Chapter Text
August, 1874
The great metal monstrosity that was the morning departure (all-stops) to Oakland Long Wharf arrived in Red River at precisely 11:43 am, only twenty minutes off-schedule by accounting estimates. A vast improvement, the engineers agreed, because the last time the bellowing behemoth tried to make the journey from east to west across these great United States, it had arrived in San Francisco nearly three days past the scheduled time, and there had just about been a riot from waiting workers for the trouble. Twenty minutes was nothing - why, it was practically early! As if anyone on board would be concerned for timely affairs in a place like Red River.
Certainly, it would be a surprise indeed if a single passenger took note of the little station as anything more than passing scenery, for hardly anyone bothered to come out this way by train - or perhaps at all. Red River was the last speckle of civilization before the wide expanse of untamed land, the proverbial frontier that seemed to stretch on into infinity. The suits of Washington might have sketched a train-line across the map, but there was savage wilderness still yet to be discovered just south of the steam engines. Below the feeble boundaries that marked Red River’s outline, the earth was unclaimed and brutal: dust and destiny for any man brave enough, or stupid enough, to look for it, and only the Almighty knew what bones were buried under unforgiving southern sun.
Truthfully, the ramshackle ruins of Red River were nothing more than a few cobbled together scraps of wood, thrown in place no more than thirty years prior by some of the first frontiersmen to pass through. A trickle of explorers, following the mountain range that carved through the midwest, eventually set down some loose stools and heavy liquor, leaving a kind of stopping point before trundling back out into the unknown. Ranchers had scattered about with their cattle wherever vegetation could be found, but little else remained to suggest attempts at civilization. One could easily be forgiven for blinking when the town went by, for what was there to see, really? Two saloons and a barber shop that also served as a dentist, which carried the mail when the post office was closed; a few seedy fellows who followed the run of the rail, looking for work at stops along the way. Neither law nor order kept company in the run-down trails that failed to mimic roads, but there were almost too few heads to threaten any crime besides. It was a place to disappear into, a kind of last rites before vanishing into the grave of untold wild. A quiet kind of death all on its own.
The conductor could easily have thought that they had stopped simply for a quick restock on coal, so rarely did they pause here; in fact, memory pinched thin, he’d be hard pressed to recall a single passenger ever disembarking at the crumbling station, which was hardly more than a few more planks of wood and some rust masquerading as nails. If he hadn’t been passing through the dining car, he might have easily missed the pretty blue dress that was standing at the coach doors, a single suitcase held tightly in her lily-white hand. He might easily have assumed she was simply arriving for an early lunch, or perhaps stretching out her legs from the long journey. But no - she was standing by the doors, and she had her hand pressed to the latch like she was trying to decipher how to open it, and the conductor nearly tripped over himself as he hastened to attend to his duties at this most peculiar turn.
“One moment, miss,” he wheezed, and the woman in the blue dress startled. As he was busy undoing the bolt and pulling open the door with a loud call, announcing to the empty station that there were passengers (of single note) departing, the conductor was unable to take in the full picture of what was waiting on him, but he could see a gleam of gold that was her hair, done up in the elegant style of the city’s elite, and the stately tilt of her head as she peered around the doorway. As the train settled, she briefly rested her suitcase at her feet, and the conductor snatched it up without a thought, hauling it out onto the wilting platform before turning to offer his hand to the woman in blue.
If he had any queries or concerns for this passenger, stepping out into this God-forgotten town, they were quickly forgotten in shock. The person was indeed a young woman, and closer to the younger of the scale, but she was a vision in the empty abyss of this landscape: an oasis of an entirely different kind in the desert, stepping delicately onto rotted planks, her hand light in his. Her pale, fine skin bore all the hallmarks of wealth and privilege, with naturally bright, pink cheeks that contrasted with the deep inkwell of her eyes. Her golden hair was twisted into a neat chignon atop her head, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat, and her lips gave the appearance of a mouth that was meant to be smiling. She might have been visiting royalty, for all the grace of her movement, and the conductor dipped into a rather clumsy bow just out of the shock of it - certainly, he had never seen a young woman that pretty out in a place like this. The bow, however, ridiculous as it was, saved him some composure, for it was only upon closer inspection that he realized the woman’s dress, though clean and tidy, displayed the unmistakable signs of mending and refurbishment, and the peek of her shoes from underneath the hoop of her skirt suggested a size too small to be worn.
The conductor cleared his throat, shifting his weight about as he placed the women’s suitcase - which, now that he could take a good look at it, was a pretty and sturdy piece about twenty years out of fashion - gently back down at her feet. There had been waves of “unfortunates”, as the papers tended to call them, ever since the Stock Exchange had been on the bleeding end, but most of them were young men with soiled suits, clinging to a bottle as they careened from one town or another, desperate to find some kind of trade that might take in a broken banker. Even then, they never had the nerve to stop here. One might have lost everything, but one still had something to hope for, outside of Red River.
“You’re sure this is your stop, miss?” the conductor asked awkwardly, steadfastly ignoring the faces peeking through the windows on the train to see what exactly the holdup was. “Not much here, is all, and the next town isn’t for a couple hundred miles -”
“This is Red River, isn’t it?” the woman asked, reaching into her chatelaine bag. There didn’t seem to be much in it, judging by its limp state, but the lady withdrew a folded letter without much difficulty, peering down upon the address written neatly along the top-right corner. “En route the Oakland transcontinental?”
“It is,” the conductor affirmed, trying to covertly spy the signature on the letter.
“Then this is my stop,” the woman said simply, and such was the certainty of her statement that the conductor did not register the dismissal for what it was. Elegantly, the woman tucked the letter back into her purse, before undoing a pretty straw hat looped to her luggage and placing it neatly atop her golden head. “Thank you very much for your help, sir, and I hope you have safe travels.”
