Dead of Winter (17 page)

  Lost in her thoughts, she rounded the corner and ran into something. Startled, she looked up. There stood Our Lady of Virginia, blowing steam from her nose. The mare seemed as startled as her owner. Cora grinned and took the reins in her gloved hand.

  "Glad to see you came around," she said, leading her back toward the hotel. Our Lady tossed her head in reply. "Yeah, I know it's cold out. But, since you was such a good girl coming back, I reckon I'll bed you down myself tonight."

  The mare didn't reply. They walked in silence through the falling snow until they reached the hotel. Cora untied Ben's horse from the hitching rail. The animal looked at her with sad eyes, cold and dejected.

  "I know, boy," she said, patting his neck. "We wasn't expecting you to stand all by your lonesome for so long."

  Keeping his reins in one hand, Cora climbed into Our Lady's saddle. Gently slapping the rawhide strips over the mare's neck, she started for the stable. Ben's horse, used to following Our Lady's lead, came without a fuss, his head down.

  "You know, we ought to give you a name," she said, looking back at the gelding. "Ben's too damn finicky about it. Been almost six months since we bought you, and he ain't settled on nothing yet. Course, you know that already." The horse didn't interrupt, so she went on. "You know, I think I'll call you Book. Maybe then he'll pay you more attention. And, if he don't like it, maybe he'll pick one he does fancy." She nodded to herself, and the matter was settled.

  After bedding the horses down, she pulled the stable door closed and made her way back to the main building. As she walked, fatigue began settling on her shoulders like the falling snow. Her joints ached, making each step painful. Were it not for the cold, the ache would have been pleasant, a fitting reward for the end of a hunt. Tradition dictated that she and Ben share a bottle of whiskey and talk about the kill. Things they did right, things they did wrong, what they should remember for the future. It was their way of settling the matter in their minds.

  Tonight, however, she didn't figure it was worth it. Ben was probably sound asleep, and the nearest saloon felt half a world away. There would be plenty of time for drinking and talking on the train.

  Warm air smothered her cold limbs as she pulled the hotel door open and thumped up the stairs. She softened her step in the hallway, then eased open the door to their room. The hinges creaked as she slipped through into the darkness. She shrugged off her coat and tossed it into the shadows, followed by her hat. Her groping hand found a bedpost, and the cornshuck mattress rustled as she sat down.

  Breathing a sigh of contentment, she began wrestling with her boots. Her cold feet burned in protest as she pulled them out. The smell hit her like a wall, and she covered her nose with one arm as she set the boots on the floor. She rolled onto the mattress, shoving her feet under the sheets. As soon as her head landed on the pillow, the bed seemed to grip her with invisible hands. She could feel her muscles twitching with each heartbeat, her blood carrying away the cold and the tension. Her fatigue was even great enough to forgo the need for a nightcap from the bottle she kept under the pillow. Instead, she let Ben's even breathing guide her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 
 

 
 
 

It was well past noon when Cora opened her eyes. Sunlight glowed behind the window curtains, filling the room with a warm light. From outside, she could hear the sounds of horses and wagons rumbling through the street. Ben was already awake and planted in a chair by the window, reading. Cora blinked a few times to clear away the blur from her eyes, then lifted herself into a sitting position.

  Ben looked up. "How was it last night?"

  "Just dandy," she said, her voice thick from sleep.

  "Did the wendigo ever show his face?"

  "Yessir," she replied, nodding. "Got that face all shot up, too."

  "So you licked it?"

  Cora nodded again and recounted the previous night's events for him. As she spoke, she could feel the deep ache in her muscles that she knew would be there. Today's train ride would be uncomfortable. Ben listened intently as she told him about the final fight with the wendigo and how it took a full six shots to bring it down, even with the special bullets.

  "Well, I missed twice," she said, "so it was really only four shots."

  "Still," Ben said, "that was one tough critter. Tougher than the ones we usually sort out, anyway."

  "We'll have to ask Father Baez to send a nice note out to Father Davidson for us. Or maybe you could write him one."

