Frontier [Reydan and Shiva the Cat]

[Reydan]

The frost was melting. As Troy stood there, on the rough wooden porch of the farmstead, he could almost see in real time the crisp morning sun cutting through the leaden March sky. Starting to pick away at the snow that lined his low stone walls and clung to the idle furroughs of his handful of fields. From this vantage point on the hillside he could see most of the twenty-odd acres he'd bought here after settling down. It seemed odd to many, at the age of just thirty two, for a man to crave a quiet life on the edge of civilisation such as he did, but it was all Troy wanted.

His brown eyes ran down, past the clutch of apple trees bare and stark in the winter with their branches reaching up towards the steely Idaho sky, down to where the sheep clustered by the bottom wall. Huddled together, their breath misting the air as they chewed and murmured, they had been the only other witnesses to the excitement of two days ago. Whether they were discussing it themselves or not, he had no idea as he watched the thick woolly bundles group together. Sometimes, very occasionally, he envied their comradely clustering. It brought back memories of his time back East. Of ten years ago. And, of course, with those good memories came the very bad...

Troy sighed. He ran a scarred hand through his thick brown hair. It nestled, messy and chaotic, on top of his face. A straight nose, freckles and wind-burn competing for prominence before the close-cut beard took over. He had to stoop a little to enter the house, his six foot three frame ever-so-slightly bigger than the average build for which this farmstead had originally been constructed. Such were the perils of having your plot set up for you as you moved West in the wagon trains.

It was a square, with the back right hand corner a bedroom portioned off by a curtain on a rail hanging from the ceiling. The rest of the space was open-plan, a mixture of old furniture scrounged or made or bought in town from other people's cast offs. A stove, which burned with a low, comforting, heat. A great shaggy dog, who snored lazily before it, his russet coloured fur rising and falling slowly. Troy grinned, reaching down to tussle with Sherman's ears, only to elicit a snore from the beast. He slumped in the battered green armchair, near the fire, and looked over at the bed through the drawn curtains. The only thing out of place here was her.

He'd found the girl two days ago, slumped against his outer stonewall, shivering in a cold morning frost like the one that wrapped the little farmstead presently. She'd looked small yet somehow fierce. Hair a mess, her clothes gone save for a chemise and bloomers, the latter torn and bloodied. And, of course, the pistol. His eyes drifted up to it, where it hung suspended by a nail from the wooden wall above the fire. Like his own. And his rifle and shotgun. He'd oiled it, cleaned it, going through the mechanics he'd learned in the field ten years before. It had recently been fired, but had no bullets.

God only knew what had happened to this young woman. She hadn't woken when he had, tentatively, undressed her, trying to look away as he did, before sliding her into an oversized nightshirt that hung loose on her smaller frame. And she'd been asleep for two days after. Tucked into his bed whilst he slept on the couch. She was a mystery, and Troy didn't like mysteries. She'd not staggered in from the direction of town, nor from the turnpike road most often used by travelers heading further West to the coast. Instead she'd come, barefoot and scratched, across the hillside. What had she witnessed? What had she fled from?

His introspection was interrupted when, looking back over, he noticed her eyes were open. 'Hello...' he hazarded. Not even knowing if she spoke English. 'You're safe. You stumbled into my farmstead two days ago and you've been asleep ever since' . Even saying it out loud seemed strange...

 

[Shiva the Cat]

When Josephine's dove-gray eyes opened, the first thing they saw was the rough-hewn logs of the the ceiling overhead. I'm indoors. The thoughts felt heavy and clumsy in her mind, and she realized she had a splitting headache.

But that was only the start of it. As wakefulness descended over her long, slender frame, pain came with it, although it was abated somewhat by softness of a featherbed beneath her. A bed... there definitely hadn't been a bed before. Had it all been a dream then? Was she still back in Dover, at Helen and George's? Or was this one of the many hotels she'd stayed in on her journey west, each one declining in luxury and comfort until that last one in Omaha, where she'd boarded the coach headed for the Idaho Territory and what was supposed to be a fresh start? If none of that had happened yet, if it really was just a nightmare...but no. Her body wouldn't hurt like this if it had been a dream.

Groaning, Josie's first instinct was to pull the blankets back up over her head, shutting out the light of morning and forcing herself back into blissful unconsciousness. Unfortunately, the pain in her head and limbs was now joined by a scratchy dryness in her throat, and suddenly she wondered how long it had been since she'd had a drink of water. She'd fled the camp with only the gun in her hand and the clothes on her back, and had walked at least a day before she found a stream leading vaguely southwest. There had been ice in it, she remembered, and she couldn't drink much without it hurting her stomach. And all around her, it had been cold.

Why aren't I dead? Josephine wondered, realizing that despite the pain, she was at least warm enough now, and as she glanced downward she realized she was wearing a man's nightshirt. In another life, she might have blushed at the idea of some stranger having undressed her, but after what had happened...how many days ago had it been now? Her head pulsed with the idea of trying to calculate it out, and she let out another soft grunt of pain. Thankfully as she turned her head, she could see a pitcher and basin on a small table on the bed beside her, and beyond that...a man.

Instinctively her entire body tensed up at the sight of him. The last man Josie had encountered had been far from a savior, and for a moment she wondered if the gang had caught up to her after all and taken her to another one of their strongholds. As far as she could tell though, the one before her now was much taller than any of them had been, and the look of concern on his handsome face seemed genuine. More importantly he was alone (at least, if you didn't count the dog at his feet), and none of the others had ever been allowed to be alone with her. The man in the white hat didn't trust them that much.

"Water," her voice creaked, and one pale hand raised shakily from beneath the covers towards the pitcher. As it did, Josephine noticed that her nails, usually so neat and well-manicured, were all broken and brown with dried blood underneath. A small smile crossed her face at the sight, even though she couldn't specifically remember the damage she must have done with them. I hope they get infected she wished on the victim's scratches, wherever they were.

After her thirst had been assuaged, she was able to sit up a bit, her thick mass of honey-colored hair tumbling over her shoulders to her waist. New life seemed to illuminate her oval face, sparsely adorned with freckles across the bridge of her small, slightly-upturned nose. Rolling her shoulders a bit in the hopes of shaking off the ache, she looked with new interest at the man beside the bed, and after another drink of water to soothe her throat her words came much more strongly, in a low tone with a distinctive Chesapeake accent.

"Thank you for helping me. The frost would have killed me for sure if you hadn't come along." she replied, her fingers kneading deep in the fabric of the quilt in her lap. "I don't suppose I'm anywhere near the town of Whiskey Springs, am I? My uncle is sheriff there, Jericho Harding?" There was hope in her voice that her journey hadn't been too severely derailed, but she was doubtful that even Uncle Jerry would be much of a match for the men that had robbed the Omaha Coach.

Fresh rage contorted the young woman's pretty face, but after she realized she was nearly tearing a hole in the blanket, she forced herself to relax before facing the stranger again. "May I ask your name?" she continued, trying to inject as much ladylike calm into her voice as possible. "Mine's Josephine Wall. I'm supposed to be the new schoolteacher in Whiskey Springs..." Although after word got out about what had happened to her, who knew if the position would even still be open to a woman like her?

Bastards she thought, picturing the men who had not only broken her body, but who may very well have stolen her future as well. I'll get them. Every single one of them...

