Dodge City, Kansas, Late 1870s
Rachel St. Raimes muttered in annoyance as she left the
boardinghouse where she lived to hurry down Front Street
after dark. Loud guffaws and discharging pistols serenaded
her. Texas trail drovers had arrived with their cattle herd
earlier that afternoon. This evening they were celebrating
the end of the trail by shooting out streetlights and
gulping whiskey in more than a dozen saloons and gaming
halls that lined the south side of the railroad tracks,
which divided the town between rowdy and respectable.
"Well, well, lookie what we have here, boys." Rachel
tensed when she heard the man with a slow Texas drawl moving
up behind her. She didn't glance back to see how many
"boys" had swaggered across the tracks to wander the
more civilized part of town. She quickened her step on the
boardwalk when wolfish whistles filled the darkness.
"What's your hurry, darlin'?" came the second
slurred voice.
When she refused to acknowledge their presence a third
cowboy said, "Hey, no need to be rude to us. We just
want to get to know ya, sweet thing."
Rachel clamped hold of her purse, prepared to slam it upside
one of her hecklers' heads. Since the city ordinance
prohibited carrying weapons on Front Street Rachel protected
herself by stashing a lead weight from a cuckoo clock in her
purse. Unsuspecting men hell-bent on manhandling her never
knew what hit them until the five-pound weight collided with
their skulls and gave new meaning to "getting clocked."
"Maybe we need to show this pretty, dark-haired chit
some of our Texas charm, boys," the first cowhand declared.
Just then, Adolph Turner appeared from the darkened portal
of the freight office, which sat four doors down from the
boutique where Rachel worked. Although she disliked Adolph,
he provided enforcement against the drunken trail hands.
"Go drink your fill on South Side and leave the woman
alone," Adolph demanded sharply.
"Whoa there, friend," said the second cowboy.
"We were just tryin' to be sociable."
Rachel wasn't surprised when a pistol appeared in Adolph's
hand. He considered himself above the law and acted
accordingly. "Be sociable on the other side of
town," he growled. "There are plenty of prostitutes
to go around."
Rachel gritted her teeth when Adolph snaked out his free
hand to latch on to her elbow. He hauled her up beside him.
All in the name of pretending to be gallant and protective,
she reminded herself resentfully.
Take advantage of opportunity, that was Adolph's motto.
The instant the three unkempt cowboys raised their hands in
supplication and backed off, Rachel pried Adolph's fingers
from her upper arm. "Thank you," she said stiffly.
"Say the word and you can have my full protection. Your
life will become so much easier, my dear," he purred
seductively.
"I have made it clear on a number of occasions that I'm
not interested in your proposition." Rachel turned to
leave, refusing to trade one unpleasant encounter for another.
Adolph grabbed her arm again and towed her inside the
freight office. He was still wearing that charming smile she
didn't trust. Having dealt with more than her fair share of
manipulative men in her twenty-three years of difficult
existence, she considered Adolph one of the more dangerous
varieties. He had wealth and influence backing him and he
didn't hesitate to use it to get his way.
"I have a package for your boss," Adolph insisted as
he shepherded Rachel through the dimly lit shop.
"Hey, Mr. Turner, we took care—"
Rachel glanced over her shoulder to see the three hirelings,
who worked for Adolph, enter the shop. She had no respect
for the scraggly looking henchmen. The strong-arm brigade
collected outstanding debts from hapless customers, who were
naive enough to accept loans from Adolph.
Max Rother, Warren Lamont and Bob Hanes grinned
conspiratorially when Adolph hitched his thumb toward the
front door. "Make yourself scarce. I have business to
conduct with Rachel this evening."
"Sure, boss." Max smirked, exposing the gap between
his two front teeth.
"We have a few more accounts to collect on," Bob
Hanes added as his beady-eyed gaze roamed disrespectfully
over her.
Warren Lamont, the beanpole henchman with stringy hair,
didn't comment, just looked her up and down as if she were
his next meal.
Rachel breathed a sigh of relief when the threesome turned
on their heels and sauntered outside. The instant she was
alone with Adolph, she jerked her arm abruptly from his
grasp. She was wary and suspicious of men by nature and
habit. It made her twitchy to have Adolph hovering close by.
