A Dark and Lonely Place (13 page)

He intended to linger there for only an hour or so because of the need to distance themselves from her husband, who by now had probably acquired fresh ammunition. But they couldn’t bear to go. They lay in each other’s arms, listened to the frogs croak, and saw thousands of birds flying in formation shadow the setting sun. Moist and damp like the air around them, the lovers were seduced by the familiar scent of the river. He listened to its voice, trying to make out the words as it rushed by. He slept briefly and was awed when he awoke and found the river girl in his arms. For a moment it was like a beautiful dream and he was amazed to find she was real and there with him.

Reluctantly, they began to dress but then simultaneously reversed the process and again began to feverishly remove each other’s clothes. Later they watched the fireflies and yearned to stay the night. But it was time to head for home.

“You were right, Mama,” John said solemnly, as Leugenia opened the door.

“Oh, Johnny.” She looked up, hands clasped prayerfully beneath her chin. “Please say you found her.”

He stood stock-still, without a reply for a long moment.

But he couldn’t hide the answer in his eyes.

“You did! Oh Lordy, you did!”

He snaked his arm around the door behind him, caught Laura’s hand, and twirled her around, as though presenting a rare and priceless work of art.

Leugenia welcomed her like a long-lost daughter. “You’re all grown up! Look, how beautiful! Joe, come see who’s here!” She hugged, shed tears, and prayed in thanks, scarcely raising an eyebrow at the two little children who came with her. Leugenia always had room in her heart for more little children. And all it took was one look at John, her golden child, whom everyone loved, to see his happiness. She was thrilled.

Lucy was not quite as taken when the family gathered for a celebratory supper two nights later. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to have been misinformed,” she drawled to Laura. She did not appear delighted.

“Like Mr. Mark Twain said, ‘Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.’ “Laura laughed.

John heard her across the room, above the din, the music, and the laughter of others, and caught her eye. They glowed, lit from within, unable to keep their eyes or their hands off each other. Everyone felt the electricity between them.

“How did you meet Laura?” one of his little nephews asked, as John picked out “Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Hair.” He rarely used a guitar pick; John liked to feel the music and the strings on his fingertips and had the calluses to prove it.

“She was five,” he said fondly. “I was seven. She wouldn’t look at me. She always ran away. So I had to chase her. I’ve been chasing her ever since.”

It made Lucy absolutely sick. “Well, bless your heart,” she told Laura. She smiled sweetly at the children at play on the floor, happy and at home with the close-knit Ashley clan, which included children of all ages. “Looks like faster runners caught you a few times before John did.”

Laura bit her lip and smiled. She and John had discussed Lucy at length before the two women were introduced, and Lucy certainly lived up to his description.

“Unfortunately, Lucy, we were the victims of falsehoods, rumors, and
downright lies. As you may know,” Laura said, “John was told I had died of yellow fever and I was informed that he’d married someone else.” She laughed lightly, as though none of it mattered now. “Who on earth do you think,” she asked, “could be so malicious?”

Lucy looked thoughtful and turned away.

John and Bobby began telling stories about Miami, where the lovebirds planned to settle. The city’s current controversy raged over whether it should remain wet or go dry and prohibit the sale and consumption of alcoholic beverages. On their last visit they’d attended a big, week-long Miami tent revival. The next night an eerie procession had passed them on the street. Small children led the way, followed by a hundred young girls and women dressed in white and carrying flickering candles.

John and Bobby had joined the curious who followed it to the revival tent where Carrie Nation, the famous prohibitionist, was about to speak.

“Six hundred people were packed into that tent,” John said.

They had watched from the back as the solemn women in white raised their right hands to recite the temperance pledge.

John repeated it from memory, hand over his heart, as his father, brothers, cousins, and nephews hooted and howled. “I promise not to buy, sell, drink, or serve liquor while I live. From tobacco I’ll abstain, and never take God’s name in vain.”

“Then Carrie Nation stepped out,” Bobby said.

“What’s she like?” Laura asked eagerly.

“Somebody’s grandma,” John replied, “dressed in black, from her bonnet to her shoes. Except she carries a hatchet.”

“Had a mean face,” Bobby said. “Looks like Sheriff Baker in a dress.”