 

[Reydan]

He watched her, for the first few minutes, his green eyes hard to read. Still in his chair, not wanting to startle her with any sudden movement, as she reached out a shaky hand to slake two days of thirst from the pitcher. For a moment or two it was just mesmerising. He'd had a fair ammount of time to study her, as she slept, but now it was like a picture or a statute come to life. Movement embued her limbs with a whole new life, and from beneath a shifting mass of golden-brown hair an oval face flushed with presence and character begins to shine. He saw then, to some embarrassment, what a poor job he'd done of cleaning anything beyond the superficial from her in terms of dirt. There were still steaks of pale dirt on that face as she turned an inquiring glance over to him.

He watched as slender fingers picked over the woven fabric of the rough blanket. It struck Troy that everything in this cabin was rough, hewn and carved and stitched, a rough frontier man's world that was not suited to the delicate refinement of the small woman he saw before him. Not that it mattered much - she would be gone soon enough. This was hardly a long-term visit. It was no suprise, given what this homesteader saw as her delicacy, that she then announced herself as the new Schoolteacher.

'Whiskey Springs is a couple of miles that way' he said, pointing in the direction opposite to the one she had staggered in on. Clearly that was, indeed, where she was heading when whatever had happened to her happened. 'Be an easy ride...though I don't think you're up to it right at the moment'. His voice was an odd twang - an undercurrent of a New England accent but cut over with some of the intonations of the midwest. An uneasy, mixed American, tone. His eyes followed her nervous lips.

'I'm Troy Hammond' he said, standing, unfurling his long frame. He paused, uncertain of what to say next. Part of him, the human part of him, wanted to know what had happened. Why this beautiful young teacher had ended up bloody, stripped, and clinging onto his wall for dear life in the cold light of dawn. But the other part of him, the burned, scared, broken part that had brought him all the way out to this remote Idaho cabin. That part wanted no piece of it. He was caught. Between sympathy and self-preservation.

He shifted nervously from foot to foot. 'You're welcome to stay here until you feel better. Then I'll take you into town' he said, avoiding the obvious question in his cowardice. He gestured to the small wardrobe. You were only in your underclothes when I found you...and they were pretty roughed up. Reckon you could find some shirts and pants in those drawers. I'll be out...'

In that moment, though, his rugged exit was disturbed by Sherman who, roused from the fire, got lazily to his feet and, jumping onto the bed, resettled right in the woman's lap. The sudden betrayal of the dog caused him to laugh, running a hand through his messy hair, as he looked at the ridiculous beast and the pretty girl.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Whiskey Springs is a couple of miles that way.

"So close..." Josie murmured, her eyes fixating at the point on the wall where the stranger was pointing. A journey of more than a thousand miles, and she'd almost made it with no trouble. If she could walk, she could have made it just a bit farther herself, but there was a lingering pain in her lower body that made the thought miserable. Her host was right, she absolutely wasn't in any state to try the last leg of the trip, and fresh frustration bubbled up to mix with the rest of the emotions stewing in her chest, not the least of which was gratitude when she finally looked back towards her savior.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hammond," the teacher continued, summoning a trickle of dry humor from somewhere inside. "I wish it was under rather...less strenuous circumstances, but beggars can't be choosers now, can they?" If they were, she might have chosen to be saved by someone who would raise fewer eyebrows than a handsome man who was, by all appearances, lacking a wife or children that could have warded off scandal. Then again, the scandal of sleeping alone in a strange man's bed after being found half-dead in the wild backcountry was nothing compared to the scandal she'd already suffered.

"You'll have to forgive my state of undress, Mr. Hammond," Josephine continued. "I met with some trouble on my way here. I can assure you I don't make a habit going around without a frock. You ah...you won't say anything about this to the school board?" Assuming Whiskey Springs even had a school board. In Uncle Jerry's letters, it more or less seemed he had been the one responsible for getting his niece the position at the brand new all-grades school. In his last missive, the sheriff had assured her construction on the building would be complete by the time she arrived, although that letter had come almost two months ago now. Josephine had asked for messages at every town she'd encountered on her journey west, and sent on a few of her own as well, but she hadn't heard a word for response since January.

She was tempted to press the question of whether or not Mr. Hammond was personally acquainted with the sheriff, but as Josie watched him she couldn't help but notice he seemed even more taken aback by this whole situation than she was. On the one hand the teacher could sympathize; it couldn't be easy for a single man to find a strange young woman on his property without so much as a petticoat to offer her, but on the other Josephine was quite sure she'd suffered much more than being forced to provide awkward hospitality, and she could still find the fortitude to be polite. Ever since escaping though, she tried not to think of what had happened back at the cave, and when the thoughts came unbidden, an easy explanation rose to her mind.

It was God's punishment she had told herself as she stumbled out of the hills. He was punishing you for what you did to Helen.

Josephine shook her head, much the way George's spaniels would after awakening from a nap. And as if one of the canines had sprung right out of her head, a familiar animal smell and strange shaggy form had suddenly landed in her lap, making her eyes widen and actually bringing a small smile to the woman's lips.

"And who's this then? Quite the forward young man if you ask me," she replied with a laugh, scratching behind the dog's ears. It had been too long since she'd had a proper dog beside her, and one of the many castles in the air she'd built during her journey was the dream of having one of her own once she got settled in her new home.

After all, a woman alone in the west needed some protection.

 

[Reydan]

He could sense that he was being rude. Even after a couple of years here, alone, with no human company with which to benchmark his actions, he knew that this woman was a little set-back by his curtness and shifting. Mary-Beth would have been ashamed, the idle thought flashed across his mind, and that knowledge stung. He frowned, colouring a little.

Sherman's interruption, as always, was a messy disruption that actually helped immensely. Like the times he'd lolop into the garden with his ball in his mouth, trying to tell Troy he had been working to hard. Or how he laid his greying muzzle on the young man's lap when he was reading too late into the night. He grinned, rubbing his head. "Please excuse Sherman, Miss. And me, I suppose. We came out here after the War - I rescued Sherman from a burning plantation whilst serving under his namesake in the Union Army." That was quite enough of that particular story. She needed an apology for his gruffness, not his life story after all. And kindness in the present which, Troy told himself, had nothing to do with his past.

"We're a little rusty around people...we've been alone for a couple of years now." He moved closer, sitting on the end of the bed. Something wholly inappropriate in polite society, but ever since those grey days in New England in 1866, he'd been sick to the teeth of polite restraint. He reached out to scratch Sherman's rough fur along with her.

"Afraid I don't have any women's clothes, but I do have a couple of things that were too small for me - Whiskey Springs is rough and ready and you have to buy what you can on order - something you'll learn when you take up your post I guess" he said, smiling ruefully. "Reckon I've got a brand new couple of shirts and good riding trousers that might just fit you with a little room to spare." He smiled up at her, looking at her bruised face, with its dusting of freckles and little button nose. She had an easy humour about her that was like a brightly burning candle in the small room. He found himself smiling easily at her. Again he thought of Mary-Beth and her ambitions. The brightness in her eyes. All faded away.

The kettle on the stove whistled, snatching him thankfully from his darker moment. Holding up a finger he rose, to return moments later with two steaming mugs. The coffee was rich and dark, sweetened with sugar but lacking any milk or cream, as he handed one over to Josephine. "Josie..." he said, not realising he'd used her first name in such an intimate setting, "... I have to ask. How do you come to be here? I don't want to pry, but Whiskey Springs is a long journey in this weather, despite the short distance. The cold...the rocks...the little ice streams...it can take the best part of a day, despite the few miles" he said, before their fingers lightly brushed together in that rough hair. "...and its along the bottom of a valley floor" he added meaningfully. She wasn't stupid, he knew just looking at her bright eyes that seemed to draw him in. She would know what that meant - being exposed. Open to ambush from above.