  Ben's face lit up. He loved any excuse to put his vocabulary and penmanship to use. "I think I'll do just that."

  "While you do that, I think I'll have myself a bath." Cora swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. "By the way," she said, "I named that horse of yours for you."

  "You did?" Ben looked concerned. "What did you name it?"

  "Book," she said, then unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway.

  Her muscles creaked as she made her way toward the community bathing room. Poking her head in, she was pleased to see it was empty. The hotel's bellhop had placed a kettle of water next to the stove that stood against the far wall. The fire in the stove burned low, so she added a few pieces of kindling before placing the kettle on top. She grabbed two more kettles in fingers that ached with every movement, made her way down to the kitchen, and filled them from the pump that stood next to the big Dutch oven.

  Soon, she was reclining in the tub, everything but her head, elbows, and knees submerged. Little wisps of steam rose from the water's surface, fading into the air like ghosts at the coming of dawn. Outside, she could still hear the muffled sounds of an ordinary day, and she smiled. Those people could continue about their ordinary days and nights free of the wendigo's terror. Mart Duggan could collar his rowdies, Jack Evans could court his whore, and Boots could serve his whiskey.

  The thought of Boots made her smile widen. She'd have to stop by the Pioneer before they left town and inform the bartender of her victory so he could go back to being his jolly old self. Seeing men tense up with fear wasn't anything new for her, but it rarely happened to the local whiskey slingers. Such men were usually the ones who kept brave faces on while a town's citizens were vanishing or being eaten by some spook.

  Maybe Boots just had a sensitive spirit, too sensitive for that kind of carnage. She'd pegged him as an Army deserter when they first met. She and Ben were on the first Jules Bartlett case then, and word had already spread through the town that a vampire was loose in the woods. The Pioneer was the new watering hole in the growing boom town, and she'd stopped by to wet her whistle. Boots had greeted her warmly despite the general gloom, and his mood had only improved when she ordered from his private stock. The thought of a vampire didn't seem to bother him then, but nobody had been eaten alive outside of his saloon that time, either.

  The bath water began growing cold. Reluctantly, Cora roused herself from the tub. She wrapped a rough linen towel around herself, gathered her discarded clothing, and made her way back to the room. Ben hadn't moved from his seat. He glanced up as she entered, and she could feel his eyes lingering on her as she shut the door and knelt beside the bed and pulled out her trunk. She indulged him a little, taking her time as she removed the towel and pulled on her traveling clothes. He watched her all the while, only returning to his book after she fastened her belt.

  Cora sat on the bed as she rummaged through her trunk, keeping her head down so he wouldn't see her flushed face. Ben's attentions, silent though they were, always made her feel beautiful. She knew she wasn't. She had looked into a mirror enough times in her life to know that. Her face was too thin, her teeth crooked, and her hair stringy. As a young woman, she would often stare at the pretty girls in town, sick with envy. She'd wanted nothing more than to be a proper Southern belle for a while, even if her family had been far too poor to afford fancy dresses and bonnets. It seemed cruel that the good Lord hadn't even blessed her with a pretty face.

  When Ben looked at her that way, though, she felt different. His gaze was intense, almost reverent. She'd seen that look on his face when he watched a desert sunset or read a poem he was fond of. It had been reflected in mountain lakes and stained-glass windows. When he turned it on her, she felt as beautiful and majestic as any of them.

  Everything was accounted for in their trunk except one thing. "You still got that knife on you?"

  "Right there," Ben said, pointing to the bedside stand.

  She picked it up and pulled it out of its sheath. The silver blade shimmered in the faint light. Grinning, she walked over to Ben and knelt in front of him. "You want to do the honors?"

  Ben's blue eyes darkened. "You know I don't like that."

  "Fine," Cora said. She ran her fingers along the scars on her left cheek, searching for the last one. When she felt it, she raised the knife to her flesh and pressed. The sting made her eyes water, but she drew the point of the blade down her cheek, carving a shallow gash.

  Pulling the knife away, she showed her cheek to Ben. "How's that?"

  "Fine," Ben said, not looking up.

  "You ain't looking," Cora said, poking him. "How many we got now?"