The room erupted in laughter.

“What did she say?” Laura persisted.

“That she didn’t choose her dirty work,” John said. “Then she ranked herself right up there with the heroes of the Good Book. Said, ‘The same God that put a staff in Moses’ hand, a jawbone in Samson’s hand, and a sling in David’s hand put a hatchet in the hand of Carrie Nation! It’s better to smash saloons than be smashed in hell!’

“She bust up any Miami saloons with that hatchet?” Joe asked.

John shook his head. “Said she quit smashing them up the way she did in Kansas. The hatchet’s just a symbol now. In fact she was selling some as souvenirs. Said she’s learned to go where the power is and is on to bigger things now. Kept yelling, ‘On to Washington!’

“She wants national prohibition. Swears the whole country is going dry sooner or later. The crowd clapped and stomped.”

The men all grew quiet, grimly pondering the prospect.

“Never happen!” Joe Ashley shook his full head of silvery hair for emphasis.

“Don’t know, Pop. If women had the vote, Miami would be dry today,” John said. “They put it on the ballot in the last election and the wets won by only forty-four votes.” He paused for emphasis. “And Miami’s chapter of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union has more than two hundred members. They’re on the warpath. Every church and one of the two newspapers stand with ’em. They’ve already shut down the saloons on Sunday, shortened operating hours, and hiked the cost of a liquor license from a few dollars to five hundred! And Dan Hardie, the new sheriff, promises strict enforcement of the law against selling liquor to the Indians.”

His audience looked appalled.

“You should see how little girls walk to school in Miami.” Bobby daintily demonstrated. “They zigzag back and forth across the street to avoid passing saloons. As though the devil and demon rum are gonna jump out at ’em.”

“If Miami, the state of Florida, or the whole damn country goes dry, it’s good news for us,” Bill said. He lit up a cigar, despite Lucy’s frown. “Those of us with our own stills will make a damn sight more money. People won’t give up drinking.”

“But operating a still would violate federal law,” John said.

“Hell, the law ain’t gonna crack down on people trying to feed their kids. Everybody around here has a still. And who drinks the most?” Bill asked.

“Lawmen and politicians,” Joe said.

“Damn right, Pop,” Bill replied. “Our best customers.”

John nodded. “Sometimes a shot of whiskey is the only thing good for what ails you.”

Even Leugenia had to agree on the medicinal value of alcohol along a wilderness frontier with few doctors and hospitals.

Joe shook his head sadly. “Don’t see how prohibition could ever happen.”

“Well, it’s coming to a head and it’s a fight to watch,” John said. “Miami picture shows run short films now in support of prohibition. In one, a drunk beats his wife. In another, he pawns his baby’s shoes and staggers to a saloon with the money.”

The men smoked cigars and raised a drink while they still could, as John and Laura wandered outside to be alone. Silver light from the full moon spilled down through the shadowy treetops as he kissed her again and again. Just as he slid his hand under her dress, Blue, his father’s favorite hunting hound, began to bay in a cornfield way down behind the barn.

“Sounds like he’s cornered something,” John said. “Could be the wildcat that killed all them chickens. I’ll run down there to see. Go inside, I’ll be right there.”

“No,” she said. “I’ll wait here for you.”

John, who’d worn a sidearm since he’d brought Laura and the children home, melted into the shadows like a ghost.

Laura hummed as she searched Leugenia’s garden for the source of a uniquely fragrant aroma. She had ruled out night-blooming jasmine. This was more spicy than sweet. As she knelt to pluck a leaf from a small, staked plant, a man in black sprang from the shadows, caught her roughly by the hair, and clamped his hand over her mouth.

“Scream and I’ll cut your throat, bitch.”

She knew his voice.

She kicked his shins with her heels and fiercely elbowed his ribs. He grunted in pain. “I’ll kill you right here!” he swore. He pressed a razor-sharp blade to her throat. When the knife nicked her skin she stopped resisting. Her heels dug into the soft earth as he dragged her around the side of the barn.

“I got her good,” he said jubilantly to a man who waited in the shadows.

“Hello, Laura.”

“Edgar! Why are you here?”

“To take back what’s mine.”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t make John kill you.”

He slapped her, hard, but she swallowed the cry that rose in her throat where the knife still hovered.