"...How much danger are you in?" he asked, his voice level and low. "Do you even know, Josie?"

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Josephine jerked her head up in surprise upon hearing the origins of Sherman's moniker. "You were a soldier then?" she asked, raising her sandy brown brows. "I don't suppose you knew anyone from the Army of the Potomac, do you?" She tried to recall the newspaper stories of years earlier as they had filtered into George and Helen's parlor. She knew it was either the Tennessee or Mississippi armies that marched through Georgia under Sherman, but she'd been more concerned with the activities of Fighting Joe Hooker (a name she herself had adopted on occasion).

"I had a brother, Charlie. He was an infantryman under Major General Couch," Josie continued as she scratched absentmindedly at the dog's ears. "He was went missing after Chancellorsville. We're all pretty sure he's dead now, but...I don't suppose you've ever heard of him?" It was unlikely of course, but she couldn't keep the note of hope out of her voice. The Walls had never received any confirmation that the family's only son had gone to his grave, and that was enough for Josephine to keep believing that someday, somewhere, their paths might cross again.

Unfortunately, the look on Mr. Hammond's face was enough to tell her that the war was not a pleasant subject for him. Her mouth immediately closed and her eyes dropped again, ready to change the subject. Troy wasn't the first veteran she'd encountered over the years, though he was the first she'd met who'd served under Sherman's bloody campaign to the sea (a crime that was loudly decried by her pacifist parents). It was probably a good thing he didn't seem eager to talk about it; to do so would be evidence of a violent character, and Josephine had certainly had her fill of violent men over the past few days.

To her relief, the gentleness with which Mr. Hammond caressed his pet hinted at a demeanor that was quite the opposite of violent. It was the only thing that excused his rather improper proximity, but again, Josephine wasn't exactly in a position to complain. Besides, hadn't her father always said that bad manners could be excused on behalf of godly behavior? "I'll take whatever clothing I can get at this point," she remarked as her fingers brushed against his for just a moment. A little spark of lightning seemed to fly between them, bringing a little blush to the schoolteacher's face as she quickly turned her gaze away. "And if Whiskey Springs is as rough as you say, they can hardly complain about their new teacher riding into town in breeches, can they?"

The chuckle that escaped her lips was forced as she surveyed the room again with distracted fascination, and she was grateful when the kettle finally whistled the announcement of what she hoped was tea. Sadly it was the scent of coffee that hit her nostrils a short time later, but even that would at least give her the strength to get out of bed. Once Mr. Hammond's back was turned and she could dress, of course.

In the meantime, she accepted the cup and drank deeply of the steaming contents. But when he addressed her as Josie, she nearly spit the coffee out over the quilt before her. The only ones who ever addressed her so casually were her immediate friends and family, and it felt shockingly intimate to hear the name on a stranger's lips. Then again, Hammond had seen her in a state of undress that only such intimate acquaintances ever had, and he did save her life after all. She decided to let it go; after all there hadn't been anything rude or insinuating in his tone. Indeed, he seemed quite concerned about how she had come to be in this strange predicament.

Josephine took another sip of the coffee, gripping the cup tightly between both hands. "As I said, I ran into some trouble on the road," she began. "I was taking the Omaha coach on my way to Whiskey Springs. There were two other men there with me, an old gentleman--from Chicago, I believe--and his son. We had just made our way through Longfellow pass when..." Something in her chest seized up tight, threatening to crush the words inside her. Shutting her eyes, Josie swallowed hard and forced herself to continue. "A group of men on horseback stopped us in the road. They shot the driver and his guard, then made the three of us get out of the coach so they could rob us."

Her hands began to clench again, and if Mr. Hammond had used the sort of delicate porcelain cups common to eastern drawing rooms, there was no doubt it would have been crushed into dust. "They took all of our money and jewelry, and the horses as well. They let the old gentleman and his son go free, although I can't believe they had any way of finding their way out of the mountains. The bast...scoundrels took the food and drink we'd all packed as well." It would have been a perfect opportunity to curse the men out as they deserved, but even now Josie needed to preserve some semblance of ladylike behavior.

"I thought they would leave me behind as well, but one of them picked me up and put me on his horse in front of him. He kept a gun to my head the whole time." Josephine shuddered, remembering the feeling of the man's rough, dirty hand as it had grabbed at her. "They brought me to their hideout, a sort of cave in the hills, a day...that way?" she pointed in what she guessed was the direction she'd come from. She was silent a few moments more, trying to ignore everything that had happened while in the gangs' captivity. "I was with them about a week, I think. I learned a few of their names, and I believe their leader is called Elman Luck. They kept calling themselves the Elman Luck gang." She tilted her head a little, wondering if the name meant anything to Mr. Hammond.

"Anyway, after a week most of them went out again, to do more robbing I have no doubt," she scoffed. "There were only two of them left to guard me, but they each had a bottle of whiskey between them. Once they were good and drunk I was able to steal one of their guns and get away. I shot one of them in the leg," Josephine added with the slightest hint of pride in her voice. "After that I just kept running, all night and into the day and through the night again. The next thing I knew, I was here," the teacher finished, draining the rest of her cup. "I don't know why they'd bother coming after me now, they probably think I'm dead. Maybe if they knew my uncle was the sheriff there might be trouble, but I didn't speak a word of it to them. They...they weren't exactly interested in anything I had to say."

She shivered again, and setting the empty cup aside she pulled the blanket up close around her, as if it could protect her from some unseen foe in the wilderness.

 

[Reydan]

Troy shook his head. "No, afraid not. I was West...always out West" he said, not quite meeting her gaze. He knew, perhaps, from his gentler youth in New England society that he should offer her some support - some reassurance that not all was lost. That her Charlie might come home again. But he knew from bitter experience that was not likely to be the case. The wretched war had destroyed so many lives, shattered so many families, and the pain had not been restricted to the frontline....

...his eyes flicked back to her, sensing she was on the verge of sharing something bigger, and he was grateful for the interruption from his dark reverie.

He was silent as he watched her speak, her delicate fingers wrapped around that hot mug. The words came slowly at first, like a snow-melt trickle down the mountainside outside their window. But they came, and the darkness they brought with them seemed to crowd in around them. She had been through literal hell, up on those unforgiving grey mountains.

"Awful". It seemed such a terribly useless word to vocalise. So underwhelming given what she had been through. He hesitated, for just a moment, before an unbidden urge from his childhood slipped into place in his mind. He laid his hand, rough and scarred, on top of hers, amid the messy fur of Sherman's snoring side. Just for a moment. just the brief connection of skin-on-skin. A shared warmth. A silent reassurance that she was not alone. That her words of pain and suffering and fear had been heard. A Baptist urge, he thought briefly, before pushing the thought away.