The conductor started, face flushing slightly as it dawned on him that he had been staring. The woman did not seem to notice his foolishness, nor the absurdity of her placement in the situation; her well wishes were as elegant an exit as he could have asked for, and yet the conductor hesitated. The station - if it could so be called - sat just a ways off from the main road, but fairly well within sight of the scattering of buildings that comprised the town. There was no one waiting to welcome the new arrival, no one trudging up the path to collect her, and it would be in poor recommendation for the girl to walk the slight distance over: her shoes would already have been uncomfortable without the added strain. As he fretted over the newly appointed dilemma, the train gave a warning whistle, and the head engineer leaned out of the coal room further up the tracks, bellowing something no doubt offensive and threatening.
“Do you have someone meeting you, miss?” he asked, inching closer to the door, so as to be able to grab onto the handle should the beast attempt to take off without him.
The woman nodded, her expression smoothed of any indication of worry or concern. “Oh yes. I expect they’ll be here any minute now.”
That remained to be seen, but it wasn’t the conductor’s place to ask - his work started and ended with the duration of a passenger’s ticket. It would be foolish to risk his employment for so singular a concern, not with the rail sector in such precarious circumstances; still, he could not shake the hesitation of simply leaving her there. The woman gave no indication of doubt, no hint of disquiet, and perhaps her calm was all he could reasonably ask for - besides, the train was giving a rather ominous shudder as the engine fired up, and the driver was just the sort of bastard to leave a low-ranking peon behind. With a hapless little nod, the conductor leaped back into the safety of the train’s embrace, shutting the door with a solid clang on the scene; there was a piercing whistle, a groan of machinery grinding and pulsing together, and with gathering speed, the Transnational All-Stops to San Francisco train peeled away, leaving Charlotte Morningstar alone on the station of Red River.
Charlotte did not look back to watch it depart. For a moment she remained, still and standing, upon the sagging platform, arms loose at her sides as she swept her gaze over the spot. Perhaps calling it a station was too generous - it really was a pitiful little thing, rotted wood groaning with every threat of a step upon the surface. No railings, nor paint, nor a proper set of stairs to cover the short jump down to the earth below; a lonely little stage, for an audience of blistering sun and empty horizon.
There was nowhere to sit, either, but that was a pleasant boon: the distance between New York and Red River had been just outside of a week, and the chance to stretch her legs on solid ground was as close to a blessing as the Lord might permit. So too was the stillness of the scene around her, where naught but the breeze seemed to have any life in it; the constant, screeching wail of the train and its components had left an ache in her temples, a growing banshee’s shriek that had threatened to blot out near everything else.
She closed her eyes where she stood, evening her breathing to a deliberate, steady beat. Heat, burning unlike anything she had ever felt before, wrapped itself around her like a shroud, sinking deep into her skin until she thought the blood might bubble in her veins. The quiet had the quality of a dream, too hushed and heavy, too hazy in the periphery of her vision. It was as if she was poised on the edge of some great drop, some sudden shift: the calm before the storm, a growing unease rumbling in her chest, louder than the thundering of the train upon the tracks.
It was another few minutes before the sound of hooves and cart-wheels grinding over broken dust shook her from her thoughts, and Charlotte’s head snapped up to spot the approaching wagon making its way toward her. The sun was in full blaze, now, and the heat of it made the very air shimmer; even lifting her hand to further shade her eyes from the glare did little to help. Only colour and sound came through, slow and splotchy; a soft blot of red and white, trotting steadily forwards, announcing itself in full detail once it had ground to a stop right at the station’s edge.
It was a simple wagon, devoid of any kind of emblem or decoration - completely at odds with her memories of her father’s favourite carriage, gilded and glamoured to almost peacockish tier. The wood was worn, and the backing was missing the customary cloth overpiece, but unlike the station (or the rest of the town), it seemed to be kept in good order. The harness was a healthy burnished leather, attached to a pretty saddlebred of such rich colouring that their coat gleamed a bright red in the sun, though the mane was cut crooked and wild along the crest.
On the other end of the reins, peering at her from underneath a worn black stetson, sat the driver. His age was difficult to determine: though he bore all the hard markings of a life on rough land, the lines around his eyes and mouth were not carved deep into the skin; his hair was still dark and thick beneath his hat, and, despite his terrible posture, the stretch of his chest and shoulders hinted at a powerful build. His skin was a rich chestnut, darkened in the arms and hands by prolonged exposure to the sun, and despite the sweat on his brow, he seemed at home in the desert heat.
The crush of anxiety, shifting in her chest, coiled into something trepidatious and still. She had crossed the point of no return long before she had left home, but there was something final in this next dispatch, something immutable and inevitable. Like a soul along the Acheron, coin in hand and trembling afterlife all but mist, there was only forward, and she longed to step back.
“You Charlotte?” the man grunted suddenly, evidently tired of their little stare-off, and Charlotte startled back into her good manners.
“Yes! Yes, I’m - yes, so sorry, I’m still recovering from the train - yes, I’m Charlotte, Charlie, everyone calls me Charlie - I mean, my friends, but who’s to say we can’t be friends, a-ha! I’m, er, yes, I -”
Ignoring her babbling, the man’s gaze slid down to the single suitcase sitting at her feet, before glancing sideways, as if expecting to see another bag or two. When nothing of note was spotted, he jerked his chin towards the valise. “That all you bring?”
“ - but I never liked Char-Char, to be honest, it always seemed - hmm?” Charlotte - Charlie - looked down, inspecting the bag as if expecting it to disappear at her feet. “Oh! Yes, this is it.”
A bushy eyebrow arched - just one, just an inch, but it asked aplenty and said even more, and Charlie tensed. Whether inquiry or implication, it was enough to have her hoist her bag determinedly in hand, crossing the short distance over the station to the edge of the platform, just off the rise of the road.
The step down was hardly a leap - not exactly ladylike to make, but it wasn’t as if anyone of any social standing were here to judge her (the driver, assuredly, did not make that mark). Before Charlie could make the jump, however, her new companion swung out of the driver’s seat with a little groan of effort, both feet hitting the loose dirt with a graceless thud. He looped around the excited horse, who was busy stomping the pebbles underhoof to powder, and took Charlie’s suitcase with nary a word; if he had any thoughts on the weight of it, he was wise enough to keep them to himself this go-around. Heaving it up onto his shoulder, the man made as if to toss the entire thing into the back of the wagon like a bale of hay, but seemed to think better of it at the sight of Charlie’s horrified expression; what might have been a mighty swing turned into a careful, if clumsy, drop.
