Leaving Whiskey Bend

by Dorothy Garlock

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

In 1890, the rough western town of Whiskey Bend, Colorado, is no place for single women. The final straw for widow Pearl Parsons and young schoolteacher Hallie Wolcott is the assault on their friend Mary. Desperately fleeing from the attacker, the three women drive away in an open wagon, seeking new lives and safety. When they’re caught in a violent storm on the road, help comes in the form of a stranger, Eli Morgan.

Release date: November 13, 2008

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

Prologue

WITH A NEARLY empty whiskey bottle swinging precariously from his limp hand, Caleb Morgan struggled to put one foot in front of the other as he stumbled down Bison City’s main thoroughfare. Every step, shuffle, or stumble was more wobbly than the last. A buzzing filled his head and his eyes swam in their sockets, but he somehow managed to stay upright.

Even though it was well after midnight, people milled about all around him as they continued to celebrate the Fourth of July holiday. Along the storefronts that lined the street, shouts, whistles, and laughter filled the air. Above him, fireworks exploded into a bright kaleidoscope of colors; reds, whites, greens, and blues lit up the night. Occasional gunshots further punctuated the festivities, rifles and pistols firing into the air.

“Evenin’ Caleb!” someone shouted.

“Evenin’ yourself!” he responded, his voice deeply slurred. He hadn’t even seen who had spoken to him and, to be honest, wasn’t even certain from the sound if it was a man or woman.

What the hell difference does it make anyhow?

Stopping in the middle of the street, Caleb threw his head back and stared up at the sky. In the inky blackness of the Colorado night, he knew that thousands of stars shone down on him, even though he couldn’t quite make them out. The moon, nearly a quarter full, shone in the west. A gentle breeze, a welcome respite from the sweltering summer day, rustled lightly against his face.

Doing his best to balance himself, he took a long pull of whiskey. The liquor burned a path down his throat and into his belly. What missed his mouth ran down his chin and added to the stains that littered his shirt.

Caleb could feel the effects of the alcohol pounding in his head. Doubtless he would be sick as a dog in the morning. He’d been drinking for hours—since well before the sun had set—and should have stopped much earlier if he were the least bit concerned about his own well-being. Who knows how many bottles I’ve already had a hand in finishing? Instead, he kept on, consequences be damned. After all, he’d found long ago that drink was the key that opened the lock to his prison.

And the ranch, as well as my father’s booted foot, is undeniably my prison.

At nineteen years of age, Caleb Morgan struggled mightily against the yoke that was his life. His father, Milburn Morgan, had come to Bison City decades earlier with but two things in mind: to raise a family touched by the grace of God and Country, and then to use the same determination to raise cattle. In that endeavor, he’d had mixed results. Nearly three hundred head grazed the grasslands from the family ranch to the south of town all the way to the Cummings River.

His family was another matter.

As the youngest of three brothers, Caleb hadn’t expected to have to shoulder the burden of carrying on his father’s legacy. His eldest sibling, Abraham, should have been the one, but he was . . . well, Abe was Abe, and there wasn’t anything that could be done about it.

Eli, only two years older than Caleb, had proven himself to be the Morgan boy blessed with true smarts. Good-looking, apparently wise beyond his years, and possessed of a strong work ethic, Eli seemed perfectly positioned to take over the family business from Milburn. The problem was that Eli wanted more out of life than Bison City could ever hope to offer him. To that end, he’d bided his time, doing all that he could to play the dutiful son. But it had all been an act. When he was ready, he’d opted for the first road that led out of town. In two days’ time, Eli was set to ship out on a troop train for destinations unknown, surely somewhere exotic, as a new recruit in the United States army.

“Lucky bastard,” Caleb muttered as he took another drink.

When he’d begun drinking, Caleb had told himself that he was toasting his brother’s departure, but in truth he knew himself to be green with envy. It wasn’t just that Eli was leaving, but that he’d had the strength to defy their father. Even in the face of Milburn’s rage, Eli had held his ground, refusing to give up his own dreams and wants, even if it cost him his father’s love. Deep down in Caleb’s stomach, drowning in the booze he’d consumed, he knew that if he had been standing in his brother’s shoes, he would have surrendered to his father’s will. The very thought of his weakness made him want to puke.

