Sarah had turned hard as a board, every muscle knotted. “Thank you, Julia,” she whispered under her breath. Then she staggered over to the washbasin and attacked the supper dishes with such violence she broke one of the bone-china plates.
“Sarah?”
She jumped at the sound of Pennington’s voice, wheeling to face the woman. Pennington leaned in the kitchen door, her face oddly pensive, as she read Sarah’s near panic.
“Ma’am?”
“You may clear the dining room. Maxwell and I are retiring to the parlor. I shan’t need you for anything else tonight. I’ll see to closing up. After you are finished you are free to retire.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A flush of relief ran through Sarah’s breast as Mrs. Pennington closed the door behind her.
Thank God! She wouldn’t have to see Maxwell again. All she had to do was set his breakfast on the table in the morning, and he’d be gone by midday.
Peeking into the dining room, she satisfied herself that it was vacant before retrieving the plates. She removed the soiled tablecloth—Maxwell had spilled gravy—and adjusted the chairs. Then she blew out the lamps, finished in the kitchen, and made her way down the stairs to her cramped bedroom.
She lifted the latch on the door, slipped out of her clothes, and crawled under the blanket before blowing out her candle.
Mrs. Pennington thought she’d been beaten by her husband? That that accounted for her sudden panics?
If you only knew.
She curled her knees up to her chest in the small bed, her hands knotted into fists.
“Please, God. Don’t let me have nightmares just because Maxwell was asking about me.”
Forcing herself to be calm, she struggled to make her mind blank, but in the end, she reached under her blanket, and pulled the long Colt revolver from its holster.
Her fingers on the wood grips and cool steel, she felt herself begin to relax.
She came awake, unsure of when she’d finally dropped off to sleep. Fragments of dreams clung to her like gossamer strands, images fleeting and fading.
Something creaked in the room.
Her heart leaped. “Who’s there?”
“Sarah?” a man’s voice asked softly in the darkness. “Don’t be afraid. It’s Maxwell, Mrs. Pennington’s cousin. I just—”
“Get out.”
“I just want to talk. You’re a most attractive girl, and well, I can do things for you.”
A vise seemed to tighten on her throat. Sudden terror strained her voice into a whimper. “Get away from me.”
“Julia tells me that you’ve lost everything. I can help. You were a married woman so there are no secrets when it comes to men. What if I were to tell you that by tomorrow morning you could earn yourself a ten-dollar gold piece?”
Sarah fought for breath, her arms beginning to shake. Images of Dewley flashed behind her eyes. “No. Don’t do this.”
“Sarah.” His voice was so smooth in the darkness. “You’re such a beautiful woman, you shouldn’t be locked away in prudish old Julia’s house like a common house slave.”
“Get away from me.” Her voice came out as a squeak.
“Would it help if I sweetened the pot? Think of what you could do with fifteen dollars, Sarah. Yankee gold. Not paper.”
“I’ll scream.”
“Shhh. No need.” He shifted in the darkness. “It’s your eyes, Sarah. That pale hair of yours. All I’m asking is a simple joining in the night, nothing you haven’t done before. And if I don’t make you feel things you’ve never felt before, I’ll toss in another five dollars.”
Blue eyes flashed in her memory, her body recoiling as she felt a heavy weight settle on the bed. Dewley was grinning down at her, stinking breath blowing past his broken teeth.
She felt a hand laid on her hip, a voice saying, “Just let me give you a hint of the pleasure I can stir from your beautiful body.”
“No! God, please! No!”
“I won’t hurt you.” The voice wasn’t Dewley’s, but the eyes were, the weight of the body. The terror beating through her veins. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came from her spasming lungs.
“There,” the voice soothed.
She remembered Dewley whispering softly into her ear as he lowered himself onto her. “There, there. Easy. Yes!”
She fought a sob, fear electric and charging her muscles. Her fingers curled into fists, her right hand tightening around cool wood and metal.
Dear God. Dear God, no!
“Sarah?” The hand settled on her, pulled the blanket back.
Dewley loomed over her in the darkness.
“Sarah? I’m going to touch you now.”
“Get away from me, Dewley!” she screamed as she scrambled back in the bedding, lifting the heavy Colt. She felt for the hammer, heard the clicking as she thumbed it back.
“I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!”
The revolver blasted fire into the blackness, the flash illuminated her room. As the concussion deafened her, she caught a glimpse of Maxwell Johnson’s frightened face. His eyes were wide, his mouth open in an O, hands out as if to stop her.
And then the room went black and silent.
For a moment she sat in shock, gasping for breath. The sulfuric smell of burned powder clogged her nose. Her ears were ringing.
“Dear God!” she whispered.
“You silly cunt!” Maxwell whined. “You could have killed me!”
Through her ringing ears, she heard him scramble to his feet, knock over her little table, and fling the door open with a crash. She saw his figure silhouetted against the slight light of the basement, and then his feet pounded on the stairs.
Shivering and sobbing, she lowered the heavy pistol. God, if only she could stop her skin from crawling, banish the blue gleam of Dewley’s eyes where they stared at her from the back of her mind.
50
December 31, 1864
“They have soup at Madame Sabrina’s,” Butler reminded his brother. “Kershaw says the men are getting a mite weary of short rations.” Butler hunched on the foot of his bed where it was stuffed back under the sloping roof.
Doc continued to ignore him as he lifted the newspaper to the feeble light coming through the small glass window in the dormer. Their tiny upstairs
