“Aren’t you somebody’s daughter?” Melisande snapped. “Aren’t I?”
Jessica’s throat closed. She couldn’t breathe. She stared at Melisande, who looked so strong and beautiful after ten years of selling her body to men. Yes, Melisande was someone’s daughter. So was Jessica. She’d been loved and treasured for twenty-one years, and she’d been a person. A woman. Maybe she still was.
Melisande nodded.
Jessica couldn’t nod back.
“If you loved him and he doesn’t want you now, then you’ll love someone else. Or you won’t. But you’re still alive. Nothing about him changes that.”
Was that true? It didn’t feel true.
“The biscuits will burn,” Melisande said, and that was the end of it. Jessica was left there, staring out at the hazy hint of the mountains forty miles away.
Maybe she was still alive. If she was, then the real trouble was that she didn’t want to be.
* * *
Caleb arrived late for breakfast.
It wasn’t because of the bottle of whiskey he’d killed the night before. He had more than enough experience with whiskey to survive that. It was because he’d forgotten a man couldn’t come to breakfast at his mother’s table with two days’ growth of beard and skin that reeked of alcohol. His stepfather had taken one look at Caleb and ordered him out.
Caleb couldn’t say he liked the man his mother had married ten years earlier, but he respected him. Theodore Durst provided a good home for Caleb’s mother, and he hadn’t been cruel to Caleb, despite that they had nothing in common. Caleb had been fourteen when they married, and already working at the Smith Ranch. The type of boy a rich banker couldn’t understand, but they’d managed to keep the peace.
By the time Caleb scrubbed up and shaved, his mother was on her way out of the dining room. “I’ll let you two men catch up,” she said, pulling Caleb down for a kiss on the cheek. “It’s so good to have you home again, my sweet boy.”
Sweet boy. Right. Caleb had never been sweet, not even as a child, and he sure as hell wasn’t sweet after two years of working on gold-mining operations.
He’d set off for California to make his fortune and he had, eventually. He hadn’t meant to be gone for two full years, but in the end, he’d found more and more brutal work and earned enough cash that he could buy a house and land outright. Only now he didn’t have the wife to go along with it.
When Caleb took a seat, his stepfather looked up from his newspaper, sunlight glinting off his bald head. “You look more presentable,” Theodore said gruffly. “I take it you spent the evening celebrating your homecoming?”
Caleb wanted to growl at him.
Celebrating
.
Theodore had lied. His letter had said Jessica had left town to live with a relative after her father’s death.
At first Caleb hadn’t been particularly alarmed, though he hadn’t understood why Theodore had been the one to write that letter. He should’ve heard that news from Jessica. But she was grieving and on her way to live with some long-lost aunt. When Caleb asked for an address, the next letter from his mother had ignored the question entirely. Now he knew why.
What had happened? Had Jessica simply given up on him? Why had she turned to whoring?
Maybe if he’d written to her instead of relying on his family to pass on news.
At first, Jessica had sent letters along with his mother’s notes twice a month. Caleb had painstakingly read each of Jess’s words, devouring the letters over and over until the stationery grew soft and tattered. But he hadn’t sent replies. She’d known he wouldn’t.
After his mother had remarried, Theodore Durst had tried to force Caleb back to the schoolroom, but Caleb had been fourteen and already two years into his position at the Smith Ranch, and he’d refused.
School had never taken for him anyway. He had a head for ciphering, and he’d always loved listening to the teacher’s tales of ancient Rome. But writing and reading were a chore, and a painful one at that. The letters seemed to jump around, changing themselves on the way from the page to his brain or from his mind to his hand.
So he hadn’t written to Jessica, too embarrassed to lay his atrocious writing so nakedly in front of her eyes. Jessica’s hand was smooth and elegant. Her words were art. He could see her there, in the loops and flourishes of her letters, and he didn’t want her looking at his ignorant chicken scratch and seeing him.
She’d asked after his new life in every letter. What he’d been doing, what he’d seen. But he couldn’t tell her about the desperate hardness of a mining town. The rough life filled with mud and blood and vomit and sweat. He couldn’t tell her that the only women he’d seen in weeks had been weary whores and foul-mouthed laundresses.
And toward the end, his job had been about intimidation and sometimes violence, all to protect a stranger’s money. Better to let her think him a hero living among the big trees and blue skies of California.
