Stay With Me (12 page)

“I’ll be outside.”

“Sarah?” John spoke just as her hand touched
the door handle.

“Yes,” she said, irritated with herself that
she still hoped he’d apologize. She turned to look at him.

He stared at her. Then he took a deep breath
and let it out. He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “Good luck.”

“Yeah. You, too. Good-bye, John.”

Light, laughter, music, and an occasional
cowboy spilled out of the saloon that stood directly across from
the hotel. Young men, their arms around pretty girls, strode along
the wooden sidewalk. Three men, all smoking, apparently offering
expert advice, stood around a wagon, watching as a fourth man fixed
a broken wheel.

She appreciated the chance to sit and
observe, to soak up the sounds of civilization. The children had
begged to get down while their father checked on a room but she’d
convinced them to stay on their horses. She knew firsthand how fast
they could scatter and she didn’t want to chase them around
Cedarbrook.

When Fred emerged from the hotel, she relaxed
when she saw his smile. “There’s room at the inn?” she asked.

“Yes. You’re all set. I told them you’d need
a room through next Wednesday morning.”

“How much?” she asked, fearing that the ten
dollars Fred had given her for babysitting wouldn’t go far.

“Price is two dollars a night plus an extra
fifty cents if you want a bath.”

She did the math. Four nights with two baths
would be nine dollars. Great. Maybe she didn’t need to eat after
all.

“Don’t worry,” Fred said. “John gave me
twenty dollars to give to you. That will cover food, your stage to
Cheyenne, and a train ticket to California.”

“He really does want me out of his hair,”
Sarah said, hoping the hurt didn’t show. “If I’d stalled a bit, who
knows how high the price might have gone.”

Fred shook his head, looking troubled. “I
can’t explain my friend. He’s a good man, Sarah. I know it might
not seem like that to you.”

“I don’t want his money,” she said.

Fred shrugged. “I don’t think you’ve got much
choice. If it makes you feel any better, when you get to where
you’re going, send it back to him.”

Now, that would be quite the trick. “Right,”
she said. “I’ll do that.” One more reason for John to think she was
a money-grubbing tramp.

“We better get going,” Fred said. “Missy and
Thomas look like they’re about to fall asleep.”

Sarah kissed each of the children. “Goodbye,”
she said. She signed the word for Missy. When the little girl
signed back
I love you
, Sarah felt a little piece of her
heart break off. She might get back to California but she wouldn’t
go whole.

“I’ll see you before you go,” Fred said, his
voice gruff with emotion. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with
you and John.”

Sarah kissed his cheek and then backed away
from the horses. “Good night,” she said and walked into the hotel.
The lobby had polished wooden floors, woven rugs, and a wide
staircase leading up to the second floor. Wall lanterns, one every
four feet or so, cast a soft glow throughout the room.

An old man, so short that he could barely see
over the solid wood check-in counter, glared at her. “Surprised to
see you back in town, Mrs. Beckett.”

Oh, joy. Another Sarah One fan. Just what she
needed. “I’m just here for a few days.”

“Figured as much. We lit the lamp in your
room,” he said, making it sound like it was more than she deserved.
He handed her a key. “It’s number seven, first door to the right at
the top of the stairs. I’ll send Freedom along with some water for
the basin. You know where the privy is.”

“Exactly where was that again?” Sarah
asked.

“At the end of the hallway.”

“Inside?”

He frowned at her and pointed his nose in the
air. “We’ve had an inside privy for over a year. You’re not feeling
poorly, are you? Fred Goodie didn’t say anything about you being
sick. I can’t have anybody getting sick. Doc Mosley—”

“Died two months ago,” Sarah finished. “Don’t
worry, I’m perfectly healthy. Just a little tired.” She picked up
the key. As she climbed the stairs, she wondered how much of a stir
she’d cause if she went over to the saloon for a drink. She
desperately wanted alcohol. She figured a couple shots of something
would adequately numb her mind, her heart, her soul.

“I’d like a whiskey,” she said softly,
practicing. “Whiskey, please,” she tried again. “Make it a double,”
she said, “with a clean glass.”

“It’s the clean glass that will pose the
problem.”

