“‘And if a man smite his servant, or his maid, with a rod, and he die under his hand; he shall be surely punished.’ That’s Exodus, chapter twenty-one, verse twenty. I’m certain this isn’t what the good pastor meant to happen. There is no doubt that Jane broke the rules, as she is known to do from time to time. But she is suffering greatly, and as she’s my servant, my soul would bear the burden of her misfortune. Please, Sheriff,” Katherine says, her voice choked with emotion. I know without even looking at her that her face is probably streaked with tears, her light eyes too bright. “Have mercy.”
There’s a pause, and the sound of my labored breath fills my ears, heartbeat keeping time to the seconds ticking by.
After too long the sheriff says, “You are right, of course. Compassion is critical in a leader.”
“Yes, Sheriff. No one doubts your word is law.”
My hands are suddenly released, and when I try to stand I stumble. Katherine is there to help me, and when she turns me around two things strike me at once.
The first is the sadness and anger warring on Mr. Gideon’s face as he watches me. His jaw is tight and his fists are clenched. Whether these emotions are about me being whipped or because he just don’t like the sheriff, I don’t know.
The second thing that strikes me is the way the sheriff is looking in my direction. It’s a soft kind of look, the way one would watch a baby or a bunny, full of wonder and interest. At first I can’t figure why the man would look at me in such an indulgent way, but then I realize that he ain’t looking at me. He’s looking at Katherine.
And just like that, the plan I’ve been struggling to come up with for weeks explodes in my brain like a stick of dynamite with a too-short fuse.
Katherine half carries, half drags me past the assembled crowd. I lift my head just long enough to see Cora give me a smug look, and I know at that moment she’s the reason the sheriff caught me in the first place. The Duchess comes over, worry on her face.
“You bring her to my room, I’ll help you get her cleaned up.”
“Jane doesn’t belong in a whorehouse,” Katherine says, as muttonheaded as ever.
“Her bosoms are hanging out for the world to see and she won’t make it to the proper side of town,” the Duchess snaps back.
“She’s right,” Mr. Gideon says. “I’ll bring by some salve. Let the Duchess take her. You’re going to have to contend with Pastor Snyder.”
Katherine sighs. “Fine. Take good care of her. I’ll be by later.”
Then it’s just me and the Duchess and the endless walk to the whorehouse. Every movement sends agony singing across my back. My skin is hot and aching, and I fight to keep from sobbing. I ain’t successful, though.
We enter the house of ill repute, heading straight for the Duchess’s room, which is on the first floor. She helps me sit on the edge of the bed, and I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and groan.
“Until Mr. Gideon comes by with his concoction, there ain’t much I can do for your . . .” She trails off.
“Thank you.”
“There’s no need for thanks. This is wrong. Everything about this place is wrong.” A slight brogue has appeared in the Duchess’s voice and when I glance up at her, tears stream freely down her cheeks.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
A bark of laughter escapes from her. “Here you are flayed within an inch of your life and you’re asking after me.”
I sigh. “Sometimes it’s easier to think about other folks’ small hurts than your big ones.”
She sits next to me on the bed, sniffling. “I was married before I came here. Leopold. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, skin like it had been kissed by the night. We thought we’d be safe if we could just get far enough away.” Her gaze goes distant, her face twisted with the memory of some distant horror. “You can never get far enough away from people like the preacher.”
I half laugh. “I suppose so. And the sheriff.”
“The two of them are peas in a pod, but the sheriff is only following his daddy’s lead. He’s mean, but he isn’t smart enough to run this town on his own.”
The uneven sound of boots on the wooden floor makes me raise my head, and Mr. Gideon stands in the doorway with a small pot of something and his eyes averted in deference to my modesty. Not that it much matters now. I reckon nearly all of Summerland had a chance to spy my bosoms had they cared to.
“I shall take care of this,” the Duchess says, rising and plucking the jar of salve out of Mr. Gideon’s hand. Behind him stands Nessie, the colored girl who braided my hair, with a steaming bowl of water and a cloth.
“Thought you might need this,” she says in a low voice. She sets the water on a nearby table.
The small kindness warms. “Thank you,” I say. “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
“Of course,” Nessie says before disappearing from the room, Mr. Gideon stepping aside to let her go.
He clears his throat. “Jane, the sheriff has agreed to allow you a day of rest from your patrol. Katherine has asked him to give you back over to her supervision, but I’m not sure she’ll get her wish. It’s doubtful the preacher will allow it.” He hovers in the doorway uncertainly, and a glance at his face reveals a worried expression.
“What’s wrong, tinkerer?” I ask, my voice rough from the pain of my back.
“This isn’t right,” he says, as though he ain’t quite sure what else to say.
The Duchess pushes the edges of my shirt aside and begins to clean my wounds. I can’t help but cry out in pain, eyes watering from the agony.
“No, this