The unspoken, unasked, unanswered question hung in the air between them. Terrible and potent like a dreadful laden balloon. Her torn and bloodied undergarments. Her overall lack of clothes. Had they kept her alive...to violate her? Had that been what this poor young school teacher had endured for a week before her desperate escape into unfamiliar mountains with nothing but a spent pistol? He looked at her, unable to vocalise it. He wasn't sure why. He'd seen it. It happened when you were a soldier. You tried to stop it, where you could, if you were that way inclined. He had pulled men by their hair off of women...and sometimes other men. But you knew it happened. In other units, other times, other places. But he couldn't ask her. It seemed almost...a betrayal of the power in those eyes. The courage. She would tell him. And only, he knew as he looked at her measuringly, if she needed to.

His eyes glanced out of the window. A dusting of snow had begun to fall again from the iron grey sky.

"You're one God-damn brave woman" he said, his voice low. "More than any I've met in a long time...and those kids are going to be damn lucky to have one such as yourself Miss". His eyes flicked back to her and he stood. "No point in trying to head into town until you're a bit mended. And I reckon we'd better make sure you know how to shoot..." he grinned. "Even better than you can already".

He gestured to the outside. "Over the winter I've been making a sheep-dip. A great old boiler tank I inherited from a mine company gone bust. Huge metal tank, big enough for two or three sheep to stand in, filled with water. Haven't used it yet, for the sheep I mean, because I'll only need it come the spring for shearing. But I've been heating it all morning because....welll....."

Troy blushed, in spite of himself, running a hand awkwardly through his messy hair. "Josie I thought you might like a bath. A nice, proper, lady like yourself. Seemed like the least I could do. " He stood, awkward as all hell, a shifted from foot to foot. "I'll...uh...be outside stoking the fire. Its all easy to get in, with wooden steps up the sides. Like one of those hot springs people bathe in Oregon and such."

Internally cursing his awkwardness, he bobbed his head and stepped outside to escape his own blushes.

Sherman raised his head from her lap, looked at her, and lazily rolled his eyes. As if to say, "that guy, right?" before rolling off of her onto his back to continue snoring.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Josie couldn't hide the little wince as she saw Hammond's hand reaching for her. But there was no violence in his movement, no demand, and when she felt his rough palm on the back of her slim white hand there was a warmth in it she didn't know she had been aching for. Her shoulders relaxed a little, and against despite the familiarity of the gesture she allowed it. Little improprieties like that were almost laughable to her now after what she'd suffered at the hands of the gang. What was a friendly touch after being passed around between a dozen drunken, stinking bodies as though she were a mere object, to be used and toyed with as they pleased? It would be a miracle if any other man ever even looked at her again, let alone hired her if word ever got out about her ordeal.

Without realizing, both of Josephine's hands had begun to shake slightly as the memories began to flow unbidden through her mind. Don't think about it. Don't speak about it. Pretend it never happened. If she could convince herself, perhaps she could convince the rest of the town, and maintain her image as the prim, proper schoolmarm from the east. Uncle Jericho wouldn't have said anything about George and Helen after all; he couldn't have known about it unless Grandmother had decided to tell him for whatever reason, and that seemed unlikely. As far as he knew his niece was still a virgin even at age twenty-five, and Josie would be damned if he or anyone else believed otherwise.

Unfortunately from the look in Mr. Hammond's eyes, it seemed there was at least one person who would be doubtful of that fact. And really, how could he believe otherwise? He had found her firsthand, and after what he must have seen in Georgia she couldn't have been the first woman he found in such a state. The one relief was that there was only sympathy in his eyes, without the smallest hint of judgment, and from his words he clearly had no intention of derailing her career in the town.

Josephine let out a sigh, not even realizing she'd been holding her breath ever since he'd first touched her. "You're a good man, Mr. Hammond. I don't know how I will ever be able to repay your kindness. My money and valuables were all taken of course, but perhaps once I get settled in town..." Ah, but he was right; it would probably be a while before she could even manage that much. But maybe her uncle could be of help? After all, an elected official like a sheriff had to have some money put away, didn't he?

"I don't suppose there's any way I could get a message to the sheriff?" she asked hopefully. "I've never met my uncle, but from what I've heard he's a kind enough man--" Even if Grandmother had warned her about his fondness for drink. "--And I'm sure he'd be able to see you were fairly compensated for all your efforts. I know you must have your work to tend to, and I wouldn't fault you at all for hesitating to leave a stranger alone in your home, but if you have any neighbors, perhaps they might help send word?"

Regardless of whether or not Mr. Hammond's neighbors would be inclined to carry a message for her, Josephine's attention was immediately seized at the idea of taking a bath. She'd been longing for one well before she'd ever encountered the Elman Luck gang, and the idea of scrubbing all traces of that refuse from her body was more than enough to overcome any hesitations she might still have. "Oh Mr. Hammond, that sounds absolutely delightful! You truly are an angel."

And a handsome one at that, she privately admitted as she watched his complexion darkening prior to his swift flight from the room. In another life, in another place, he might have been the sort of man she enjoyed flirting and teasing, despite his rather uncouth manners, but right now all of her efforts were concentrated on climbing out of the bed. Her bare legs were unsteady and achy, and she couldn't help but groan a little in her efforts to undress. After a few minutes she finally managed to strip out of the nightshirt and wrap herself in a heavy woolen blanket from the bed, although Sherman seemed slightly put-out at having it pulled from under him.

Hobbling outside, the chill air hit her like a slap in the face, but at the same time it sparked new energy in her limbs. There was no missing the 'sheep dip' as Mr. Hammond had so quaintly called it, Josephine could feel the heat of the fire burning underneath even from here. Her host's back was turned to her, but she could still see a certain pinkness around his ears as she moved behind him, ascending the makeshift step with wobbly legs and letting the blanket drop to the ground just before she stepped in. For one brief moment, the woman resembled a ghost hovering above the steamy water, her white skin covered in ugly purple bruises and a half-healed scar on the side of one of her full, high breasts. Then she slipped beneath the surface, concealing herself all the way up to the neck while her hair floated around her like golden seaweed.

"Oh my..." she murmured, immediately feeling the heat sapping the pain from her limbs as the dust and grime began to free itself from her skin. She ducked her head under for a moment, running her fingers through her thick wet hair and scratching free a small patch of dried blood that must have come when one of the gang had hit her with his pistol. When she came up again she caught sight of a small brush perched on the edge of the tub that would help in scrubbing away the filth, but the steam seemed to conceal one other crucial element of any proper bath.

"Um...Mr. Hammond?" Josephine began slowly, fixing her eyes on the broad back that was still turned firmly away from her. "I can't seem to find the soap. Would you mind pointing it out to me?"

 

[Reydan]

He stayed resolutely turned as he heard her leave the house. Pondering her request. He'd nodded in response to her question about getting a message to her Uncle in town. Now his gaze scanned the countryside of the valley laid out before him. Probably the best option would be to ride to the Shannon place and see if one of the boys there was heading into town and could take a message. But he didn't love the idea of leaving her here to do that. Maybe in the morning she'd be well enough to ride with him over the low hills to the farmstead. Perhaps a venture out would do her good...and knowing where the little schoolteacher was, and that she was within the protective arc of his gun range, would do him good.

He pondered over that for a moment. Josie didn't seem like the sort of woman who would need protecting normally. He had a sudden vision of her ruling the roost in her school, beloved of her children but also very poised and in control. The thought tugged a smile from the corners of his lips. Fiery, he imagined her friends saying about her. Fiesty. Know's her own mind...