Sarah stopped so suddenly that the man behind
her almost knocked her over.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Was that a private
conversation?”

The man wore a black suit with a vest and a
black cowboy hat. He had a thin face, an even thinner mustache, and
pale skin. He stared at her and she had a sudden urge to pull up
the neckline of her blouse.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare
you.”

“You didn’t,” she denied, wanting to wipe the
smirk off his skinny lips.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Mitchell
Dority.”

Great. This guy would have to be the first
man who didn’t have a track record with Sarah One.

“I’m Sarah Jane,” she said, deciding that was
all he needed to know. She might be temporarily misplaced in the
nineteenth century but she had plenty of twenty-first century
street smarts.

Something about the man gave her the creeps.
He looked too slick. He looked too confident, like the idiots who
stood on the corner, practically on school grounds, and sold joints
to third graders. Like it was their God-given right to do whatever
they wanted, regardless of who got hurt.

“Are you here with your husband?” he asked,
looking at her bare fingers.

“My husband is dead,” Sarah said. She needed
to stick to the story.

“My sympathies,” he said.

She smiled, her face feeling tight. “Well, it
was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dority.”

He tipped his hat. “The pleasure’s all mine.
Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”

Not if she locked herself in her room until
Wednesday. “Perhaps.” She walked at a sedate pace up the rest of
the stairs, aware that he still stood on the steps. When she got to
the top, she turned and looked at him. She did not intend to
advertise her room location.

He smiled, an oily sneer, tipped his hat
again, and turned. When he walked away, she thought she heard him
whistling.

She had a sudden urge to take a shower. She
found her room and unlocked the door. When she got inside, she
turned the door lock and slipped the cheap hook into place, locking
herself in for the night. The oil lamp gave off just enough light
that she could see her home-away-from-home for the next four
nights. A narrow bed took up most of the space, leaving just enough
room for a small table and a squatty, three-drawer chest. A blue
and white pitcher and a matching bowl sat on top of the chest. She
walked over to the window. Her room overlooked the street. She saw
that the man with the wagon trouble had solved his problem. He and
his consultants had gone home for the night.

She jumped when she heard a sudden knock.
Surely, Slick had not come back. She walked closer to the door,
wishing for a peephole.

“Ma’am,” the voice on the other side said.
“I’ve got some water here for your basin in case you’d be wantin’
to wash up.”

She unhooked the door and opened it. A thin
black man, maybe in his mid-twenties, wearing a white shirt and
pants, stood outside the door. He looked weighed down by his jug of
water.

“Come in,” she said, “let me help you with
that.”

“No ma’am,” he said, shaking his head. “I
don’t need no help.”

He tipped up the jug and poured, filling the
pretty blue basin with fresh water. He had a towel draped over his
shoulder. He pulled it off, shook it like one might a napkin in a
fancy restaurant, and laid it next to the bowl. “You tell me if
Freedom can get you anything else. Good night, Ma’am.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You have a very
unusual name,” she said, smiling.

Freedom smiled back. He didn’t have any front
teeth. “My momma had Freedom the year Mr. Lincoln said it had to
stop. That we didn’t have to be slaves no more.”

Dorothy, this really isn’t Kansas
.
“Does your mother work here also?”

He shook his head. “Freedom’s momma is in
heaven. She’s an angel.” He nodded his head toward her. “If you
need anything else, you just let me know.”

Freedom seemed to slide between first and
third person with amazing ease. “Actually, I’ve got a question
about the privy.”

Freedom’s chest puffed up. “We got the only
inside flusher in this town. Freedom keeps the tank filled up.
Buckets and buckets of water, every day.”

“Be still my heart. You’ve really got toilets
that flush?”

“Yes, ma’am. Just pull on the chain.”

Okay, maybe John being totally pissed, no pun
intended, was a blessing. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything.
You have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”

“Much obliged, Ma’am.”

She watched the man amble off down the hall,
the now empty jug swinging at the end of his long arm. Sarah stuck
a finger in the water, hoping it might be warm. It wasn’t but it
really didn’t matter. She quickly washed her face and hands, shed
her dress and shoes, pulled back the thin blanket on the bed, and
laid her weary body down on the cotton sheets.