Without the luggage, it was easier to hop down to the ground below, but it didn’t make it any more elegant - Charlie tottered slightly on her too-small heels, reaching out to grasp onto the closest wheel of the wagon to balance herself. The horse, still excitedly carving the ground up, didn’t seem to notice the flurry of activity, and Charlie realized why a moment later, when the choppy red bangs shifted slightly to reveal one of the blinkers had been adjusted to entirely cover the right eye.
“Coyote tried to take a bite out of her.” The driver, stopping to tighten the buckle on the reins, gave the horse an affectionate pat on the flank. “Easy, Nif, that’s a girl.”
“A coyote!” And of course there were such creatures out on the frontier, with God’s mists still veiling the wild from mortal eyes - but she’d never even seen a stuffed one before! “I didn’t know they ate horses!”
“They’ll eat anything that looks like a meal out here,” the driver replied, face scrunched up in distaste. “And she had a real bastard of an owner for a while. Couldn’t break her in, so he just up and left her out in the grass for anything to pick off. Damned thing thought it had an easy dinner, and next anyone knows, ol’ girl here kicked it’s head in and was trotting around with the corpse on her back. Hah!”
Evidently, the memory was still enough to warrant a hearty chuckle from the man, and he was still wheezing when he spotted the look on Charlie’s face, and realized this was, perhaps, not the sort of joke one should be repeating to a lady.
“Anyways!” he said hastily, tugging awkwardly on his hat as he gave a clumsy little shrug. “Best, uh, best get going, huh? ‘Spect you want to rest after that trip.”
The smile Charlie returned seemed less for the coming respite, and more like she was still trapped in the image of a horse displaying their murdered conquest.
The wagon shifted slightly as the aforementioned horse stomped excitedly, seemingly eager to be up and off again. Cognizant of how close she might get to those aforementioned legs, Charlie slipped her hand into the small metal ring close to the passenger’s seat, realizing just as she went to hoist herself up that there was no step to help her into place.
It was such a small matter, and hardly one to worry about in the grander scheme of things, but Charlie flushed, floundering. If she were at home, perhaps she would have laughed it off, and asked for help; she might have lifted her skirts in that scandalous way her mother would have gasped at, and swung herself into her seat like a man out of his frock coat. She might have done a dozen things, without thinking of it, because what was a missing step, really? What was the difference to it all?
But she was not at home, surrounded by loved ones, and the week spent in a rattling train carriage had seemingly shaken the little common sense and composure she had left to her; she could only stand there, hand gripping the little rail for dear life, and consider how best to keep her dignity climbing into a stranger’s wagon, who was taking her to a stranger’s home, who would give her a strange new life, and everything she had kept coming up short.
There was an awkward little pause, and then the driver was at her elbow, offering her a boost up, with an expression that might have been pity. Charlie, face red and eyes glassy, murmured an embarrassed thank you, and settled into her seat like a royal on their way to an execution.
Things were different on the frontier, Charlie reminded herself: untamed, unschooled, wild and wicked and without the trappings of civilization. It was a struggle to survive, so why would anyone waste time on little things? One needn’t a step when one could simply leap up and forwards; one needn’t pity or concern when one could make their way on Godless land. She was the oddity here, in flounce and frills; she was the stranger, coddled and spoiled, and she could not expect to find anything of home in this place. There was no aid to progress - there was only ever up, or collapse.
The driver, finished his inspection of both horse and harness, heaved himself back into his seat (without any trouble), glancing sideways at his new charge with an ill-disguised disquiet. Perhaps he was wondering if she’d always be so quick to upset over inconsequential things; perhaps he was afraid she’d start crying. Perhaps, he was taking in the sight of her, back straight and lips pursed, with hands held tightly in her lap, and wondering what misfortune had brought her to this part of the world. Perhaps he was thinking nothing of her at all.
Whatever his thoughts, he gripped the reins in his sun-darkened hands, and gave them a practiced flick, and the coyote-killer horse cheerfully set back out into the Great Unknown.
Betting, her father used to say, was the Devil’s game: only wise men and fools ever played it, and a player could be both depending on his wager.
In the Old World, as one still called it, the family’s first forays into fortune started simply: invention and shipment, minor goods peddled from town to town, then city to city. Neither destitute, nor ancient with gold, they made their way to the Enlightened shores of New England, and found their calling changed about when they struck oil in Pennsylvania.
From that accidental trickle came a wealth of opportunities. Shipping, trade, agriculture and finance: the Morningstars had their hands in every pocket, without the typical greed of the burgeoning nouveau riche. They were never fully welcome down south, where their open disdain for that despicable trade was evident in every deal, but even if their presence and abolitionist sentiments weren’t present, their products were. New Yorkers were fond of saying that everything you bought was only two or three degrees separated from a Morningstar patent.
Success brought influence, and influence brought standing; there was always a governor or two who could spare a moment for a Morningstar, always a President who had one on his mailing list. When, in 1853, President Pierce made a rare public appearance, it was to help celebrate the wedding of one Lucifer Morningstar to Miss Lilith Van Rensselaer, and in 1857, President Buchanan was kind enough to send a gift for the occasion of their daughter’s birth.
It was easy to feel invincible, to consider oneself untouchable. Generations of Morningstars had been wealthy beyond compare, and became even more so after the war. The country was in need of rebuilding, and Lucifer had been in high demand - dashing off along the coast, frequently overseas, always so eager to come home to his wife and daughter, as generous with his money as he was ostentatious in his attire. He wanted the best for his only child, and everything came glitzed and gilded and wrapped in silk, too rich for a girl of such sweet nature, but always in supply. The world was theirs for the taking, and who could deny them the chance to indulge?
They were fearless, and decadent, and so very, very happy, and in their joy, they were careless. Bolstered on the optimism of a new age, Lucifer and Company invested with the reckless abandon of suicidal confidence: stocks in the railroad, newly expanded, and stocks in the silver coin, always to be worth a mint! Convinced to buy up land at reduced rate, at the government’s urging, and mark it out for a unification of east and west. Dashing out to the Indies and the islands, to Europe and back again, money always loaned at a relaxed rate, never worrying about the interest, because only calamity would render it worthless! And who had time to panic over something so unlikely?