All that he could do was to strive to be more like Eli. Maybe, in a year or two, he could follow his brother into the army. Maybe he could find a way to get out from under his father’s thumb. Maybe he could escape.

“My day will come,” he promised himself.

Until then, he’d continue to do what he had always done to escape his prison; he’d drink himself into a stupor.

So far, the night had been a success. There had been as much laughter as there had been drink. The only downer had been running into that son of a bitch Seth McCarty! Caleb had been stumbling down the steps of the saloon when he’d bumped shoulders with the man. There had been the exchange of tense glares, a hint of violence in the air, but, thankfully, the encounter had ended peacefully.

The crack of a gunshot interrupted Caleb’s thoughts. He turned to the noise and peered through the gloom and haze of alcohol to see a heavily bearded man raise his rifle to the sky and fire off three more quick shots. Lowering his weapon, the man grinned through a mouth haphazardly filled with chipped teeth. “And God bless America!” he shouted.

“Amen, brother!” Caleb added enthusiastically.

Stumbling on down the street, Caleb was filled with the sudden urge to empty his bladder. Weaving between gaggles of revelers, he managed to make his way to the darkened space between the mercantile and the hardware store. Steadying himself with one hand planted firmly against the wall, he sent a stream of warm urine spattering against the wall and down onto his boots.

“Damn!” he cursed, trying to move his feet without pitching over onto his face. Even as drunk as he was, he was clearheaded enough to know that he’d be mighty angry at the rank smell of piss on his boots come morning. If I could . . . just move . . . a bit . . .

“Stay away from me, you brute!”

“Come on now, darlin’!”

Looking over his left shoulder and back out into the street, Caleb watched as a young woman squealed with delight, her hands lifting the hem of her dress, as a man chased her. With every step, his hands snatched hungrily for her bottom, hoping for a piece of flesh. While the woman’s words were fearful, the look on her face was one of pleasure. It was a ritual of courtship, such as it was in Bison City, on display for all to see.

“Well, I declare,” Caleb said softly. “What an idea!”

In that moment, Caleb knew that that was just what the festivities still needed: a warm body to lie against through the night. While he wasn’t quite the looker that Eli was—his brother more resembled their mother than father—he certainly wasn’t without charms of his own. Besides, at this point in the celebration, he wouldn’t expect any of the women he’d encounter to be very choosy. After all, he still had whiskey, so . . .

“Caleb!” a voice whispered from behind him.

Turning quickly at the sound, Caleb’s head swam with dizziness and he nearly toppled over. Once he’d steadied himself, he peered intently into the depths of the alley but could see nothing but blackness. He’d just about convinced himself that he had imagined the voice when it came again, louder and more insistent.

“Caleb! Come here!”

“Who’s there?” Caleb asked hesitantly as he managed to push his pecker back into his pants. Rubbing his fingers over his blurry eyes and his stubbly cheek, he stared at where the voice had come from, but he was still as unseeing as a blind man. Behind him, another volley of gunfire rose into the sky, but he paid it no mind, his attention fixed before him. “Who’s calling me?”

“I need your help!” the voice said in answer.

In his drunken haze, Caleb was dimly aware of something tugging at his thoughts, although he wasn’t sure what it was trying to say. Behind him, laughter and shouts called to him. Before him, something unknown and unseen waited. He didn’t know which way to turn.

As he stood in the alley, racked with indecision, a moment of clarity passed through his alcohol-clouded head. This situation is much like my life! Unlike Eli, he was always willing to run to what he knew, what was safe. His brother embraced adventure and even conflict and, because of these virtues, he’d managed to obtain his freedom. Maybe this was a test. Maybe he was destined to be right here, right now.

Maybe . . .

“Hurry, Caleb! Hurry!”

“I’m coming!” he managed with as much conviction as he could muster.

