She Returns From War (5 page)

"I understand," Victoria said. "It's precisely her dealings in those dark matters that caused me to seek her out. I need her help, you see."

The white eyebrows twitched. "Oh?" Victoria nodded and looked down, unsure if she should elaborate. Father Baez gently touched her hand. "You don't need to worry about telling me, child. We priests are used to keeping secrets," he said, eyes twinkling.

Victoria smiled. Her tale was outlandish, she knew, but if this priest really did know this Cora Oglesby, perhaps he wouldn't be a stranger to outlandish tales. She recounted her encounter with the black shucks on the road, the death of her parents, and her meeting with James Townsend. A tremor crept into her voice as she spoke. She'd only told the story in its entirety once before, and hearing herself say it aloud again drove the reality and horror of it that much closer to her heart.

When she finished, Father Baez nodded, stroking his beard with one age-spotted hand. Victoria watched him, keeping her hands still with no small effort. "Well," he said at length, "it does certainly sound like Cora's kind of job."

Victoria's breath left her lungs in a rush. "So you'll help me, then?"

He nodded. "I'll tell you what I know, but I'm afraid I haven't heard from her in a good while. Nearly four years, I think."

"Any information at all would be wonderful," she said, her eyes alight.

"Cora can be a difficult woman to find," Father Baez said, "so remember that as you search for her. When I knew her, she was never content to stay in one place for long, but certain events may have calmed her spirit a little."

"What events?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that," he replied. "A shepherd must keep the secrets of his sheep." When she nodded, he continued. "Before she left Denver, Cora told me that she planned to use her most recent bounty prize to open a printer's shop."

Victoria was dumbfounded. "A print shop? What would a woman like her want with a print shop?"

"Maybe age has slowed her down like it has me," Father Baez said. "You should count yourself lucky if it has."

"Why? Is she dangerous?"

"The Cora I remember could shoot the ears off a squirrel from fifty feet away, but she never turned her guns on anyone without reason as far as I know. She may be wild, but she's not a murderer or a train robber. Still," he added, looking at her with the same twinkle in his eye, "I wouldn't suggest making her angry."

The earth shimmered beneath the desert sun, submerging the horizon in pulsing, hazy waves. Victoria smiled to herself as she watched the miles roll by outside the window. She had come prepared to face the legendary heat of the American West. Reaching down beneath her seat, she patted her parasol with a gloved hand, reassuring herself that it was ready for her. One could never be too cautious when entering such extreme climates, after all.

Much like the mountains of Denver, the vast emptiness of the desert was alien to her eyes. Minute upon minute, hour upon hour, the trained sped across the sun-baked land, and still it did not end. She had been surprised to see anything at all growing out of the ground here, yet plant life carpeted much of the surrounding land. True, the shrubs seemed barely able to cling to life, their leaves a mottled yellow-brown or missing altogether, but still they persisted. Friendly cacti reared their heads above the scrub brush to wave at her with one or two arms as they kept watch over the endless miles.

The door at the front of her passenger car opened, drawing her attention from the window. A man in a dark blue uniform and matching hat stepped through the doorway.

"Next stop, Albuquerque. Albuquerque, next stop," he announced. "Tickets will be checked at the station for those continuing on to San Francisco." Task complete, he marched down the aisle toward the next car.

Victoria stretched her arms skyward and groaned. She wasn't used to this much travel at one time, and her muscles ached from the uncomfortable seats. Around her, the other passengers stirred themselves out of the stupor that had blanketed them for the last two hundred miles. Hushed conversations sprang up like whispers of wind in withered branches, murmuring about luggage and next steps. Victoria pulled her own small valise out from beneath her seat, wrapping her fingers around the handle of her parasol. When she disembarked, the luggage boys would help her carry the larger trunks to a nearby hotel.

Her fingers trembled with anticipation. She had very nearly reached the end of her westward journey. Father Baez's advice led her south, to the wilderness of Santa Fe. When she arrived, the priest there, a Father Perez, had told her to board a train for Albuquerque as soon as he heard her say the name Cora Oglesby. The huntress had set off for the frontier town not long after arriving in Santa Fe four years before, and Father Perez seemed certain that she was still there.

The car trembled as the train pulled into the Albuquerque station. Through the windows, she could hear the shrill voice of the train's whistle crying out that they had arrived. Conversations in the car grew louder as the passengers began moving toward the exit. A few remained in their seats, staring out the windows or watching the others shuffle past. Victoria waited for the gaggle to pass before standing. Valise in hand, she made for the door, eyes fixed on the glowing swath of sunlight spilling through it.

A blast of hot air greeted her as she stepped out of the car and onto the station platform. The glare was blinding. She quickly unfolded her parasol, blinking as it rose to block out the sun. Groups of passengers stood on the platform, talking among themselves while waiting for their luggage. Next to her, three men in pressed suits discussed the possibilities for expanding their business into this wild, untamed land. Their voices clipped along excitedly as ideas flew between them. She knew the language well enough; it brought back memories of her father and his many meetings. A lump swelled in her throat at the thought. Despite her sorrow, Victoria's lips curled upward in a small smile. Were it not for his ambition, she would not be standing where she was. His fortune had enabled her to cross oceans and continents.

The platform shook beneath her. Luggage boys were unloading the freight car, tossing bags and suitcases out into the sun. Already the crowd of passengers pressed in around the growing pile, searching through it for their belongings. Victoria watched them from beneath her parasol. Once the bustle subsided, she would ask one of the bag boys to help her along to the nearest hotel, promising a smile and a tip for his efforts. As she watched the crowd thin, she wondered idly just what sort of accommodations a town like this had to offer. A glance over the haphazard group of buildings standing nearest the station seemed to promise that they wouldn't be much. No matter. She wouldn't be here long. If all went well, she and the Oglesby woman would be leaving on the next day's train.