And that, in the end, was the bet.
The coin fell, first. Silver stock, plundered and rendered worthless, with investments in the treasury suddenly accounting to less than floss. A nasty blow, and a shocking one; half the wealthy of New York were rendered destitute overnight, and the other half weren’t faring much better. Concerning, but it was a temporary setback, as Lucifer assured them all. The silver would always have value, but for now, they’d focus on the stocks and this business with the railroad.
Jay Cooke and Company folded soon after.
Charlie was never allowed to listen in on the business meetings and negotiations - it wasn’t becoming of a lady to know how to balance a chequebook and render interest over bonds. She took in what she could when she had the chance, and perhaps it wasn’t enough to run an industry, but it was enough to know that the careful house of playing cards that represented the country’s finances had resoundingly, entirely, collapsed.
The papers would run a hundred stories on the Great Depression that started with the Coin Act of 1873, and the closing of the stock market, the depletion of the banks. Others would go on to riot and protest, clash with the banks and the police and anyone they saw as responsible for the mess. For the Morningstars, the entirety of their fortune disappeared in the span of three months and change: every single investment punctured and hollow, and every single cheque no longer worth the paper it was printed on. The railroad, which had once been touted as Lucifer Morningstar’s most prized project, took what little was left of their pride, and tossed it in the gutter.
Overnight, they were penniless: the beautiful mansion that had been the family home for generations was sold and stripped, and all their furniture tossed out for scraps. Lilith had stoically pawned her jewels, and her dresses; the many, many tokens of love and family that had been gifted to her by her devoted husband, exchanged for a paltry fraction of their worth. The gaudy carriage and all the horses had been repossessed by the banks, and Charlie was no longer permitted to take afternoon tea with the vice-president’s niece.
Even then, it might have been salvageable. Their fall had happened so fast, but surely it wouldn’t last forever; who was to say their fortunes wouldn’t turn around? Money could be gained and lost, but the family had each other, and even if they were forced into a set of crowded rooms, with heating that never quite worked right, they had their health. They had their family. Even if they never recovered a dime, a little patience would yield its own rewards.
That was the danger of a bet, as it turned out. A wise man knew when to take his winnings, but a fool was impatient to lose it all.
It was some last desperate measure, a kind of grasping at straws that simply wasn’t worth the risk. Lucifer, his overlarge top-hat droopy and patched, scuttled down to the coast, and then on to the tropics - hoping to get loans from his old ties in the trade industry, in the insurance business, in anything at all. For all his efforts, and all his old generous habits, he returned poorer than when he had left, with a sickness that refused to abate. Three days later, when the doctor came on credit, Lucifer had a diagnosis of Yellow Fever, and he was dead before the medicinal script could be properly filled out.
The Panic of 1873, as it would one day be known, started in early September of that year. The Morningstar fortune was gone by mid-December, and Lucifer Morningstar was buried in a modest ceremony just outside of February. Lilith Morningstar, catatonic with grief, lingered for a few weeks more, before she too succumbed to the fever which killed her husband (romantics, who always saw a story in someone else’s tragedy, insisted it was of a broken heart, and perhaps they weren’t far off). Charlotte Morningstar, barely seventeen, was left a ward of a crumbling state, worse than penniless in a failing economy.
It had almost been funny, how quickly everything had changed - as if someone had snuffed out a candle, throwing the bright lights of a settled future into the darkness of the complete unknown. Charlie had been left with almost nothing, save a few feeble stocks in struggling companies that weren’t guaranteed to finish the year; a few jewels from her mother, too sentimental to sell; a handful of books from her father’s library. The mass conglomeration of the Morningstar company had been sold off, piecemeal, to investors, and whatever was left went to repaying the mountain of debts that total collapse had incurred. The wide community in which the Morningstars once held court were of no use: most were struggling to hold onto their own fortunes, and the rest had no desire to be seen with a victim of such calamitous luck as Charlie Morningstar.
The family lawyer, who by all accounts could have simply passed the unpaid buck to someone else, did his best to keep some measure of composure regarding Charlie’s future; by spring of 1874, however, it was clear that there would be no respite from the economic turmoil. There was nowhere for Charlie to go, no sudden saviour with a last-minute miracle - without value, the society that had once clamoured for her attention now discarded her like trash. She was too well-bred for even the most relaxed of governess positions, too poor and opinionated to be anything but trouble. Whatever arrangements that could be made would have to be unconventional.
What Charlie wanted - if, indeed, there was anything to want - was not taken into consideration. She was old enough to take the weight of the world, still young enough to approach it with a certain level of optimism. She would make do with whatever was arranged for her, of that everyone was certain.
She would simply have to.
There was no trail for the wagon to follow as it made its way through the arid desert. Whatever the destination, it seemed the driver knew the way by heart, for he held no map and consulted no compass - save for a select few twitches on the reins, he didn’t even need to steer.
It was awkward, of course, sitting next to a perfect stranger in such close quarters, but the man didn’t break the silence, and Charlie hesitated to interrupt his solitude. Up close, she could more clearly see the grey thick at his temples, the lines around his eyes; there was a scent about him that was neither pleasant nor upsetting, but lingered about his person like an old cologne. He didn’t turn to look at her, but Charlie caught his gaze flickering in her direction more than once, and she assumed he was sizing her up in just the same way she was evaluating him.
They had left the scraps of Red River behind by a good half an hour, and for quite a while, the only thing to be seen was red-rusted dust and mountains on the horizon. A sparse spattering of cacti and jagged rock broke the monotony of solid ground, but the wide expanse of earth around them offered little else in the way of variance. For a land that held no law and honoured no God, it certainly lacked the zest and tempest promised.
Shifting in her seat, Charlie squinted out into the horizon, one hand lifted in a futile attempt to keep the glare out of her eyes. The very air seemed to shimmer around them, reflecting the growing heat of the desert, and the mountains in the distance flickered lazily in and out of sight, their shapes melting into the haze around them. Nothing else moved - not a bird in the sky, nor so much as a faint breeze along the sparse vegetation.