Dropping the whiskey bottle at his feet with a clatter, Caleb stumbled forward into the darkness, his eyes searching for something, anything that would explain what was happening. Suddenly, a shape appeared before him; he couldn’t even tell if it were large or small, man or woman. Before he could say even a word, another gunshot lit up the night.

With surprise, Caleb realized that the gunshot had come from in front of him rather than behind. With the realization came sharp pain that washed over him like a summer storm, violent and without warning. His hands moved to his chest where they found a wetness that startled him. Concern knit his brow and his heart began to hammer in his chest. His legs wobbled, then buckled, and he crashed onto his rump in the dust.

“Wh-why?” was all he could manage to say as he sucked wet gasps of air through clenched teeth. Desperation, fear, and then sadness coursed through his mind. He was dimly aware of a single tear sliding hotly down his cheek.

From the darkness came an answer that was both soft and bereft of emotion. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Unable to control himself, Caleb Morgan slid onto his side and then to his back. He could no more move his arms or his legs than he could move the heavens. As he stared up at the moon and stars, he realized that the pain that moments before had threatened to overwhelm him was going away; in its place came an overwhelming coldness.

Freezing in July was the last thought that passed through Caleb’s head before the darkness overtook him.

Chapter One

Whiskey Bend, Colorado, 1890

CHESTER REMNICK FLINCHED as the bullet whizzed past his face and slammed into the side of the house. Splinters flew like frenzied insects. The thunderous clap of impact echoed in his already dazed head. It took all his self-control not to soil his britches.

“You stupid, lazy, no-good son of a bitch! I warned you that if you took so much as one damn step I wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. Are you as deaf as you are ugly?”

Pearl Parsons cocked the rifle quickly, adjusted her grip on the weapon, and sneered down the length of its barrel. She was in her early forties, strong limbed and tough, with deep lines etched into the rough skin of her face. Her dark hair, streaked with strands of gray, was pulled to the back of her head and pinned in a loose knot. Built close to the ground, she had broad shoulders, sturdy arms and legs that could work alongside any man in town—and she wasn’t a stranger to using a weapon.

Even as she ignored the urge to wipe a bead of sweat from her brow with the crimson scarf that lay across her shoulders, her eyes never left her target. If Chester was to underestimate her resolve, he would be making a mistake—the last mistake of his life.

“What—what the hell are ya doin’ here?” Chester yelled.

“Shut your mouth!”

“You can’t come in my house and order me about,” the man continued, his nasal voice rising with indignation. Color began to return to his face with every word. “You roust me outta my sleep, then you take a shot at me! You got balls, bitch! You got balls that’d put a bull to shame!”

Early morning summer light bathed them in an orange glow. Having barely crested the horizon, the sun hung low and large in the eastern sky, a buttery orb readying to spread its warmth. The day would undoubtedly be hot, but for now the coolness of night clung to the air. Where birds had chirped loudly only moments before, they now fell silent in the wake of the gunshot. No breeze stirred the air. It was as if all nature were paying witness, holding their breaths for the next outburst.

“You’re gonna pay for this, bitch!” Chester threatened.

“You call me that again, chicken shit, and I’ll make a hen outta you.” Clutching the rifle, Pearl pointed it at his crotch, a sign of her resolution to use it.

She wondered if Chester Remnick was smart enough to even understand how desperate she was. He reminded her of a rodent. In his midtwenties, he was skinny and scraggly of body, with dirty brown hair that hung limply over his sharp features, and his face was defined by a hook of a nose and a receding chin. His beady black eyes, small teeth, and the ever-present stubble on his cheeks completed the picture. Like the rat that he resembled, he made Pearl feel the need to be alert when near him. She was glad that she wasn’t facing him unarmed. Glancing over her shoulder, she called to her companion, who stood stock-still in the grass twenty feet away.

“Hallie, are you all right?”

From somewhere in a deep fog, Hallie Wolcott finally managed to nod her head in response. The gunshot had frozen her almost as effectively as it had Pearl’s intended target. Her hand trembled as she pushed a strand of auburn hair from her smooth face. In all her twenty-two years, nothing had prepared her for what had taken place before her green eyes, and the shock had almost overwhelmed her.