...but the Elman Luck gang was not one to be triffled with. He knew better than her that they would not have just assumed she had perished on the mountainside after her escape. Brandon Elman was not the sort of person who took chances, despite how mad the gang seemed. The madness was his brother Eamon, after all. The scheming was all Brandon's. No, best that Josie was not alone until she could be delivered to town in safety. And he was damn sure the young woman would be riding with a pistol strapped to her thigh even if he had to tie it there himself.

The thought of tying leather straps around the softness of Josie's thigh was disrupted by the sounds of her emerging from the house. He could hear each soft little step on the ground before her climbed the wooden steps and sank into the water with a contented sigh. He felt his ears burn as he silently chastised himself for listening to her noises of relief and release. There was something almost voyeuristic about it.

"Goddamn it" he muttered under his breath. The effect women had on a man. He reached down instinctively, to scratch Sherman's ears, only to find the dog gone. The effect they had on dogs too, he thought with a wry chuckle.

But then he heard her voice. Her request. And the blush became a near sun-burn of red. He turned, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Its...uhhh...behind you Miss Wall" he said, stumbling over even those few easy words. He stepped closer, unable to ignore her shining face bobbing above the water level. Standing on the sides of the firepit he leaned up and over, his torso stretching out over the top of the steaming water of the pool, to reach for the missing soap. They were close, so close, their faces inches apart. And, he thought, one false slip of the feet and he'd end up in the warm water with her.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

He was trying so hard not to offend her; even through the heavy steam Josie could see that. What sort of a life had Troy Hammond led, where he seemed so awkward around a woman yet seemed to know exactly (or almost exactly) where the lines of decency lie? She wanted to tell him not to bother, that half a dozen men had already seen her naked and worse, so what was one more? But if she spoke of the incident so casually, would he really believe she'd hated it, or that she had done nothing to deserve it? Josephine had seen how prostitutes had been treated in the dark dirty alleys of Baltimore and Dover, and no one had ever seemed too keen to offer them fresh clothes or a hot bath. They had made their own beds, they could lie in them. Was Josephine Wall really so much better than those soiled doves?

Well, for the moment Mr. Hammond seemed to think so, and Josephine decided it was in her best interest not to try and influence his judgment otherwise. Once she was well enough to make her way into town, she probably wouldn't see much of him anyway, so why not let him believe she really was a proper lady? He didn't have any children she'd have to teach after all, and he'd made it quite clear already that his work on the farm tended to keep him there. A foolish voice inside her even said that he would probably forget all about her after she was gone, but when he moved closer to hand her the soap, the look on his face told Josie that was impossible.

Her breath caught in her throat as she caught a whiff of his scent as he leaned over her; the smell of coffee and straw, and clothes kept in a cedar chest, with just a hint of that indescribably masculine musk that all working men seemed to have and which their rich city brethren tried to mimic with expensive colognes and hair oils. The smell seemed to wake some sleeping beast in Josephine's chest, a creature that she had thought dead for months now ever since she'd left Delaware. But even as it stretched and growled warmly in response to the handsome man's presence, the other defensive instincts inside her that had only grown colder and sharper over the last few weeks immediately turned against the spark of attraction, dousing it in frigid memories of the Elman brothers' sour whiskey mouths on her skin, and John Luck laughing hideously as he slid the barrel of his gun inside her...

With a sudden violent splash Josephine plunged beneath the water again, her surprisingly powerful legs kicking against the metal edge of the tub and propelling her backward. She couldn't go far of course, and after only a second or two her head collided with the other side of the sheep dip and cry out in pain underwater. When she broke through the surface again, it was with water spilling out over her lips as she rubbed violently at the back of her skull. "Son of a bitch," she hissed under her breath, immediately regretting both the curse and the escape attempt when she caught Troy's gaze again, and whatever embarrassment she'd felt for herself immediately evaporated into giggles.

Whether she'd kicked the side of the tub so hard that Troy had lost his balance or he'd simply been startled by the sudden splash she couldn't say, but either way the poor man had ended up in the tub with her, still fully dressed. His hair was plastered over his forehead and despite the warmth of the water he still looked so abashed it was as if he'd plunged through a frozen lake.

"Oh my goodness Mr. Hammond, I'm so sorry!" she immediately apologized, shifting as though to stand and help him to his feet when it suddenly occurred to the young woman she was still stark naked. Freezing in place, she blushed again before immediately submerging herself to her chin and crossing her arms over her chest, pulling her legs in closer to avoid touching him. For a moment she thought one of her calves brushed against his forearm, but the touch was so brief it was easy to believe she'd been mistaken, especially as she turned her gaze away.

"I think you'd better go inside and change out of those wet clothes immediately," Josephine suggested, fixing her gaze on a set of rolling hills far to the south. "I'll be all right on my own, but you'll catch a chill if you stay out here." There was an insistent edge to her concern, and as her gray eyes glanced back towards him there was a flintiness about them that warned against lingering in the tub with her.

 

[Reydan]

God knows why, but she kicked. He saw it happen, as if in slow motion - those slender, delicate, feminine legs hit the side with surprising strength, her body shooting backwards, the tub shuddering, his waist pivoting....

....and suddenly he was head first in the steaming pool. For a moment it was all arms and bubbles and splashes and yelps. He thought he felt a brush of her skin against his, just for a moment, like how a fish would slip, gracefully, through his childish fingers as he and his brothers tried to yank them out of the streams of their Maine home. They had always seemed so impossibly lithe and fleeting to the touch in those brief moments. Just as the slight touch of her legs against him before he righted himself.

He came up red-faced from the embarrassment and the steam both, coughing and spluttering, to be greeted by a giggling woman nursing a bruised head. "I'm...gl...glad someone...f...found this...*cough*...funny" he said wryly, unable to keep a straight face. It was just all so ridiculous. This whole thing. He wasn't entirely sure, sitting there in sodden clothes across the makeshift bath from the young woman, that this wasn't all a dream. That he wouldn't wake up in the morning and find himself alone with just that lazy hound for company.

Then, in the same moment, they both realised she was naked and exposed. He caught the briefest glimpse of those full, high, pert breasts before they vanished beneath the churning water and her face turned away. Suddenly cold, her voice level.

He was about to speak, about to acquiesce to her understandable need for privacy, when he heard the thud of feet. He spun his head, hair spraying water everywhere as he did, and his eyes went wide. "No, Missy, you're coming out with me" he said and, with a grunting heave, grabbed her under her knees and around her shoulders and bodily lifted her up out of the water. A great cascade of soapy, churning, water slooshed off the pair of them as they rose like creatures from the deep ocean...just in time.

Even as her resistance registered with Troy, her outrage at being so manhandled again by a man, the sheep thundered into view. They stood, stupid, he holding her, as the lead ram bounced up the wooden steps and....jumped....heavily....into the water with an almighty splash. Within thirty seconds another three sheep had joined him, whilst the others butted and milled about impatiently.

"I think it might have gotten too crowded in there" he said. Looking down at her face he smiled apologetically. "Let me just....". The blanket she had come out in was handed to her, even as he cradled her smaller form, not wanting to drop her feet in the icy slush of the path. His feet crunched, the wind already cutting at his sodden clothes and wet skin, as he hurried her into the house, kicking the door shut, and depositing her carefully on her feet before the blazing range.

Standing back, he immediately turned on his heel, still dripping wet, to face the door and give Josie privacy. God knows what she must think of him now, he thought....