“Not what you were expecting?” the driver asked gruffly, and Charlie jumped; it was the first time either of them had spoken since she boarded the wagon. His eyes were still on the invisible trail ahead, but Charlie had the distinct impression he was scrutinizing her beyond the superficial, discerning that which she couldn’t begin to guess at.
“I … don’t know what I expected,” she replied honestly, folding her hands neatly in her lap to resist the urge to fidget. “I’ve heard so many stories over the years that I wasn’t sure what to believe. I suppose I was picturing it to be more … lively?”
The driver tilted his head up, gesturing with the jut of his chin towards the simmering sands that surrounded them in every direction. “First thing you learn out here, no one wants to be lively in this heat. Almost everything waits for the sun to go down, ‘cept the fools and the desperate.”
“Which one does that make us then?” Charlie asked with the ghost of a smile, and she was positive her companion’s mouth twitched.
“Bit of both, I reckon,” he remarked, and Charlie couldn’t help but agree.
Lively was perhaps a bit of an understatement: everyone and everything spoke of the frontier as a place of battle and destruction, life and death and struggle in the face of an uncaring God. Wild animals, and soulless men, and the Indians who came in like a storm and left nothing but ruin in their wake. To go west was to seek adventure, or some quick end, and Charlie had never had to consider either option before. Granted, one could assume none of the stories - lurid and fanciful, like in the saucy dime novels she once hid under her bed, or violent and mutinous, such as the papers always seemed so fond of - ever mentioned pitched battle by moonlight, but creative liberties must surely be taken; it would be difficult to describe some wild attack if one couldn’t actually see what was going on.
The heat grew as they ventured further into the inevitable; the steady grind of the wheels over dust and grit became a softer sound, rolling smoothly over patches of earth that seemed to increase as they drove on. The searing reds and oranges of sun and scorching earth became a muted array of yellow, green, and brown - scraggled bushes, then wilted trees, growing in number as they kept the pace.
“I didn’t ask your name,” Charlie said suddenly, turning, for the first time, to look at her companion.
The driver glanced aside. “Figured it didn’t matter.”
“No, that was terribly rude of me.” Firmly, almost briskly, she bridged the gap between them with the offer of her hand, the fading lace on her gloves drooping like wilted leaves. “I’m Charlie Morningstar. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The driver looked at her hand as if he had never seen one in his life before, making no move to take it. The silence between them stretched thin; Charlie did not budge. Then, almost tentatively, his own grizzled paw took hers in a hesitant, confused, handshake.
“Call me Husk.”
His grip, though gentle, was not the limping platitude a gentleman offered a lady; he shook her hand like she was a fellow traveller on the road, equal in station and pleasant strangers sharing space.
“Husk …?” Charlie queried, surreptitiously tightening her hold in such a way that she hoped conveyed equal confidence, and not that she was a silly little girl, in far over her head. Judging by the speed in which he tugged his hand back, she wasn’t entirely certain she had succeeded.
“Husk.” It was not combative, nor a warning, but a simple affirmation of the one fact deemed necessary.
A name was currency, her father used to say: it paid your way through the door, and kept you at the table when no one else was seated. She’d known Astors and Morgans, Roosevelts and Goelts, presidents and kingsmen and prestige beyond compare - artefacts of wealth that wore their names like armour, who never dared a handshake with anyone outside of lineage. They said their appellation with the assumption of answering devotion; Husk said his with the easy confidence of truth. He simply was: no more, no less.
It was strangely novel.
“I’m sorry you had to come all this way, Mr. Husk,” Charlie said, her eyes sweeping back over the dusty trail that was slowly, but surely, transforming into patches of growth and rich-green earth. Dips and bends of rolling hills and crooked paths carved out into the sandy desert, revealing glimpses of hidden crevices filled with colour, otherwise invisible in the burning sun.
“Just Husk,” the driver said, giving the reins a little flick. “S’no trouble. Niffty needed the exercise, anyhow, ‘n I figured it couldn’t hurt to check the bar.” Glancing at her, Husk grimaced guiltily. “For, uh, a friend.”
Charlie, thankfully, did not pick up on the edit. “Are there many people who live in Red River, then?” she inquired. “It seemed so small as we were passing through - does everyone live as far as this?”
Husk snorted. “No one lives there. ‘S just where folks tend to gather. Can’t get the mail or the godforsaken taxes spread out like this.” There was another dart of his eyes, another embarrassed scowl. “Sorry. Not too used to the fancier folk out here.”
She glanced down at that, lacing her hands more tightly together in her lap. “I don’t really suppose I am, anymore. Fancy.”
There was another pause, still and quiet; it lasted only a moment before Husk cleared his throat. “There’s, uh … there’s people spread all around, you know where to look. The town is just where supplies get dropped off. Everything else you need, you get it yourself. Law of the land.”
“Are there many people?” It was easy to be curious - even in the plush Morningstar estate, there were always people crowded around, always neighbours on the streets and shops on every corner. One could find it difficult to be lonely in New York, when there was always someone nearby; here, it seemed as if the only two people in the world were riding the wagon into the unknown.
Husk jerked his head in what might have been a nod, or a shake, or very possibly both. “Mostly ranchers,” he replied, “‘n most have been here longer than dirt, so to speak. There’s a few smaller farms, down closer to the river; your ranch is the biggest, got a fair number of folk spread ‘round. I’ve got my own place, bit further west, and -”
“You own a ranch?” It slipped out before she could chip it into something polite, presentable; perhaps the rocking of the train had knocked her sensibilities loose. She flushed slightly as Husk arched an eyebrow at her. “I’m sorry - I thought … I thought you worked for … since you came to collect me, and I just -”
“Free country out here,” Husk said pointedly, and there was something clipped to his words. “Anyone can call himself his own master.”