“I’m all right.”

“Go see about Mary. This horse’s ass shoved her down,” Pearl said in a calm and firm voice.

With the mention that Mary needed her attention, the fear that had gripped Hallie suddenly released her.

Mary Sinclair lay in a crumpled heap several feet away, as if she were a doll that had been haphazardly thrown aside. Lifting her dark skirt, Hallie rushed to Mary and fell to the ground beside her. Deep sobs racked Mary’s body and shook her tiny frame. Her simple green dress rose and fell as each wave of emotion washed over her. She lay with her face pressed to the earth, her stringy hair swirling about her shoulders as if it had been tossed by a strong wind. Mewling, wet sounds escaped from her mouth.

“Is she all right?” Pearl asked anxiously.

“I—I can’t be certain,” Hallie admitted.

Gently she pushed the wayward strands of hair from Mary’s pale brow and turned her friend’s face toward her own. The woman’s eyes, bloodshot and red rimmed from crying, searched her own frantically, as if looking for shelter in a storm. Mucus and spittle were smeared across her nose and mouth. While these sights unsettled Hallie, what truly made her stomach churn were the cut and swollen lips and the bruises that covered Mary’s face; it was like a bizarre rainbow of colors, with greens, browns, purples, and all shades in between.

“Get yer goddamn hands offa her!” Chester bellowed. “She’s my woman.”

Pearl gave a derisive snort. “She’s not your woman, you son of a bitch! Just ’cause your pa married her ma don’t mean you have any claim to her.”

“Pa gave her to me!”

“Don’t say another word!”

“Ya stupid bitches don’t have no idea what yer getting into!” he continued, undeterred. “Ya ain’t got no right to butt in. What happens between a man and his woman ain’t none a yer business!”

“One more word out of you and you’re goin’ to be missin’ some parts and walkin’ spraddle legged—if’n you can walk at all!” Pearl shouted back.

Hallie cradled Mary’s head in her arms and stared coldly at Chester Remnick. If hatred were an emotion she could translate into action, she was certain that in that moment she would have killed the man. With that realization, she was glad that it was Pearl who held the rifle. Still, Chester wasn’t her real concern; Mary was.

“We’re taking you out of here, Mary,” Hallie soothed.

Putting all thought of Chester behind her, Hallie turned her attention back to her devastated friend. Placing a hand tenderly upon the woman’s shoulder, she softly asked, “Can you hear me, Mary?”

The only answer she received was a racking sob.

“She’ll be fine as soon as we’re gone from here,” Pearl offered.

“We’re leaving, Mary. We’re leaving Whiskey Bend,” Hallie said.

And you’re coming with us.

Hallie found it hard to believe that it had only been a few short hours since she had witnessed Chester viciously slapping Mary’s face in the center of Whiskey Bend. She and Pearl had happened upon the scene on their way home, and what they witnessed horrified them. Mary had stopped to speak with a young man, a clerk in one of the stores. Chester took her act as an affront and slapped her viciously. He punctuated each blow with a curse or slur, further demeaning the girl whose only crime was stopping to talk with an acquaintance.

Hallie flinched at every blow, as if she were the one being struck. Tears clouded her vision.

“Stop it, you brute! Stop hitting her!” she shouted.

“Tend to yer own business, slut,” Chester barked in answer.

Pearl’s hand grabbed her arm, refusing to allow her to become involved, when not a man along the street offered to interfere between a man and his woman.

“Now isn’t the time,” Pearl said.

“But he’s going to kill her!” Hallie argued.

“I’m not disagreein’ with your concern,” the older woman explained, her jaw set as firmly as if it were made of stone, “only with your timing. Not here and not now . . . but we will do something.”

In that moment, unspoken between the two of them, was the realization that it was time to leave Whiskey Bend. It was inevitable that, if they didn’t take Mary with them, Chester would surely kill her. Maybe not that night, or the one that followed . . . but it was going to happen! In order to save the life of Mary Sinclair, a girl they had befriended, they had to act fast. They needed to get themselves and Mary as far away from him, and Whiskey Bend, as possible.