Four nights. Four more nights and she’d be on
her way home. Yawning, she turned on her side. She might just sleep
until she boarded the stage on Wednesday morning.

***

Sarah woke up when she heard the woman
screaming. She jerked up in bed, unable to see a thing in the dark
room. The woman screamed again and something heavy hit the
floor.

She sprang out of bed and ran toward the
door. She fumbled with the hook and the handle but managed to get
it open. The door to the next room stood ajar an inch or so. Sarah
pushed it open just in time to see Slick backhand a small,
dark-haired woman.

Suzanne.

Sarah screamed. Slick turned toward her, his
thin face tight with fury. He had his shirt off and his pants were
unbuttoned. “Mind you own damn business.” He strode toward the door
and pushed it, trying to shut her out. Sarah put all her weight
against the door, knowing that if he got the door shut, Suzanne was
as good as dead.

“Help,” Sarah screamed, wedging her shoulder
against the door.

“Shut up,” Slick snarled.

Sarah could feel her feet giving way. “Fire,”
she yelled. “Fire.”

A door further down the hall opened.

“Fire,” Sarah cried, out of breath from
pushing on the door. “Help me.”

The two men crossed the hallway. When Slick
saw them, he suddenly stepped back, causing Sarah to plunge through
the doorway. The two men followed her in. Slick had backed off to
the corner of the room. He stood straight, his arms folded over his
bare chest. A table lantern burned, casting eerie shadows.

Sarah looked at Suzanne who’d managed to pull
herself up into a sitting position. She had blood running out of
her nose, her lips were cut and bruised, and one eye was almost
swollen shut. Her blouse had been ripped from her shoulder to her
waist and Sarah could see more marks on her pale breasts.

Most startling of all, one side of her hair,
her beautiful hair, had been chopped off. What was left stuck
straight out from her head, not more than two inches long. Sarah
looked at the bed. Hunks of hair lay on the pillow with a sharp
knife on top of the pile.

“Oh, sweetie,” Sarah said, kneeling next to
Suzanne and wrapping her arms around her shivering frame. “You’re
going to be fine. Just fine.”

Suzanne started to cry.

Sarah looked at Slick and the two men who
stood somewhat helplessly in the middle of the room. “Don’t just
stand there,” she yelled at them. “Grab him. Get the Sheriff.”

“Boys, you know better than that,” Slick
said. “This is between me and the whore.”

Suzanne, her face buried in Sarah’s chest,
shook so violently that Sarah could barely keep her upright. Slick
grabbed his shirt off the floor and edged toward the door. He
stopped, took two steps back, reaching for the knife that still lay
in the bed.

“You stay right there, Mister.”

Freedom stood in the doorway, a long-handled
mop resting on his shoulder, like a big club. His dark hands looked
stark against the white handle. “Freedom knows how to use this
mop,” he warned.

Slick laughed and picked up his knife with
his left hand. “What are you going to do? Clean me to death? Get
the hell out of my way, you fool.”

Slick walked toward Freedom. When he got
close enough, he stuck his right arm out, hitting Freedom in the
chest with the heel of his palm. With several swift pushes, he
moved the small black man out of the doorway and back into the
stair railing. Sarah watched as Freedom struggled to maintain his
balance, the heavy mop pulling him over the edge. With no
alternative, Freedom let go of the mop and it fell to the first
floor, clattering on the wood.

Slick laughed and slipped his knife into his
belt. With both hands, he grabbed the front of Freedom’s shirt,
yanking him off the ground. Freedom’s legs dangled and he looked
like a rag doll. Then Slick slowly lowered him.

Sarah started to breathe again.

Slick pulled his right fist back and swung it
into Freedom’s face. The man crumpled.

“You bastard,” Sarah yelled and tried to get
up. Suzanne, with amazing strength, held her back. “Let him go,”
Suzanne whispered. “He’ll kill us both.”

Slick turned and tipped his hat at the two
men who still stood in the middle of the room. Then he turned to
the two women. He pointed a finger at Suzanne. “We’re not done. I
didn’t get my money’s worth. And you—” he stared at Sarah—“better
learn to keep out of things that don’t concern you. I don’t like
people who interfere.”