....his eyes wandered. Just for a moment. Climbing up, to where, beside the door, a portrait hung. A photograph, frame in a simple wood, and with the familiar thick black ribbon cutting across the bottom right corner. Mary-Beth smiled at him, her teeth edging her bottom lip, from the frame and he closed his eyes. Unable to face her.

Still, it was a moment of calm. A moment for his female guest to decide whether she wanted to run screaming or brain him with a skillet for his actions.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Even without looking at him, Josephine could feel the humor of the situation freezing over into a veiled threat.

How could any man resist you when you're that close to him? George had whispered the question to her in happier times, a world away in the sheltered alcoves of Baltimore mansions. The men in the cave had said something similar, albeit with far less gentleness and adoration than the senator had. Josie shut her eyes. She'd sworn to herself she would never compare what she had shared with George with the incidents of the past couple of weeks, but as both faded farther into her past they seemed to bleed together into her memory. The adoration, the violence, the sinful pleasure, the dehumanizing humiliation that somehow felt like a punishment for that ultimate betrayal of the person she had loved best in the world...

But the punishment was supposed to be over now. Josephine had been so sure of that after she'd escaped the cave. Now with Mr. Hammond dangerously close to her, and that forceful tone in his voice, fresh alarm was blooming inside her and how was she to fight back? She was naked and cold, and he must have been twice her size with those labor-sculpted muscles that could easily snap her neck as delicately as he might pick a flower. A weapon, she needed a weapon, but the only thing she could see was the damn soap brush.

Her lips curled into an animalistic snarl as she reached for it with one hand and tried to escape his grasp, but even despite the slipperiness of her skin Hammond still easily took hold of her. You're coming with me. The same words Brandon Elman had sneered at her before knocking her out with the butt of his pistol and draping her over his horse like she was just one more treasure to be carted off.

"I will NOT!" Josephine shrieked, smacking the brush on the side of Hammond's head. Other than giving him a rather unpleasant scouring on the side of the face and smearing dirt into his already sopping hair, the weapon did little damage, but the woman was far from defeated. Her hands balled into fists and began to hammer against his chest, his neck, his jaw--whatever she could reach. "Get your hands off me you goddamned dirty son of a bitch! I'll fucking kill you for this. I shot one of those bastards back in the cave, you think I wouldn't do the same to you? PUT ME DOWN!"

Her mouth was open, and her small white teeth were ready to go for his neck if that was the only way to get him to drop her. It was only when she felt something woolly brush against her leg that she looked down and saw the stampede heading for the water. A moment later, fresh warmth settled on her as Mr. Hammond draped the blanket over her shoulders, and before she realized what had happened she was standing entirely on her own again before the fire in his cabin, her host a respectful distance away with his eyes averted.

Dear Lord, Jo, you've gone and done it now, haven't you? A voice inside her scolded as heat and realization suffused her body. He hadn't meant anything by it after all, he was just trying to keep her from meeting a rather indignant end at the hooves of a few idiotic sheep. And she had gone and cursed him out like the filthiest California prospector in the saloon. So much for being a respectable schoolmarm.

For a few moments, she couldn't find any words to say. She did, however, find a fresh set of clothes folded neatly on the cedar chest near the wall, and assuming they were for her benefit she dressed quickly. The trousers were much too long on her and rather tight around the hip, and both the under and overshirt were laughably oversized on her trim torso. There was no comb or hairbrush in sight, but with a bit of effort she managed to finger-comb her thick mane of hair and plait it into a loose braid, secured with a spare bit of string that had been forgotten on the mantle. Once she was fully dressed, right down to a pair of thick wool socks, Josephine finally turned back to face her host.

"I'm sorry," she said meekly. "I didn't mean to speak such horrible things to you. It was--I mean, I was--" She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to master herself with the dwindling supply of grace inside. "I was startled. It's no excuse I know, not for a lady of good breeding. I do have good breeding, you know. My grandfather was a senator for the state of Maryland, and my father is a minister. If either of them heard me speak that way, well," Josephine forced a weak chuckle out from between her lips. "I'm not sure what would hurt more, my postérieure from Grandfather's cane, or my knees from all the praying Daddy would have made me do."

Josephine paused a moment, wondering if a further defense was needed. "I...those men back in the cave. The Elman Luck Gang," she said finally, dropping her gaze to the floor. "They hurt me. Badly. You have been very kind to me so far, Mr. Hammond, but you must understand you are still quite a stranger to me. I thought perhaps you may be of a similar temperament as theirs. I know now you are not," she added quickly, raising her head and taking a step closer to him. "Please say you forgive me, Mr. Hammond. I am sorely in need of friends in this desolate country, and I should like to count you among them."

 

[Reydan]

He smarted, a little, from her angry attack. He'd been lucky, in many ways, that the soap brush hadn't been something sharper, like shears or an edging knife. He had been about to apologize when he heard her step up, behind him, her soft words and uncertain, almost ashamed. Talking about her family....her sense of self...her virtue. Maybe it was reflecting on Mary-Beth that made him react, but suddenly it was as if he'd been poured full of white hot rage.

"Why the hell should you ask me to forgive you woman?" he said, suddenly hot, turning on his heel. "Sounds to me like you've been through hell and back. God woman...BE ANGRY. Lash out. Let it out." He ran a hand through his messy hair, fingers grazing the rough mark from where the soap brush had repeatedly connected with his head. The bristles had let tiny indentations, like needle pricks, in his skin. His eyes met hers. "Don't you dare be thinking this is your fault. That you somehow invited this on yourself. Because let me tell you, woman, I saw enough rapes in my time in the army and in none of them did the woman have anything even approaching a say in it." He hated it the moment he said it - the rape word. The thought that had been an unspoken assumption between the two of them was now out there. He hated it. But it needed to be spoken. Lest it burrow into her like a bullet and poison her from within.

"You've been burned. Badly. Woman - I'd be amazed....dissappointed even...if you weren't mad as hell." He'd never spoken to a woman like this before, never. But the thought of Mary-Beth, and now the bruised, scarred, broken young woman standing before him. He felt angry - angry on her behalf. "Woman, you should beat me to Rhode Island and back if it makes you feel any better" he said, gesticulating crossly, his anger making his movements frantic. Troy was aware there was less than a pace or two between him and the young woman in baggy male clothes with...he paused...

His eyes lingered on the way she had spun her hair into a long braid, hanging down one shoulder. In his mind he could see those delicate fingers twisting the hair, that skilful art so beyond men and so innate to women, and could almost picture her at a dressing table, in just a chemise or nightgo...

He brushed the image away. She didn't need that. Josie didn't need that.

"What I am going to do is take you over to the Macmillan place in the morning. Their eldest has a pony he can ride into town on, get a message to your Uncle. But you aren't making that journey until you're healed up." His eyes met hers, calmer, but still blazing. "No budging on that one Josie. You don't ride until I know you can stay in the saddle all the way".

His eyes flicked up to the guns on the wall above the grate. "And you're learning to shoot. Definitely will keep you safe. Might do you good to put some holes in bottles and trees and pretend they're something else..." he added, with a wry, sad, smile.

He shifted, awkwardly. She was so close. Soft smells of soap and of the lavender that lined the clothes chest in which her garments had been stored for months, filled his senses. His eyes were full of her large, dove-grey, ones. Troy's heart hammered a little in his chest.

"What do you need, Josie?" the words just slipped out, hanging laden in the air between them as they looked at each other. "Let me help..."