The sun drifted lazily toward the western horizon, drawing shades of deep blue and violet into the sky. Drops of sweat stood out on Victoria's forehead as she stood in front of the sand-blasted building. The streets of Albuquerque had not yet relinquished the afternoon heat, and the people wandering them moved like plague sufferers and smelled worse. She had seldom been surrounded by such an overpowering cloud of human stink. Even in the street, the stench of sweat, spit, and animals pressed up against her. It put her on edge; she could almost feel it crawling up her legs and under the neckline of her dress. How any woman, even one as uncouth as Cora Oglesby, could stand living in such a miasma confounded her.

More confusing, however, were the words painted on the sign that hung above the door in front of her. In bold black letters, it proclaimed the name of the establishment: 
Ben's Print Shop.
 Although Victoria had never seen a printing press, she knew right away that this particular building had never set ink to a page. The men passing through the batwing doors couldn't possibly be literate. They peered at the world from beneath wide-brimmed hats, their eyes bleary from sun and liquor. Many wore guns in low-slung holsters that dangled from their belts, the leather cracked and faded. She had never seen so many guns in one place, and that men such as these carried them made her uneasy. What if they decided to turn them on her? As a young girl, she'd heard stories of holdups and shoot-outs in the American West, but she'd only half-believed them. Now, in the presence of men who looked as though they might re-enact such stories at the prompting of a single booze-soaked thought, she suddenly felt very alone. The memory of James Townsend's round, kindly face sprang to her mind's eye, and she fervently wished she had taken his advice and brought along an escort.

No, she told herself. She could handle herself. Cora Oglesby made a home for herself among such men. Surely Victoria could brave them for a day or two.

As if on cue, a scraggly-looking man tumbled through the batwing doors and into the street. Victoria backed up a few paces, startled. Before the man could pull himself together, an empty bottle sailed through the door, shattering on the packed earth only a few feet from his head. A voice from inside cracked like an old whip as it shouted curses at the man. Victoria could only watch as the man picked himself up and shambled off down the street. As he disappeared into the general bustle in the street, a grim satisfaction welled up inside her. Although the voice from the door sounded as old and tough as a rusted iron cog, there was no mistaking that it belonged to a woman.

The other passersby didn't give the commotion a second glance, but Victoria could feel them gawking at her when she turned her back. Worse, she couldn't exactly blame them. Choosing from among her finer traveling dresses to wear in such a rustic place practically begged for unwanted attention. The sight of the blue ruffles and bright white collar must have seemed the height of silliness to those walking about in such drab colors, but she would feel even sillier if she went back to her room to change. Better to see this through before she lost her nerve.

Squaring her shoulders, Victoria stepped up onto the wooden sidewalk and through the batwing doors. Inside, a cloud of blue smoke drifted along the ceiling, constantly fed by the cigars, cigarettes, and pipes of the men gathered around card games. A bar ran the length of the wall to her left. Bottles of liquor gleamed under the light of the kerosene lamps lining the walls. Against the far corner, a man in a bowler hat and suspenders plinked at an upright piano, occasionally stumbling upon something that resembled a melody.

A hush fell over the room as the doors swung shut behind her. Heads turned and chairs scraped along the floor as the men took in the sight of her. Their eyes were cold and probing. She could feel them exploring every inch of her body, lingering on the swells of her hips and chest. Her tongue darted across her lips. "Good day, gentlemen."

"Wrong door, sweetheart," came a voice.

"Brothel's across the way," said another, getting a laugh from the rest.

"If you're taking customers, there's a storeroom in the back."

Victoria's cheeks flushed a deep red. Her eyes dropped to the floorboards.

"Aw, see, you all went and made her color up." The voice was the one she'd heard out in the street. "That ain't no way to treat a lady of the night, now is it?"

Another laugh rolled around the room. Indignation began to boil beneath Victoria's humiliation. It rose inside her until she found the courage to look toward the speaker, blue eyes sparking with anger.

The object of her rage sat at one of the tables, surrounded by four men. Unlike her companions, she hadn't turned her chair to face the young woman when she entered. Her attention was focused on the cards sprouting from her right hand like a greasy bouquet. The woman's other hand held an empty shot glass in a loose fist, her index finger toying with the rim.

The silence in the room showed no sign of ending, so Victoria took a step toward the woman. "I beg your pardon," she said.

"You don't look like you need to beg for anything," the woman replied, turning to face her. Age and sun had folded the skin of her face into itself like sheets on a well-made bed. Her hair was the color of a photograph: black and white and grey. A single streak of white ran from the edge of her hairline into the long braid that ended halfway down her back. Dark eyes glimmered at her as the woman broke into a grin. "I reckon every man here could beg you for a year's pay and you'd still have enough to buy us all a round."

"I am not a prostitute."

The woman snorted. "Sure you ain't. Just because you only spread your legs for one rich feller don't make you any less a bawd. How many times you rut with him afore he bought you that fancy dress?"

Victoria's blue eyes narrowed, her cheeks fading from red to white. "None. Not that it's any of your concern, but I am not and have never been married, so I am no man's whore."

"Well, you ain't wearing that fancy getup for nothing. I'm more than a mite curious what would bring such a proper lady into the 
Print Shop
 if she ain't looking to ply her trade. You just get a hankering for some of my famous whiskey, or is you here on other business?"

"As a matter of fact, I am," Victoria said, her back as straight as a flagpole. "I happen to be looking for someone."

"Among this lot?" The woman's laugh was as coarse as the stubble on the men's faces. "I don't reckon we got anything you'd be after, young missie. Now, you got something some of these boys here'd be after, though, so I'd watch your back if I was you."

Victoria refused to let their eyes bother her. "I was instructed to come here. By a priest."