Their plan had not yet been solid, but they had to act quickly. Hallie and Pearl each had her own reasons for leaving Whiskey Bend, and the sight they had witnessed was simply the final straw. They were leaving and they would take Mary with them.

After procuring horses and a wagon, the two women loaded it with their own meager belongings. Hallie held her tongue when Pearl placed the rifle in the wagon beneath the seat. It had still been pitch-black when they headed for the ramshackle cabin that Chester and Mary inhabited on the far outskirts of the township. Conveniently, the closest neighbor lived over a mile away; if things became messy, there’d be no one to interfere.

Regardless, they stopped the wagon a safe distance from the cabin and went the rest of the way on foot. They walked in silence, each keeping her thoughts to herself. As the sun just began to brush the horizon pink, the cabin came into view.

The place Chester and Mary lived was pitiful. Boards of many different shapes and sizes were nailed haphazardly together creating a small frame. Most of the windows contained broken glass and some no glass at all. The front door had been hung crookedly; it looked as if it were leaned shut. Hallie’s heart sank at the thought of her friend spending her days and nights in such squalor.

When they were no more than a stone’s throw from the cabin, Pearl spoke. Her words chilled Hallie all the way to the bone. “I’ll kill him if I have to,” Pearl promised, tightening her grip on the rifle.

“You can’t, Pearl,” Hallie replied. “You just can’t.”

“Don’t worry, Hallie,” the older woman said, a smile cracking her face. “I won’t if I don’t have to. It ain’t somethin’ I want to do, but I’ve gotta be ready for that snake if he strikes!”

Hallie wasn’t able to offer any further argument. Even though she couldn’t bring herself to admit it, the gun in Pearl’s hands made her feel safer. Chester Remnick was as sneaky as any serpent. There was no telling what he would do. He wouldn’t let them walk in and simply take Mary; Hallie was sure of that.

Slowly and quietly they made their way to the tiny cabin. Saying a silent prayer, they eased their way inside the crooked door. On the other side, in the room that made up most of the ramshackle home, they had found Chester sprawled on a filthy bed. He was dressed only in his pants and was snoring loudly. The room smelled strongly of the whiskey that had spilled from the bottle at his side.

“Quickly,” Pearl whispered, leading Hallie farther into the cabin.

In a lean-to attached to the back of the house, they found Mary asleep on a stained, sagging cot. She looked terribly young as she lay there, temporarily safe. Hallie felt a sudden urge not to wake her, not to bring her back. Pearl did not share the same sentiment and attempted to wake their friend. What happened next was the true nightmare.

“Mary,” Pearl cooed. “Mary, wake up.”

As the sleeping woman’s eyes had fluttered once, twice, then opened, the look that filled them wasn’t one of joy at seeing her friends, or even surprise as to why they happened to be standing in her bedroom. Instead, they reflected terror, sheer terror.

“No, no, get away! Get away from me!” Mary screamed.

Too stunned to think, both Hallie and Pearl remained frozen in place as Mary sprang up from the bed and made a dash for the door, desperate to escape. Pearl was the first to move and, after what had seemed like forever, Hallie followed.

“Mary! Stop, Mary! It’s Pearl and Hallie!”

“Get—get away from me!”

They passed Chester, still groggy yet quickly awakening from his drunken stupor, and burst back out into the growing daylight, when Mary simply collapsed onto the ground and began to wail. Hallie was about to run to Mary, to offer some comfort, when Chester’s liquor-addled voice burst into the morning.

“Stay away from her, ya stupid bitches,” he growled.

From the time that Chester had first spoken to this moment seemed no more than a blink of the eyes to Hallie, punctuated by a gunshot. As she looked down at Mary’s shaking form, she couldn’t help but wonder if Chester’s first question had a logical answer. What are we doing here? Hallie assumed that Mary would be thrilled at the thought of leaving her squalid life, but she was terrified instead. Now, with Chester alert and threatening, Hallie knew that their chances of leaving without violence were slim.

“Just stay where you are, you miserable son of a bitch,” Pearl snapped. “She didn’t know who we were, Hal. . .