  Ben sighed and looked at her bleeding cheek. "With the new one, we got twelve."

  "Only twelve?" Cora said, shaking her head. "Seems like we've run twice that many spook jobs since we started this business." She clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's go settle up with the marshal."

  Outside, the day was warm and bright. They pulled their hats low to ward off the glare from the snow and walked to the marshal's station in silence.

  Ben paused outside the door. "I reckon I should check the times at the train station."

  "Go on, then," Cora said, waving her hand. "I'll take care of our tab."

  She pulled open the station door and stepped inside. Jack Evans sat behind the deputy's desk. "Howdy, Mrs Oglesby."

  "Howdy, Jack."

  "The marshal told me about last night," the deputy said. "That must have been quite a sight."

  "Sure was ugly as hell," Cora said.

  "But you killed it!" Jack said. "You shot it square in the head."

  "Seemed like the best place to shoot it." Cora shifted her weight toward the marshal's office. "Is Duggan about?"

  "Sure is," Jack said. He hollered for the marshal, who emerged a few moments later.

  "Afternoon, marshal," Cora said, tipping her hat.

  "Mrs Oglesby," Duggan replied.

  "You got our money?"

  Duggan nodded, motioning for her to follow him. Once inside his office, he closed the door and sat behind his desk. "Please, take a seat," he said.

  Cora remained standing. "Ain't got time for chat, marshal. Our train pulls out soon, and I still got to swing by and see Boots."

  "All right, then," Duggan said, his courtesy spent. He pulled open a drawer and produced a small wad of bills. "Five hundred dollars."

  Cora picked up the money, surprised. "Mighty generous of you."

  "After last night, I figured it was worth it," Duggan said. He pulled up his sleeve and showed her his forearm. Dark bruises in the shape of long fingers colored his fair skin. "That thing had me pinned and would have ate me if you hadn't drawn it off."

  "Just doing my job, marshal."

  Duggan nodded. "Maybe so, but I never forget a man who saves my life. Or a woman."

  "Glad to be of service, then," Cora said, extending her hand. The marshal rose to his feet and shook it. "Maybe you'll repay the favor one day." She tipped her hat and let herself out of the office. As she passed Jack, she shot him a grin. "Good luck with that whore of yours, deputy."

  Jack blushed, pulling his hat down over his face. She chuckled to herself as she stepped out into the street. Her boots had turned toward the Pioneer when Ben's voice stopped her.

  "Ain't got time for that."

  She turned toward him. "Train's about to leave?"

  Ben nodded. Cora looked toward the saloon with a sigh. "They better have whiskey on board, then." She picked up the trunk. "Let's fetch the horses."

  Fifteen minutes later, they stood on the station platform. Their horses were already dozing in a livestock car, none the worse for the previous night. Ben examined their tickets, then walked down the length of the train, looking for their car. When he found it, he waved her over. She hoisted the trunk with a grunt and started toward him.

  "You! Cora Oglesby! Wait a moment!"

  The voice came from behind her. Even before she turned around, she knew who was hollering for her.

  "Well, if it ain't King George himself."

  There stood James Townsend, looking winded in his tweed jacket and tie. After taking a few moments to catch his breath, he stood upright and adjusted his glasses. "Might I request a moment of your time?"

  "We're a bit tight on time," Cora said. "Train's about to leave."

  "Exactly the reason for my rush," James replied. "I have a business proposition for you."

  "Is that right?" Cora set down the trunk so she could fold her arms. "Well, we just settled with the marshal, so I think we're set for awhile."

  James mimicked her posture, his elbows resting on his belly. "Don't misunderstand me, Mrs Oglesby. Had I a choice in the matter, I would gladly let you board that train for parts unknown. I am, however, here at the behest of Lord Harcourt."

  "Your boss, huh? What's he want with us?"

  "Well," James said, lowering his voice, "I'm afraid there's been something of an incident inside Lord Harcourt's primary mining interest." He adjusted his glasses and peered at her. "I have reason to believe that a nest of
vrykolakas
may have taken up residence there."