The implication in the reproof hit like a slap to the face; mortified shame bubbled up as bile in Charlie’s throat, coating the words that were spilling hurriedly off her tongue. “Oh, no, no, I - I wasn’t assuming -! I didn’t think that, Mr. Husk, please believe me, I wasn’t insinuating -”
Though it didn’t necessarily soften, something in Husk’s expression eased; the hard line of his shoulders relaxed into a slump, and the sigh he exhaled was as heavy as a lead anchor. “It’s Husk.” A beat. “Christ, you’re just a kid, huh?”
It was nearly gentle, and just the faintest bit mournful: like a send-off at a wake, knowing in the inevitability of grief. Stung, Charlie opened her mouth to protest, but Husk shook his head. “You are. Never had to work for your dinner, or your home, never had to worry about how you were putting food on the table. Ain’t your fault, but now you’re here - and you don’t know what’s coming for ya. Don’t even know what to brace for.”
He said it kindly enough, and he said it simply enough, but perhaps that was what made it hurt all the more: the blunt, brusque summary of her life, stripped bare and left forlorn in the blistering desert heat. A sob, strangled and splintering, choked its way past the clench of her teeth, and Charlie quickly turned her head to hide the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, fist pressed to her mouth to muffle the sounds of her cries.
It was ash and smoke, thick in her chest, coiled around her ribs: if she opened her mouth and let the grief flow, she’d spew a storm she’d never calm. Her composure was porcelain-fragile, cracked and glued with clumsy haste, but it was all she had left - she couldn’t chance losing it now. Digging her nails into the hard wood of the seat’s edge, she blinked away the tears threatening to drown her; whimpers, torn and bleeding in her throat, softened and stilled until she could safely swallow them down. Like the pulling of a chain, the movement of a careening locomotive crossing the nation: bit by bit and gritted determination, until, at last, something like calmness settled across her features once again.
The struggle had hardly gone unnoticed. Husk, evidently discomforted by the surfeit of emotion, had busied himself with rooting about for something on the inside of his jacket, one hand held loose on the reins as he searched. As soon as it became clear that Charlie had gotten herself under control, he pulled out a small flask and, after a brief hesitation, offered it to her.
She wasn’t naïve enough to be ignorant to the contents, but she took it all the same, nose wrinkling as she unscrewed the cap. It was much of the same scent that clung to Husk, but quite a bit stronger; one would be forgiven for assuming it was nothing but pure ethanol. The memory of carefully poured glasses of wine, tidy sips of claret, swam below the surface of the drink, just out of sight; something warm, and familiar, and gone. With a sudden, defiant gesture, Charlie lifted the flask to her lips, and tipped back half the contents.
“Easy!” Husk yelped, snatching at her hand. The drink burned like fire down her throat, choking out half the air in her lungs, and Charlie sputtered with unladylike coughs, angling herself over the edge of her seat to save her dress the indignity of being spat upon.
The wheels were rolling over smoother grass by the time her eyes cleared, though her nose was still streaming unpleasantly. The taste lingered, strong and foul on her tongue, but she was afraid to swallow, and kickstart the whole process up again. Reaching blindly for her reticule, Charlie wondered if, perhaps, it wouldn’t be better to just roll sideways and let the wheels crush her. As if making a scene with her tears wasn’t bad enough!
“It’s a good thing you huffed half it back up,” Husk said, not unkindly. “You’d be drunker’n a skunk otherwise, and then I’d be in trouble.”
“It’s …” wheezing slightly, Charlie pulled her kerchief out and dabbed lightly at her mouth. “Koff - quite potent?”
“It’s homebrew.” With one hand, Husk wiped the mouthpiece of the flask on his jacket, before taking a long pull. “Ah. Promised I wouldn’t drink on the job, but -” his gaze flitted sideways, the barest hint of guilt flashing in his expression. “Can’t be dry in this heat, after all.”
Even as he said it, the oppressive warmth around them shifted: the desert gave way to scattered patches of grass and growth, with trees persisting through the sand and dirt to provide cover along the trail. Smaller pathways branched off from the route they were treading, which itself had widened into a neat, simple road - absent of the cobblestones and refuse of the city, but with the ground pressed firmly down to prevent wheels from getting routed. Homes were visible in the distance, some with farms or ranches attached; wood and weathered stone, dyed red by the howling winds and sand of the desert, stood in contrast against the blinding blue sky.
“Is this part of the town?” Charlie asked, leaning forward to squint at the sights before her. “Is all of this part of Red River?”
Husk shook his head; his grip on the reigns had shifted, steering Niffty lightly along the trail. “This is all ranch land. Uncle Sam don’t count it. The town is just a stop for the train, and it’s bare bones otherwise. Used to be Apache land, but they got cleared out and pushed back, and they keep to themselves -” he jerked his chin towards the crop of mountains, misty in the distance, “- over the sierra. Everyone else, they found the most hospitable bit of dirt and stuck their flag on it.”
Charlie glanced backwards, tracing the curve of the wagon’s tracks in the dirt behind them. “Doesn’t everyone mind, living so far from the town? It must take a few hours just to get some groceries - and why is it called Red River, anyways? I don’t think I’ve seen so much as a puddle!”
“Everyone looks after themselves,” Husk said patiently, tilting his head towards a passing farmhouse. “You got goats ‘n cows for the milk and cheese, pigs for the meat. People grow crops, they trade. When the train comes in, we buy what we need. You gotta work to live, but -” and here he nodded at another homestead, “some things are worth working for.”
Charlie blushed, drooping back in her seat like a scolded child. “I know … how to do some things. I’m not just - I won’t be inadequate.”
Husk shrugged. “You’ll learn what you need. ‘Sides, it’s not like you’re starting from the dirt. Blodwell isn’t old money, but he’s the richest soul out here, that’s for sure.”
The insouciance with which Husk said that name felt, unwittingly, like a brick through a glass window; it took all of Charlie’s willpower not to flinch back, and judging by the way Husk’s gaze swept over her, it was evident she was not entirely successful. Every inexorable step forward had been another step closer to the inevitable; it was impossible to pretend it wasn’t happening. And still, she tried: locked the thought of it behind the grieving, the mourning, the harry and haste designed to bring her here. Kept it locked behind thin wire, until such a time as it would be caged no longer.