The man with the knife, Edgar’s cousin Roland, jerked her head back to further expose her throat. All she could see were the treetops and a star-studded sky. Tears stung her eyes. The hound stopped baying in the distance and she heard other voices on the breeze. How many? she wondered. And do they have any idea how many Ashley men are in the house?

“Come to your senses yet, Laura?” Edgar asked.

When she didn’t answer, he jammed the cold, hard barrel of a pistol to her forehead. She closed her eyes and silently repeated the Twenty-Third Psalm.

Another dark figure appeared and muttered something to Edgar.

His voice shocked Laura’s eyes wide open. “Reverend Hasley?” she gasped.

“Give her to me.” The preacher reached for her. “I have beseeched both Jesus Christ and your husband, Edgar, to forgive you. That was hard work, woman. So fall down on your knees, right here, and pray for forgiveness. Repent!” He caught her thick hair, wound it around his fist like a rope, and ripped the front of her dress as he slammed her to the ground.

The last time she’d seen him, he’d stood in the pulpit to preach God’s love. He had baptized her baby son and her little daughter.

“Where’s Dad and Sonny?” Edgar glanced over his shoulder.

He’s brought his father, his brother, his cousin, and the preacher. Five in all, she thought, fighting the urge to scream.

“Here they come.” Roland, still holding the knife, had drawn a pistol as well. “Let’s grab the kids, decide what we do with her, take what we want, and get the hell out of here.”

Two shadowy figures appeared, moving quickly. They were not alone. John kicked one in the seat of the pants to hurry him along. He had a pistol in each hand, another stuck in his belt.

“Sorry, son,” Edgar’s father said bleakly. “Ashley got the drop on us and took our guns.”

“If you’ve hurt her, you all die, right now,” John said, in a voice that frightened even Laura.

“Wasn’t me that cut her,” the preacher said. He let her go so abruptly that she stumbled forward onto her hands and knees.

Roland cursed. “It’s Edgar’s fault. Said he needed a posse to bring back his runaway wife.”

“Shut up,” Edgar said, a pistol in his hand. “Three of us are still armed. He’s only one man. He can’t kill us all before we shoot her. Don’t anybody else give up a weapon.”

“Hell,” John said. “Which is where I’m about to send you. Now. You call this sorry group a posse? I didn’t want anybody hurt over this. But now I’m provoked and might have to kill you. Did they hurt you, Laura?”

She hesitated. “No. There’s just the five of ’em.”

“Thank you, darlin’. You”—he gestured at the preacher with his gun—“help the lady up, then kneel, and ask her to forgive you.”

The reverend helped Laura to her feet and dropped to his knees as she held the torn bodice of her dress together. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“Not good enough.” John’s fingers tightened on the triggers of both guns. “Beg her. Now.”

“Please, ma’am, please forgive me,” the preacher babbled. “I knew not what I was doing.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said coldly.

“Come stand behind me, Laura,” John said.

“No,” she said, without hesitation.

He looked startled.

“I won’t stand behind you, John. I’ll stand with you. Give me a gun.”

He grinned. “Take the one from my belt, darlin.’ Be careful, it’s loaded. Don’t squeeze that trigger unless you have to kill somebody.”

“I can handle a gun,” she protested. “I know,” he said. “You learned from the best.”

She caught his belt with one hand, slid the weapon from his waist-band with the other, then stood beside him, feet apart, hands steady, her weapon trained on Edgar’s forehead.

No one moved.

Roland held the hunting knife in one hand; the other clutched his pistol, pointed at Laura. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

The preacher froze, afraid to reach for his own gun.

They all stared at each other in the white-hot moonlight.

At that moment Bobby burst out onto the porch, ran down the front steps and into the yard. “John! Laura! Frankie wants you to play—” He took one look, skidded to a stop, then dashed back inside, taking the steps three at a time.

Seconds later, men stampeded out of the house. Some charged down the front steps, others vaulted porch railings—John’s father, brothers, brothers-in-law, nephews, and cousins, all armed with rifles, shotguns, and pistols.

Inside, Lucy screamed, “Don’t you go out there, Billy! Don’t you dare get us involved!”

Bill was first out the door.