benign gift could turn malignant. Taking the wagon over for Birdie, I tried to put those thoughts aside as West Glory finally came into view.
With sunrise behind it, it was a darling little town. Morning light painted it in fresh hues of pink and gold. It even gilded the dust. So far, I liked mornings best of all in the Territories.
"Leave the cart here," Birdie said. She leaned down to wake Louella, making her unfold her jelly arms and legs to wrap around her. She nodded down the street. "The post office is down a ways. You'll pass the-—"
Pleased with myself, I told her, "I know where it is. That's how I found your homestead."
"Good girl," Birdie said. She shifted Louella onto her hip. "When you're done, cross over to the restaurant and wait for me. I shouldn't take long at all."
The walk to the post office was short, but I admit, I dawdled. I looked through plate glass windows into a feed store, which seemed nothing more than a floor filled with overflowing barrels of grain.
Then I peeked into the barber's, which was a mistake. A man in a white coat was busy pulling out a tooth with tongs so barbaric that I thought I might have nightmares.
Hurrying along, I got a look into the saloon, though I smelled it first. Papa only occasionally indulged, but the thick, hoppy scent of beer wafting out made me homesick nonetheless. A woman scrubbed at the bar—hard labor to polish all that wood.
These slices of a different kind of life in the West teased my imagination. It was a bit more like what I'd expected, though hardly the anarchy that papers back home had described. And it was paler than I'd anticipated.
Baltimore was a rainbow of nationalities, a port to the world. Save the Indian woman I'd seen on the first day, West Glory was peopled with third-generation English and Irish alone.
You can always leave, I told myself.
I pushed open the post office door and marveled that I'd thought that at all. That I would spend the rest of my life in service here had been immutable to me just the month before. Was this progress? And if it was, was I happy with it?
If I had been, it ended the moment I took a breath. The air smelled of burnt black powder. The plastered walls bore dark pits, round as cherries, and I stared at them helplessly. In my mind alone, I saw a flash of fire, and blood. So much blood. An uncanny temperature, somehow hot and cold at once, gripped me.
"You all right, miss?"
The unfamiliar voice jerked me back from the past, and I was grateful for it. It belonged to a young man, who moved to hold the door for me so I could come the rest of the way in. His sun-bleached hair and bright eyes were kind, burning away the remnants of my dark memory.
"I'm fine, thank you," I murmured.
With a snort, the clerk broke in. "Quit sniffing at her, Royal. You can tell looking at her that she's too good for you. Now, as for me..."
Rolling his eyes, Royal stepped aside and gave me his place at the counter. "Pay him no mind," he told me; it was good advice. The clerk still wore his leer, and I did my best to avoid his gaze.
"I've got several to post," I told the counter, and pulled my bundle from my pocket. A letter for my friends back home to share, and several for Mama. Birdie said she hadn't wired home about my arrival by fire, so I'd written it in pages instead.
I'd done my best to make it sound like a merry diversion—how amusing to be there for a stagecoach robbery!—and the time I'd spent with Emerson directly thereafter was edited for propriety. In Mama's version of the story, he picked me up and took me straight to Aunt Birdie's.
The newspapers weren't the only ones who creatively shaped the story of the West for back-home readers.
"May I post a bill?" I asked, gesturing toward the wall.
The clerk handed me a nail from behind the counter. "Whatever makes you happy, girlie. Just pound that in with the rock."
And indeed, there was a rock sitting in the corner, just for nailing in posters, apparently. It was so
With sunrise behind it, it was a darling little town. Morning light painted it in fresh hues of pink and gold. It even gilded the dust. So far, I liked mornings best of all in the Territories.
"Leave the cart here," Birdie said. She leaned down to wake Louella, making her unfold her jelly arms and legs to wrap around her. She nodded down the street. "The post office is down a ways. You'll pass the-—"
Pleased with myself, I told her, "I know where it is. That's how I found your homestead."
"Good girl," Birdie said. She shifted Louella onto her hip. "When you're done, cross over to the restaurant and wait for me. I shouldn't take long at all."
The walk to the post office was short, but I admit, I dawdled. I looked through plate glass windows into a feed store, which seemed nothing more than a floor filled with overflowing barrels of grain.
Then I peeked into the barber's, which was a mistake. A man in a white coat was busy pulling out a tooth with tongs so barbaric that I thought I might have nightmares.
Hurrying along, I got a look into the saloon, though I smelled it first. Papa only occasionally indulged, but the thick, hoppy scent of beer wafting out made me homesick nonetheless. A woman scrubbed at the bar—hard labor to polish all that wood.
These slices of a different kind of life in the West teased my imagination. It was a bit more like what I'd expected, though hardly the anarchy that papers back home had described. And it was paler than I'd anticipated.
Baltimore was a rainbow of nationalities, a port to the world. Save the Indian woman I'd seen on the first day, West Glory was peopled with third-generation English and Irish alone.
You can always leave, I told myself.
I pushed open the post office door and marveled that I'd thought that at all. That I would spend the rest of my life in service here had been immutable to me just the month before. Was this progress? And if it was, was I happy with it?
If I had been, it ended the moment I took a breath. The air smelled of burnt black powder. The plastered walls bore dark pits, round as cherries, and I stared at them helplessly. In my mind alone, I saw a flash of fire, and blood. So much blood. An uncanny temperature, somehow hot and cold at once, gripped me.
"You all right, miss?"
The unfamiliar voice jerked me back from the past, and I was grateful for it. It belonged to a young man, who moved to hold the door for me so I could come the rest of the way in. His sun-bleached hair and bright eyes were kind, burning away the remnants of my dark memory.
"I'm fine, thank you," I murmured.
With a snort, the clerk broke in. "Quit sniffing at her, Royal. You can tell looking at her that she's too good for you. Now, as for me..."
Rolling his eyes, Royal stepped aside and gave me his place at the counter. "Pay him no mind," he told me; it was good advice. The clerk still wore his leer, and I did my best to avoid his gaze.
"I've got several to post," I told the counter, and pulled my bundle from my pocket. A letter for my friends back home to share, and several for Mama. Birdie said she hadn't wired home about my arrival by fire, so I'd written it in pages instead.
I'd done my best to make it sound like a merry diversion—how amusing to be there for a stagecoach robbery!—and the time I'd spent with Emerson directly thereafter was edited for propriety. In Mama's version of the story, he picked me up and took me straight to Aunt Birdie's.
The newspapers weren't the only ones who creatively shaped the story of the West for back-home readers.
"May I post a bill?" I asked, gesturing toward the wall.
The clerk handed me a nail from behind the counter. "Whatever makes you happy, girlie. Just pound that in with the rock."
And indeed, there was a rock sitting in the corner, just for nailing in posters, apparently. It was so
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