Husk was watching her. It was not the subtle glances of their trip, but a full turn of his head towards her, as if he might better understand just what he was bringing home on this little wagon, in the middle of the desert. He took her in: the patched dress and too-small shoes; the brittle, porcelain smile that cracked along the edges. The youth that still clung to her like smoke and silk, caressed along the curve of her cheek.
“So how do you know Mr. Blodwell, anyways?” he asked, and Charlie might have laughed, if she wasn’t so afraid of crying.
“My father knew him,” she replied, staring down at her hands, taking nothing in. “Papa is - he was very curious. He invested in some cattle stocks or something like that, and met Mr. Blodwell through that business. I guess he fancied himself a bit of a rancher for a short while, and was always bombarding Mr. Blodwell with questions, but he settled down a tad, once I was born. They stayed in touch over the years, on and off. He was … very kind, to agree to this.”
“Yeah,” Husk said, though there was something to his tone that sounded almost … pitying. “I get it. Not much you could do.”
There was the smallest stain, on the very edge of the lace that trimmed the openings of her glove. It hadn’t been there this morning - or perhaps she just hadn’t noticed? “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of what happened.”
The guilty pause was answer enough. “Not … all of it,” Husk said reluctantly, scratching at his head. “Some of it was … in the paper. And then Blodwell said you’d be … he mentioned you’d be staying here. So it wasn’t too hard to put two ‘n two together.”
“No. I suppose not.” The stain did not end at the lace cuff; it seemed to curve with the glove’s contour, marring the pretty kid leather. “I suppose not.”
They were nearing their destination now; the path had narrowed again, cutting through a tidy spray of thin trees and scattered bushes. Up ahead, the distant shape of a house was starting to rise up from the sand, growing larger as they steadily approached. Wooden fences were erected along the outline of the property, effectively partitioning the ranch like a moat to a castle. It was a grander home than any they had passed - still modest, by city standards, but a good two stories high, with a pretty veranda that wrapped around the main level. There was no grand entrance, but a door placed exactly between two simple windows, facing the road as if on guard; a neatly-placed chimney hugged the opposite side of the building, jutting up from the roof to puff slow curls of smoke into the desert air.
From her vantage point, Charlie could see the outline of the barn and stable, tucked just behind the main building. Most ranches, she had learned, did not keep the majority of their cattle on the immediate property, so she could only assume that the rest of the 800 acres of land Blodwell Ranch owned was elsewhere. Still, the barn would house the cows and chickens and pigs, and there were a number of horses used for breeding and racing in the stables. Inexperience aside, there was enough in what she could see that demanded hard, daily work.
“Does Mr. Blodwell have farmhands?” She’d anticipated chores, of course - daily tasks, and duties from day to day. Seeing the size of what lay before her, Charlie was suddenly struck with the terror that she’d be responsible for all of it, with no one to so much as tend to the laundry.
“Depends,” Husk grunted, sneaking another sip from his flask. “Them boys who care for the cattle, they’re usually seasonal. He hires about ten or so to watch the flock. One or two of ‘em will come up here to help with the farm chores, and then he’s got his second hand who stays here year ‘round.” There was a distinct disgruntlement to Husk’s expression that suggested he was not terribly keen on said second. “Odd duck. He won’t give you no trouble, but he’s a right ass to deal with.”
“I’m sure he’ll be f-” Charlie began, but Niffty, sensing perhaps that dinner was nearby (whatever that comprised of) broke into a quick trot, and the wagon picked up speed in that final stretch.
It might have been the bumping, bouncing roll of the wagon over the dirt path, so reminiscent of her odyssey on the train, but Charlie felt her stomach tighten, a lump of ice settling deep in her belly. It was just a little further before they reached the front door, and yet Charlie wished with all her heart that Husk would bring Niffty to heel, that he’d pull the reins and slow their progress to a crawl. Perhaps, to turn the cart around, and bring Charlie back to the sad little train station, back to New York, to pretend that all of this was some silly joke, or terrible dream.
But the wagon rolled on, and the house loomed large, and when they finally, finally came to a stop, it was with the inevitability of the accused meeting the executioner. Charlie, waiting to climb the gallows, raised her head and lifted the brim of her hat to better see her new home.
Up close, the ranch stood like a facet of the mountain range, planted deep in the earth. It was crisp brickwork and smoothly lined wood, pressed and placed together so that it could withstand the howling winds and sweeping sands. There was nothing frivolous or decorative, not so much as a flower in a gardenbed: everything was efficient and clean, fit for use or marked to be replaced. Even the curtains in the window seemed spartan and stern, as if the concept of decorative fun was childish fancy.
Beside her, Husk dropped the reins to the side and pressed his palms to the small of his back, groaning as he stretched in place. His bones and joints popped in a chorus of indigent discomfort, and Charlie wondered if that would be her in a few years: if she would be taciturn and colourless, made old and weary before she ever got a chance to live.
There was movement from the house: a twitch of the curtain on the upper floor, as if someone was peeking out. A moment later, the door opened, and Zestial Blodwell stepped out onto the veranda.
Lucifer had no pictures of Zestial in his archives, and no one had thought to ask for one to show Charlie; she hadn’t been sure what to expect from the moment they had put her on the train. Despite his many years in ranching and cattle, Zestial’s frame was rake-thin, and absurdly tall, as if someone had pulled on either end of him, and stretched him out like a piece of clay. His black hair, streaked liberally with grey, was combed neatly off his face, as was his short beard and moustache. Despite the heat of the day, he was clad entirely in black, with a long overcoat that swept nearly down to his ankles. His face reminded Charlie of an eagle, or some other bird of prey; his brow seemed to be in a perpetual furrow, and his dark eyes missed nothing as they swept over the scene before him.
He stood there, hands clasped behind his back, for a moment only, as if a king surveilling his land. When he finally stepped forward, he made no sound: he might have been a shadow, silent and still even in motion. When he reached Charlie’s side of the wagon, he offered her a little bow, one hand raised to help her down from her seat.
“Welcome, Charlotte. I’m glad to meet you at last.”