Still, he’d always sent messages to pass on, relying on his mother to decipher his awful writing and polish up his misspelled words for Jessica.
After the first year, Jessica’s letters had become less frequent. She’d gotten tired of writing to a ghost, maybe. Or angry that he hadn’t returned home after a year. Just a few more months, he’d had his mother tell her. At most, another year.
Then his mother had written to say Jessica’s father had passed away, and Caleb had finally set aside his pride and sent a letter of condolence to Jess. He’d promised to return soon. Sooner than he’d planned. He’d take on new work, harder jobs, and he’d come as soon as he could.
She hadn’t written back. And then even Caleb’s mother had ceased to speak of her. Caleb had finally gathered up his earnings and started the ride home, intent on tracking Jessica down. In the end, she hadn’t been hard to find.
The newspaper rustled when Theodore turned the pages. Caleb’s fork hit the plate too hard each time he set it down. The hallway clock ticked.
“You lied to me,” Caleb finally said into the quiet.
Theodore frowned at him above the edge of the paper. “Pardon?”
“You said Jessica left town to live with a relative.”
Theodore’s ears turned red. He lowered the paper. “Now see here—”
“I rode into town expecting to find she’d gone east to live with some maiden aunt, but do you know what I heard instead?”
“Son—”
“I heard she was living on that old farmstead past Black Rock Creek.”
Theodore stared at him, mouth finally shut as he waited for Caleb to continue, but he didn’t look like a man set to apologize.
“Why did you lie?” Caleb pressed.
“Because I thought a lie was kinder than the truth.”
“The truth that she’s a whore?” Caleb spat out.
Theodore slapped the table hard. “Watch your language in this house. Yes, I thought a lie was kinder than telling you what that…that harlot had done. She was practically a daughter to us. Do you know how humiliated your mother was? The whole town was whispering!”
But Caleb couldn’t get his mind around the most basic fact. “I don’t understand. How did this happen?”
“Who cares how it happened?” Theodore barked. “It’s disgusting, and I don’t want you stirring up talk again. Stay away from her. The worst of it has died down at long last.”
Caleb let the subject drop, but his mind spun, circling and circling around the knowledge of what she was.
The first person to tell him had been a stranger. He’d meant to see his mother first, of course, but he’d found her home empty, so he’d headed to the big house Jessica’s father had once owned.
He’d asked after her, and the kitchen girl had stared at him with big eyes. “You’re Caleb Hightower, right? You went to school with my brother Ricky.” Then she’d leaned closer to whisper something ridiculous. “She’s a whore now.”
“Who?” he’d asked in confusion.
“Jessica Willoughby. She lives in a whorehouse.”
Caleb had backed up one step, looking past the maid toward the doorway beyond. He’d waited to hear howling from within or a cackle of insane laughter. This girl was clearly not right in the head. Perhaps the building was being used as a madhouse of sorts. Perhaps it was part of the clinic now.
“Hey!” she’d called when Caleb had spun and fled toward the street.
Just one block over was the general store where he’d spent pennies on peppermint sticks for Jessica, small offerings to make up for his work-rough hands and large size. He’d thought of going in to ask after her, but no, he couldn’t inquire there. Word would get out that some girl had told a vile lie about Jessica, and she’d be mortified.
He’d walked three doors down to the saloon and found nothing but strangers.
Caleb had ordered a whiskey and tossed it back. When the barkeep had offered another, he’d downed that one too. “Any of you know a Miss Willoughby?” he’d finally managed to ask, his head buzzing with something far more destructive than liquor.
The barkeep shrugged, while the other men looked blankly at each other.
“She lived a couple streets down,” Caleb added. “Her father was a doctor at the consumption clinic. Died a few months back.”
Two of the men shook their heads, but a third had leaned forward, his mouth loose with drunkenness. “He’s lookin’ for that fancy whore,” he’d slurred. “Moved out past Black Rock Creek.”
The oldest man laughed. “You don’t look like you can afford that kind of pussy, friend. You’d do better to head over to Ella Mae’s place.”
The buzz in Caleb’s ears turned to a roar. “How far past Black Rock Creek?” he’d asked instead of shooting all of them.