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Josephine was taken aback by Mr. Hammond's almost violent insistance of her innocence. A rebuttal was already on her tongue--that of course there was no excuse for any woman of quality to behave in such a way, regardless of what she had suffered--but as he spoke the ugly truth of what had happened to her the words drained away, along with the color on her face. Swallowing hard, she sank down into a wooden chair beside the fire, letting her eyes fix on the flames. Don't you dare be thinking this is your fault. That you somehow invited this on yourself. Ah, but Mr. Hammond didn't know what had happened back east. The Lord sees all, and He punishes all sinners in their time. Josephine Wall had sinned indeed, and the Lord had punished her for it.

But then why this rage still in her heart? Josie was mad still, even if she tried her hardest to hide it. If what had happened in the cave really was just punishment for what she had done to Helen, she should have felt some kind of peace that justice had been done. But she'd been so quick to lash out, even at poor Mr. Hammond who had shown her nothing but kindness and received profanity as thanks. Maybe she just needed to pray harder.

Ah, but there would be time for that later. Turning back to Mr. Hammond, she offered him a small smile. "Are you quite sure you've never been acquainted with Charlie Wall of Dover, Delaware? Because you sounded very much like him just now, Mr. Hammond." Josie sighed, then rose to her feet again. "Beating you would not give me any kind of pleasure, I'm afraid, although I appreciate the sentiment behind the offer. And while I hate to be a burden to you, I must agree that it may be a few days until I feel ready to make the trip into town." She paused a little, one hand gripping the tail end of her braid and beginning to play with it awkwardly.

"Again, I hate to inconvenience you, but if you could arrange an escort for me I would feel much safer. It doesn't have to be you; I know you must be a very busy man, running this place all by yourself. But if you could convince this Macmillan friend of yours to accompany me when I go I would greatly appreciate it. I can ride well enough--my grandparents raised horses in Maryland--but, well, you can imagine why I would not care to be alone on the road." A naughty gleam sparked in one of Josie's gray eyes for a moment. "And as for shooting, I will gladly defer to your tutelage. Before the other day I had never touched a gun in my life, which shows just how lucky I really am to be here."

She was trying to keep the tone light, but it was clashing with the intense look in Mr. Hammond's dark eyes. "What do you need, Josie?"

That was a very good question, one she wasn't quite sure she could even answer herself at this point. However, one idea in particular bubbled to the top of her mind. "I need..." Josie paused, then let out a sigh. "I need you to keep the truth of our meeting to yourself, for now." Reaching forward, the young woman clasped one of Mr. Hammond's rough hands between her two smaller ones. "You cannot imagine what your sympathies mean to me, Mr. Hammond, but I am not foolish enough to think everyone shall be as open-minded to my plight as you are. If I lose my position as schoolteacher here, I will be utterly ruined. I have no money, no friends besides my uncle and yourself, and I cannot go back to where I came from." At least, not until the society whispers had shifted on to some new scandal. "Therefore when you go to see Macmillan, I would ask that you tell him only this: that a hapless young woman stumbled onto your property after being robbed and you are helping her reach her uncle, but the story must not go farther back than that. Let others ask me about it directly if they're so desperate to know."

Turning up her head, a momentary cast of aristocracy shone across her profile as she released his hand, but then her shoulders relaxed into the face of the young schoolmarm again. "That is all I need from you, Mr. Hammond. However, I would like to know if there is any way I might repay you for you kindness in the meantime; if there is any sewing or cooking you might need done, for example. I'm quite proficient in both." Sitting back in the chair, she crossed her ankles daintily and folded her hands in her lap, an attitude that looked quite ridiculous considering she was dressed in a man's oversided shirt and trousers. "Or if you can think of nothing, perhaps you might tell me something of yourself and how you came to this place. You seem to manage it very well for being all on your own."

She obviously had not noticed the photograph of the woman by the door.

 

[Reydan]

It was three days before he acquiesed to letting her ride. Troy knew, despite what he tried, there was no rowing back from that promise to take her over to the Macmillan place no matter how much he might be worried. He told himself, in those sleepless moments on the battered couch, that it was normal. That he would worry about any young woman - indeed, any harmed person that stumbled into his care - the same way. But by the fifth day of her stay, when they finally sadled up the horses and he saw her practically skip for joy across the front porch at the idea of finally getting moving, that it was more than that.

Perhaps for the best, he had thought, that this trip to the Macmillan Farm was the first step on her moving on with her life and of him returning to his solitude. Josie had a whole life ahead of her, only cruelly interrupted by events. Troy, in contrast, had chosen this life. This solitude from others.

"I am sorry to hear about your robbery..." Mrs Anne Macmillan said, her broad face broken in a sympathetic smile as she tidied away the dinner things. It had been a stew so warming and thick that it seemed to coat your ribs from the inside, warding off the cold that blanketed the rocky valley and was already beginning to wrap the homestead in ice as the winter twilight set in around them. The lady of the house was in her late forties, a plump, warm, matronly figure who was clearly the beating heart of her family. Her lanky, grizzled, frontiersman of a husband, her three teenaged sons, and the small, vivacious, eight year old Marta who currently sat by the fire teasing a kitten with a piece of yarn. THe youngster was thrilled with being the first pupil from the town to meet their new teacher, and had practically bombarded Josephine with questions during dinner, keen to get the edge on her school fellows when class resumed after Christmas.

True to his promise Troy had told them not a penny-worth more than she had asked him to. The Macmillans had welcomed the young woman into their warm family embrace and now, as the menfolk fixed a fence outside of the window, Anne expressed her concern.

"He seems real worried about you" she said, nodding to the rifle Troy had propped against the treestump. "Not seen him so edgy in the four years I've known him be on that remote little farm". The Macmillan place, roughly half-way between Troy's house and the town, lay nestled into the valley side, and as she spoke a fresh wind roared down the rocky valley and shook the wooden homestead. "I think sometimes we're the only people he has - he's always here when we need something. To put up a new barn, or break-in a new horse, or help out when Pa broke his hand last summer. Never takes a dime of payment. Never seen him so worried or so talkative though. Most of the time he seems like he's hiding on the side of that mountain from...something".

The older woman glanced at the younger. "Don't know what you've done to draw him out of his shell, but he seems worried about something happening to you now"....she let the question hang in the air, glancing back out of the window.

"Guess we'll know a bit more about what's happening when Carl returns" she said. Her youngest had gone into town earlier that day, to trade for seed but also to gather some news for Troy and Josie. "He should be back soon" she said.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

The three days that followed Josephine's return to consciousness showed marked improvement in her condition, no doubt to the alarm of her host. The very morning after she'd awoken Josie was already badgering him about doing a bit of mending to repay him for the kindness he'd shown thus far. "I'll stay right in the bed, I promise," she'd pleaded. "Just please, Mr. Hammond, I must have something to do. You can hardly expect me to sit here and stare at the wall for the next week." By the second day, she had graduated to sweeping the floors, though she had to lean rather heavily on the broom at times, but on the third she'd found the strength to step outside all on her own and stride right up to the rancher, insisting she be allowed to attempt a saddle. Alas, those first few tries ended up with the poor schoolmarm landing time after time on her bottom in the dirt as she felt the strength in her arms give out, but she was unperturbed. Finally on the fifth day, Mr. Hammond gave his permission to attempt the ride over to the MacMillan's, though Josie suspected it was more due to exasperation at her foolhardiness than anything else.