His voice was low, even and commanding: a man used to being obeyed. His grip was firm, his skin rough; decades of hard labour revealed themselves in the cracked lines of his palms. His hand engulfed her own, and Charlie ducked her head in a mimicry of shyness, swallowing down the overwhelming feeling of being consumed, disappearing into the fabric of someone else’s plans.
It was worse from solid ground. The long journey had weakened what little strength she had managed to protect, and her knees buckled almost as soon as she touched earth. Zestial’s grip around her hand tightened momentarily, keeping her upright, and Charlie saw then what she had been trying to accept as truth from the moment she was carted off: she would not make it on her own. She would fall, and she would flounder, and the only way to survive was to accept the noose as the safety net.
“It’s - my pleasure,” she said, lips pressed into a weak smile. “I apologize for my appearance - the journey was longer than I anticipated -”
Zestial waved his hand, as if batting away a fly. “No matter. You’ll have time to freshen up.”
He released her at that, turning to Husk, who was busy unloading the wagon. “No trouble?” he asked, patting Niffty affectionately on the flank. “Travers was saying there’s likely to be more unrest along the rail lines.”
Husk shook his head, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his arm as he tugged a barrel out of his way. “Quiet as Mass. Lloyd said we might have some shipment delays sooner or later, but it ain’t for a little while yet.”
“Good.” Zestial nodded, seemingly satisfied, and turned his head to the house. “Valcour! Your arm for a moment!” Without waiting for a response, he gestured for Charlie to follow him. “The local priest will be here early tomorrow to conduct the service. We can have the magistrate sign the license right after. A tidier arrangement.”
“Yes,” Charlie said, mouth dry. “Thank you.”
“Mrs. Coval has graciously agreed to visit at your leisure and provide you with any lessons in skills you may feel lacking in.” Zestial paused to offer Charlie his arm, a perfunctory politeness that did little to ease Charlie’s discomfort. “It will be an adjustment, I’m sure, but one you may well rise to splendidly. Your father was often extolling your virtues; I’m confident you will be most proficient.”
“I - I hope to be!” Her voice was reed-thin, threatening to tremble; Charlie cleared her throat. “I will be.”
“Good.” Almost as an afterthought, Zestial turned his head back towards Husk, still up on the wagon. “Many thanks for your assistance today, Husker. My bride and I look forward to seeing you at the lunch.”
Husk nodded, expression unreadable. Charlie, caught in the brace of Zestial’s arm, could only look backwards, swallowing around the lump in her throat. “T-thank you, Husk. For everything.”
There was something pitying in the twist of his mouth, as Husk touched his hand to the tip of his hat. “Bye, Charlie.”
Up the steps and through the door, with Zestial courteously offering Charlie precedence inside. The interior was clean, but woefully ascetic; threadbare rugs of simple function, and few decorations to offer personality beyond functional.
“It needs a woman’s touch,” Zestial remarked from behind her, as if reading her thoughts. “I’m certain you’ll have many ideas to make your homestead more suitable.”
“Erm …” Fleetingly, Charlie thought of gilded golden apples and deep purple wallpaper. “Yes, of - of course.”
“The kitchen is this way,” Zestial gestured, pointing down the long hall from the main foyer. “It leads into the field and directly to the barn. The sitting room is off to the side, here. My office is at the end of the hall, and the library is therein - a modest collection, but well enough. There is a lavatory here, and our bathing room is upstairs, just outside the bedroom. The well is outside the kitchen.”
He said all of this matter-of-factly, as if by rote; he might well have been listing the courses for dinner.
“You shall have the guest room tonight,” Zestial continued, tilting his head towards the stairs. “Feel free to freshen up and attend to whatever needs you have. I have some matters in the fields this evening, so I shall take my leave in just a moment, but there is food in the pantry, and - there you are, Valcour, whatever took you?”
A man stepped through the doorway leading to the sitting room, brushing his hands off on a cloth as he did so. He was nearly as tall as Zestial, perhaps just an inch or two shorter, and nearly as thin - but where Zestial looked drawn out and almost prickly in appearance, the stranger was lithe, and fit. He was younger, perhaps no more than twenty-five, and darker in colouring to Zestial’s stark white. His hair was a mass of curly brown, and his eyes were a curious shade of amber, almost golden in the light; they, too, seemed to take in everything at once, but there was a harder glint to them then Zestial’s, a hint of something calculating and experienced. He bore a smile that seemed mischievous and unsettling in equal measure, and something to the tilt of his lips made Charlie think he wore it more often than not.
“Apologies!” the man said, with a voice that seemed to fill the foyer to the rafters. “Lazius was being rather persnickety about his feed today: I was worried we’d be coming to blows! You rang?”
His voice, though confident and smooth, bore just the faintest hint of a twang, a curling drawl that chased after his words like slow molasses. It was oddly pleasant.
“Nevermind that,” Zestial said, his arm coming around Charlie’s shoulders. “Charlotte has just arrived and I need you to take her things to the guest room. She’ll wait until the service to join me in the master bedroom.” To Charlie, he said, “This is Alastor Valcour, my second in command here. He knows the ranch and everything in it down to the smallest detail; if you have any questions, he’ll be the one to answer them.”
Charlie nodded, glancing up towards Alastor in time to see his gaze flicker over her. His expression was enigmatic, though his smile didn’t waver. At their eyes meeting, Alastor sketched a little bow. “The lady herself! Welcome, Charlotte!”
“It’s - Charlie is fine,” she said faintly. Zestial, glancing at his watch, tsked loudly.
“Damn train - we’re running late if we want to get to the McCays. Just drop Charlotte’s things in her room and meet me at the stables. We’ll have to ride like hellfire.”
“As one does,” Alastor said easily, and, with a polite nod at Charlie, disappeared out the door.
Zestial, a half-step behind him, paused in the doorway and looked back at Charlie, standing alone in the foyer. “Apologies for the circumstances, Charlotte. Please make yourself comfortable - this is your home, now. I’ll be late this evening, but I shall see you tomorrow. The priest will be here at nine o’clock. I look forward to making you my wife.”
And with not so much as a smile, he disappeared out the door, and Charlie was alone.