“About a mile, I’d say. There’s a black girl out there too, if you like that kind of thing. Probably more girls than that now, but this place is only for rich folk. Gentlemen and the like. You’d better flash some gold or you’ll get run off like the rest of us.”
The drunkest one added, “I hear they come all the way up from Denver to fuck that Willoughby woman, but I can’t imagine what she’s got under her skirts that would be worth that kind of trouble. Maybe highfalutin pussy tastes different.”
Their laughter had tumbled over Caleb’s head like rocks. He hadn’t realized he’d reached for his gun until the barkeep put his hand on the rifle that hung below a mirror. “Mind moving your hand, son?” he’d suggested calmly.
Caleb had done so. He’d also left, barely registering the outraged talk behind him. “What?” someone had snapped. “How are we supposed to know what kind of whore he can afford?”
Outside, the bright sun had added to the rumble in his ears somehow, as if the light had set off an ore grinder to work the thoughts in his head.
The drunks had it all mixed up. Jessica and her father must have moved out of their house in town before he’d died. Some unlucky family had moved in and that daughter had sold herself for money. It wasn’t Jessica.
He’d been walking blindly back to his mother’s house when a hand had clutched his elbow. In that moment, he’d known without a doubt that it would be Jessica when he spun around. Jessica laughing up at him, her eyes sparkling with intelligence and warmth as she explained that she was living with some spinster aunt now, and that—
His mother had beamed up at him. “You’re really home! I thought you wouldn’t be here for weeks yet, but here you are, and oh my heavens, look how big you are, Caleb.”
His arms had hung loosely as she’d hugged him. “Mother,” he’d finally managed. “Where’s Jessica?”
It was only then that he’d believed it. His mother had gone stiff, her throat closing around some strained sound of horror.
She’d stepped away, her face bone-white. “Jessica?” she’d whispered, as if she wasn’t sure whom he meant.
But then she’d smiled, a sick curve of her lips that trembled before it was even in place. “Her father died, my darling. She had to leave town. You’d been gone so long, anyway. I daresay you hardly remember her at all.”
“Where is she?” he’d pressed.
She’d pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed it to her forehead. Despite the heat of the day, she was still pale as death. “I’m sure I can’t say. Once she’s settled somewhere, perhaps she’ll be in touch. Now let’s get you home so I can have Sally start something special for dinner. I can’t believe you’re here.”
He’d left his mother still talking on the street, and he’d walked straight to the public stable where he’d boarded his horse. Then he’d found out the truth for himself.
Caleb set his fork down hard and swallowed to keep his breakfast from coming up.
“I suppose,” Theodore started again, not looking up over the newspaper this time, “that I could find you a place at the bank if you mean to stay. Collections, maybe. Although—” his eyes rose, skimming coolly over Caleb “—you look better suited to California now.”
“I am,” Caleb muttered.
“There’s work in the silver mines here in Colorado if there was trouble in California.”
“I’m not a miner, and there was no trouble.”
“No?” He snapped the paper. “You certainly look as though the wind has fallen from your sails.”
“I’m fine.”
“All right. It’s just that you’d planned not to return until next spring and you changed your mind so suddenly. I assumed there was a problem of some kind.”
“There was not.” Not in California. The problem was all here.
“Well, I’ve promised your mother you may stay as long as you like. She’s very pleased to have you, which means that I am pleased to have you, of course. But you’re as much a man as I am now. Idle hands and all that.”
Caleb didn’t say what he meant to say, which was that he’d been working hard since he was twelve years old and he’d been more of a man than Theodore since then. But he kept his mouth shut.
Theodore was nothing like Caleb’s father. In fact, it was strange to picture his elegant, smooth-skinned mother as she must have been once: bold enough to have married a steely man like John Hightower. But she’d been raised on a farm herself. Lucky for her, her mother had been a schoolteacher, so she could play the part of educated banker’s wife now. Women were changeable like that, apparently.
Caleb pushed his chair back. “I’ll only stay for a few days.”
Theodore folded his paper and frowned at Caleb. “Yes. Well. Your mother will be disappointed. But every man must make his own way. When things don’t turn out as planned, a new plan must be formulated.” Theodore cleared his throat, but if he was thinking of the new circumstances of Miss Jessica Willoughby, he looked only mildly uncomfortable with the idea.