Poor fellow. He's been such a gentleman through all of this, Josephine thought as he walked beside the horse that morning. Never a harsh word or an indecent look from those gentle brown eyes of his, and he'd been so careful to allow her plenty of privacy, maintaining the borders of decency regardless of his own discomfort. More than once over the past few nights the woman had looked pityingly at his tall form hunched over the crude sofa before the dying fire with only a thin blanket to cover him. If she had been more pragmatic and less desperate to cling to those last shredded remnants of propriety, Josie might have even told him to climb in the bed beside her; after all it was certainly big enough, and he needed a good night's rest if he wanted to get his work done the next day. But she'd never found the courage to make the offer.

I must find a way to repay him, somehow she determined, and sitting up straighter in the saddle she looked past Mr. Hammond's head to the quaint little MacMillan farmstead up ahead.

The family seemed of a good-natured peasant sort, not very well educated, but every bit as kind as Mr. Hammond had been, if not more. Mrs. MacMillan even clucked maternally over the young woman and insisted she come inside and take a few pieces of cast-off clothing, years too big for little Marta yet. "You've been through quite the ordeal, Miss Wall, I'll not fault you that. But you must have a proper skirt, 'less you want to be taken for one of those longhaired farmhands out at the Winchester place," the woman wrinkled her nose in distaste at the Winchesters as she shoved a neatly folded length of red fabric into the bewildered schoolteacher's arms. It was too big around the hips by twice at least, but thankfully Mrs. MacMillan's domestic masteries included those of the pin and shears, and when Josephine stepped out to rejoin the rest of the party it was as if the outfit had been made for her. "Remind me to dig you out a spare petticoat or two as well," the farmwife replied as she returned to the dinner preparations. "It gets chilly at nights yet. Oh, and I have a very pretty calico I outgrew years ago. Four children, you know," she added with a chuckle as she patted her stomach and stirred the gravy simultaneously.

The rest of the day was spent in small talk with the family, Mrs. MacMillan primarily, though Josephine did exchange some pleasantries with each of the children as she surreptitiously tried to gauge what education any of them might have had. The oldest two were barely literate, to the schoolmarm's dismay, but the youngest boy had an interest in books, and a shockingly good head for figures. And Josie had no doubt that given enough time, little Marta would easily catch or even pass him, so eager was she to learn and attend a real school.

But when young Carl returned with news from town, the joyful optimism that had been rising in Josephine's heart all day slowly began to turn.

"Did you speak with the sheriff? Mr. Harding?" she asked the young man eagerly after he'd gotten some food in him.

The boy looked hesitantly at her, and didn't answer at first. When he finally did, his voice was soft, and his words came slowly. "Well ma'am...yes, and no."

"Yes and no?" Josephine felt irritation nibbling at her stomach, but just as she had been taught in her training courses, she forced it back and offered Carl a gentle smile. "I'm afraid you'll need to give me a bit more than that, my boy. I don't quite catch your meaning."

Carl took another biscuit from the basket in the middle of the table, but rather than eat it he began to slowly pick it apart with his broken fingernails. "I spoke to the sheriff ma'am. Only it wasn't Mr. Harding. It was Mr. Tillman."

"Tillman? Not Sly Tillman?" Mr. MacMillan spoke up, narrowing his eyes at his son nodded fervently. "Since when is that fat sonofa--" A pointed look from his wife silenced the rest of the descriptor, and muttering to himself the farmer raised his tin cup to his drooping mustache before speaking again. "When did he become sheriff?"

"Well, since Mr. Harding disappeared back in January. Mr. Tillman is acting sheriff for now, but he expects there'll be an election next month to make it formal-like."

"January?" Josephine gasped. "But that's impossible. He wrote to me at the end of December to assure me the teaching position was mine. You mean to tell me he's been gone this entire time?" Again, Carl's hair flopped over his eyes with his aggressive nodding. "And no one thought to send word to his family back east?" Josie pressed further.

Carl shrunk back, a bit intimidated by the sharp edge in the teacher's voice and the steely glint in her gray eyes. "Begging your pardon ma'am, but no one knew he had a family back east."

"Not even his niece? I believe the local authorities did appoint her schoolmistress, after all" she added drily. Raising her hands to rub her temples, she tried to recall the content of Uncle Jerry's last letter. It had been short; he never had been a verbose man. But he had assured her the school would be hers, and it would be ready by March. The Mayor had promised.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Josephine looked back at Carl. "Did Mr. Harding say where he was going before he left? Did he leave any message for me?"

"Well, from what I heard over at the hotel--"

"And what, Carl MacMillan, were you doing at the hotel?" his mother cut in sharply. If the lad had been frightened by the look in the teacher's eyes, he was absolutely cowed by the expression on Anne's face.

"I only went to ask more about what happened to Sheriff Harding! I was only there a minute, Ma, honestly! And I only talked to Mr. Bowers, none of the girls." His words hardly seemed to convince Mrs. MacMillan, but she said nothing else about the matter (not while Josie and Mr. Hammond were there, at least). "Anyway, he said Mr. Harding disappeared in the night, after having a bit of luck at the card tables. He...gosh, I'm sorry ma'am, but Mr. Bowers said he thinks Sheriff Harding might be dead."

Silence. It was not so much that Josephine mourned her uncle; after all they'd never formally met in person, and all the stories she'd heard about him growing up were hardly flattering. But he was at least one tie to her old life in this desolate place, no matter how fragile it had been. And now he was gone, and where did that leave her?

After a few moments, she took a deep breath and straightened up in her chair. "What about the school? Has it been given to another teacher then?"

To her surprise, Carl shook his head. "No ma'am. But there is no school, not yet. It's been delayed to the autumn."

"WHAT?"

She hadn't meant to scream, but this last shock was too much to keep her decorum intact. "What do you mean it's been delayed? I was told it would be completed on the first of March! That's the whole reason I came out here in the first place!" If she had known it wouldn't be ready until the fall, if she had only waited, then maybe none of this would have ever happened. The Elman Luck Gang could have been a thousand miles away, or at the very least someone might have told her that Jerry Harding was no longer living in Whiskey Springs.

"Th-there was a fire! At the hotel!" Carl stammered, pushing back away from the table as though she might have struck him. "There wasn't any lumber in town, so the Mayor approved using the materials for the school to get the hotel fixed up. He's expecting more money to come from Boise in the fall to start over then." He paused a moment to see if the schoolmarm had any more outbursts, but she seemed too dumbfounded by this explanation to speak further. "Um...he said you were welcome to visit him in town to discuss the matter, if you want."

"I...I suppose I shall have to," Josephine answered finally. Her uncle was gone, possibly dead. There was no school. She had no money, no property, not even her own set of clothes. What in the world was to become of her?

"Mr. Hammond?" she asked, looking over towards her host. "I...I'm feeling a bit unwell. Do you mind if we return to your house? I don't want to trouble Mrs. MacMillan."

The plump matriarch immediately raised her hand, sure that she must have had the right tonic or serum somewhere to ease the woman's suffering, but her husband, who had always had the better read of people, cut her off. "Hush, Annie. Let her alone," he muttered to his wife with a nod as she drifted aimlessly to Troy's side.

"Thank you for a very nice evening," she murmured in a hollow voice. "We must do this again sometime."

"Yes we must," Mrs. MacMillan replied gently, pressing another bundle of clothing into Josephine's dragging arms. "You come by any old time you like, all right? That goes for both of you," she added with a pointed look at Troy.