Half wild.This is one of my mother’s favorite judgments to throw at me. Its origin rooted in her belief that, especially now at twenty-three, I am simply too old and too unruly to be groomed into the type of respectable lady who could make her proud.
“You should be grateful that she’s willing to do this for you when it should have fallen to your father. A good situation foryou, all things considered. A widower, lost his wife of thirty years to the fever last spring. His children are grown but he needs someone to mind his house. To be useful to him.”
She has already told me all this many times, though I don’t dare point that out. As soon as the letter arrived weeks ago, it became a constant topic between us, but I had taken solace in the fact that she couldn’t so easily give me to a man who was half a country away. Not when my father was still here to shake his head and ask why they would send me back when they needed hands at home.
Never mind that I simply didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to spend my days trapped in another house that wouldn’t feel like mine, little more than another fixture for someone to deemuseful.
“I don’t—” I start to say, looking her in the eyes. “I don’t want—” My mother steps forward and slaps me across the face, hard enough that I hold my hand against my cheek to try to stop both the stinging and the tears as my gaze goes to the floor.
“Listen to me, stupid girl,” she hisses. “You are the daughter of a man who has left you with no options and no money. You have no say in this, and if I were you, I would be thankful that I don’t leave you out there with him. I will not allow you to be a burden on my sister’s household the way you’ve been on mine, do you understand?”
Before I can attempt to respond, she steps away, sweeping over to check that my sisters haven’t been disturbed. I wonder if they can feel her there as they sleep. The sensation of someone looking over them, looking outforthem, watchful and protective so that they don’t come to harm. What would that feel like?
“Pack your things then get some rest,” she tells me, polished and polite again as she straightens. “We are leaving this place by sunup.”
I only nod, not bothering to say anything else while I dutifullygather my few belongings from around the cabin into a sack: my clothes from the corner, my father’s Bible, my thin bedroll from the loft, a few days’ worth of hardtack.
I wait for her to fall asleep before I also take my father’s pocket watch. And the small knife he kept tucked in his boot. And the gun from the war that he still wore proudly at his hip. I try not to make a sound with any of it, don’t even trust a backward glance as I slip back out into the night and sprint for the barn.
I needn’t have worried. No one comes looking for me.
“As I’ve explained, it won’t be a simple matter to track down the man who killed your father. You must understand that these things take time…”
Three months.Three months I have been coming to this office, and somehow every time it is the same. The same endless excuses. The same sympathetic sighs. The same stagnant summer air. The same empty cells.
These things take time. You must be reasonable in your expectations. Difficult with no names. No witnesses.
“Iam a witness,” I remind Sheriff Mathews when he starts to amble down that familiar path again. “I saw the man who shot him clearly. I’ve described him to you.”
The sheriff gives me a well-aged and weary stare from behind his desk, a look that is a far cry from the polite smile and warm handshake with which he used to greet my appearance. These days, he rarely even gets up, only gestures toward the open chair so that we can get straight to business. Suits me fine, althoughit would suit me even better to have him actually dosomethingabout my father’s murder.
“Tan hair,” I offer again. “Short beard. Light eyes. A powder burn—”
“We remember your description, Miss,” reassures the younger man standing near the large front window, no doubt wishing he was on the other side of it. “It does not match anyone from town.”
“He’s notfromtown,” I reply, unable to keep the frustration out of my tone at the mention of a second point that we have already discussed. I shift in my seat slightly to face Zeke Mathews, the sheriff’s only deputy and his only son, which makes him the shining apple of his father’s bloodshot eye. “If he was local, he likely would have been far more concerned about being recognized while shooting someone in broad daylight. Not to mention that I would have seen him myself by now if he was still around.”
So far untouched by the population booms that other parts of the Arizona territory have seen thanks to the promise of copper and cattle, Preston is a tiny town, but rich all the same due to the constant stream of settlers passing through with a pressing need to resupply. So much so that, over the last decade, the town has become a regular stop on the trail even if all it has to offer is a general store, a stable, a saloon, and a boarding house as the largest share of its main street. And, of course, a sheriff’s office as the largest share of my wasted time.
“I saw him flee northwest,” I continue, pointing that direction for emphasis. As if it will actually help. “Someone needs to go after him.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible.” As he speaks, Sheriff Mathews pulls a clean cloth from his vest to polish his badge, the symbol feeling far more like a taunt than a promise. “Even if there was something more to go on, we could not be the ones topursue him for you. Our jurisdiction only extends so far, and we both have responsibilities to attend to here.”
“Surely those responsibilities include justice for someone who was murdered in your town?” I say back. “Not fifteen yards from where we sit.”
“A very regrettable occurrence. And a far too common one at that. All this bloodshed these days…” He sighs. “I pray on it nightly. That we might see a return to people’s good sense in this world.”
“Right,” I say tightly. “And should God not decide to intervene… what then?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Zeke’s mouth twitch, although his father does not seem remotely as amused. “Miss, I can appreciate that you are upset and trying to do right by your father, I really can,” he says, his tone stern. “However, given the circumstances…”
“Why stay here when you could be heading back to Boston?” cuts in Zeke, quickly checking out the window again before granting me his focus. As he turns, his honey-colored hair shines in the sun, his white linen suit still as neat and clean as when he put it on this morning.
“Surely you must miss the city’s distractions? Far more exciting than anything we have here. We will write to you if anything turns up.” He smiles reassuringly, the same smile I’ve seen him use a thousand times while he strolls down the main street as if he’s the prince of Preston. I suppose he is. “You have my word that we will continue to pursue this.”
“Just not outside the county?”
Zeke lets out a long breath, and even if he’s kept his kindness with me longer than his father, I suspect that it’s soon to run out. “You have— Miss, you’ve admitted your father took on debts.Substantialdebts. I’m sorry to say it, but he should have understood the risks.”