripped my head off.”

“Was I that much of a nuisance? I’m sorry, Hoss.” Embarrassed, I smooth my palm across my thigh. It was never my intention to drag Hoss into this.

“Little Joe, 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 the worst about Eliza, I’ve driven a wedge between the family. I guess I’ll have to bite the bullet and apologize.

After supper, before Eliza retires to the guest room, I stop her. I’ve spent a long time thinking about what I was going to say. “We need to talk.”

Eliza looks surprised, but she nods and reaches for her cloak before following me outside, where we can speak without being overheard.

“You’re soon gonna be my sister-in-law,” I begin. “I owe you an apology for suspecting you. I’m willing to let the whole matter rest.”

I don’t know whether Eliza notices how carefully I choose my words. Deep down, I’m still convinced she lied to Roy and me, but I’m done pushing the issue. “I’m glad you and Adam found happiness together.” And I truly am, though there’s still a faint sting inside remembering how she turned me down back then. Eliza is a strong and breathtakingly beautiful woman. Adam was right. At first, I’d been jealous of him.

Eliza’s dark eyes glisten in the moonlight, and she blinks several times, as though my apology has touched her more deeply than she expected. She lets out a shaky breath.

“Thank you, Joe. That means a great deal to me.” She rubs the skin over her thumb nervously. “I owe you an apology, too. Part of your suspicion was right, but I was too scared to admit it. But I had plenty of time to think it over, and I’ve decided to come clean before the wedding.” After a long pause, as if she needed to gather her courage, she continues. “I shot Albert, but I’m not a murderer. It was an accident. After Albert and his partner divided the money and split up, I grabbed Albert’s revolver. I told him he has to let me go.”

I listen to Eliza’s confession with bated breath, my heart pounding hard against my ribs.

“I pulled the gun from Albert’s holster when he tried to kiss me, then backed away a few steps. I stumbled and fell, and the gun went off. Albert died instantly.”

“Why didn’t you tell the sheriff that?”

Eliza brushes a loose strand of hair from her forehead. “Because I was afraid nobody would believe me. You know how quickly people judge someone. Someone like me. A whore.”

I reach for Eliza’s hand. “You took the money, didn’t you?”

She nods slowly. “Yes. It gave me the chance to build the life I’d always dreamed about. Respectable work. Doing what my heart truly loves. Baking pastries.” Her voice softens. “I know it was wrong.”

“Does Adam know…?”

“That I accidentally shot Albert? Yes.” She lowers her gaze. “The money… I suppose I’ll have to tell him about that, too. I don’t want to start a marriage built on lies. I’ve been thinking for some time about giving the money back. I’m going to withdraw $5,000 from my account at the Harrison Bank, buy a bank draft payable to the Virginia City Bank, and have it delivered anonymously. That will settle my debt.”

My eyes widen. “That’s a ton of money. Did you save that much?”

Eliza lets out a laugh — that husky, seductive laugh I remember from back then. “You have no idea how well I can bake, or how fast those pastries sell. I’ve already been supplying two restaurants, and now I’m planning to open a café in Virginia City.”

Eliza rubs her arms, shivering in the cool evening air, while I stand beside her, still trying to process everything I’ve learned. “When I think about how a cowboy makes thirty dollars a month, I guess I’m in the wrong line of work,” I say, forcing a weak attempt at humor. “Come on, let’s go inside. You’re cold.” I offer Eliza my elbow, and she links her arm through mine. “I’m glad we talked.”

“Yeah, me too. And Joe… I stole from you back then. Didn’t you ever notice that twenty-eight dollars was missing from your wallet?”

“I did,” I reply, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “But I figured it was Albert and Stanley.” I shake my head slightly. “Keep it. Consider it an engagement gift.”

My heart feels lighter than it has in a long time as we walk back into the house side by side.

 

Epilogue

I stand in front of the mirror in my room, dressed to the nines, because today is Adam and Eliza’s wedding. I run the brush through my hair several times until it lies smooth and gleaming. My shirt is freshly pressed, and my boots shine.

Satisfied, I smile at my reflection and adjust my bow tie.

The matter of the money repayment went smoothly. The director of the Virginia City Bank is a good friend of Pa’s. Pa met him over a few glasses of fine brandy and those expensive cigars he likes so much, and somehow managed to “convince” him not to press charges. I was surprised, to say the least. Though Pa insists it wasn’t bribery—just an “arrangement.”

Everyone’s happy with how it turned out.

Adam pokes his head into my room. “Come on, Joe, what’s taking you so long? The wedding ceremony will start in a few minutes.”

Things are back to normal between Adam and me now that we’ve talked it out. The whole family is relieved. Yeah, we Cartwrights stick together in the end, even if we have our differences from time to time.

“I’m coming!” With one last glance at the mirror, I turn away and follow Adam down the stairs into the main room, which is bursting at the seams with guests.

A broad smile is plastered on my face. I’m looking forward to the party, the dancing, and to finally tasting those extraordinary pies Eliza baked for the wedding.

 

The End

Written in May 2024, edited in May 2026 for better flow and a slightly modified ending.

 

Author’s notes:

The song “Private Dancer” by Tina Turner inspired me to write this story.

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.

The story is in the book “Pulverdampf war ihr Parfum” (Gunpowder Vapor Was Their Perfume), a book about women in the Wild West.