"I'll tell Mrs. Grantham to pick up the package you
claim to have for her tomorrow morning," she insisted.
Jennifer Grantham, owner of the boutique where Rachel
worked, hadn't mentioned the arrival of an important
package. She was leery of taking Adolph's word for it.
"It's a surprise gift for her daughter." Adolph
pivoted to strut toward his office at the rear of the shop.
Rachel frowned skeptically while she waited at the threshold
of the office. She was prepared to bolt and run at the first
sign of trouble.
"It came all the way from Saint Louis on the afternoon
train. I sorted it from the other goods before closing up
shop for the night."
When Adolph opened the door to the storeroom and disappeared
into the darkness, Rachel waited, her senses on high alert.
Having good reason not to put faith in the male of the
species, she didn't follow Adolph into the unlit room.
She flinched when she heard the clatter of wooden crates
falling to the floor.
"Ouch! Blast it," Adolph yelped, then howled in pain.
Concern got the better of Rachel. She darted across the
office to check on Adolph. She recoiled in alarm when he
hooked his arm around her waist and hauled her up against
him. She could feel his arousal pressing against her hip,
and she elbowed him in the midsection to retaliate when he
clamped his hand over her breast.
"Is that any way to treat the man who saved you from a
mauling in the street?" he breathed against her neck.
Rachel shivered repulsively as she stamped—hard—
on the toe of his boot. "Give me the package so I can be
on my way."
His slate-gray eyes gleamed wickedly in the dim shaft of
light that sprayed from the lantern in the office.
"You are the package, love. I'm tired of
chasing after you. You aren't a proper lady who has to be
courted, but I can give you things that will make your life
much easier and more enjoyable."
When his lips came down hard and demanding on her mouth,
Rachel shoved the heels of her hands against his chest, then
ducked her shoulder and plowed into his mid-section. Adolph
stumbled over the crates that he had intentionally
overturned to lure her into the storeroom.
With a squawk and a foul oath, the long-legged merchant went
down in a graceless sprawl. Fueled by male pride and anger,
he bounded up with his fist raised and his teeth bared.
"You troublesome hellion!" he snarled furiously.
"I ought to turn my men loose on you after I've taken
what I want. If you don't agree to become my mistress I
might do just that!"
"And wind up like your previous mistress?" She
smirked. "No, thank you."
Rachel had serious doubts about what really happened to his
last mistress. Supposedly, she had been so overwrought when
Adolph ended their affair that she had taken a flying leap
from the second-story window of Four Queens Hotel. Of
course, his three henchmen just happened to be on
hand to corroborate his story.
There had been no investigation.
"You had better consider what might happen to the
Granthams if you don't accept my offer," he growled
threateningly. "One way or another, I always get what I
want."
"You can go to hell and take your ruffians with
you," she spat furiously.
"And you need to learn subservient obedience!"
Adolph snarled at her defiance as he tried to backhand her.
Rachel darted sideways to avoid being slapped in the face.
She wheeled toward the office, but Adolph latched on to her
trailing skirt and yanked her backward. She heard the
rending of cloth and she yelped as she staggered to regain
her balance. Adolph laughed cruelly as he swung her sideways
and sent her sprawling inelegantly on the floor. When she
bolted to her feet, Adolph lunged at her, grabbing the
neckline of her gown and sending buttons popping.
Outraged, she swung her weighted purse and hit him squarely
in the jaw. Howling in pain and shock, Adolph staggered
back. He tripped over a crate and slammed his head against
the protruding corner of a shelf. He went down like a felled
tree. Blood spurted from his head wound. Several objects
tumbled from the shelf and landed on his face, chest and crotch.
He lay there so motionless that Rachel wondered if he was
dead—especially after the point on an anvil crashed
onto his chest and forced the last gulp of air from his
lungs. Frantic, she glanced around to find clothing to
replace her damaged dress. When she spotted stacks of men's
shirts and breeches, she grabbed two of each. She noticed a
wide-brimmed hat and a small pair of boots and she grabbed
them, too.
The two shiny buttons Adolph had ripped off her gown
shimmered in the shaft of light, so she picked them up.
Better to remove all evidence of her involvement in what
might turn out to be a fatal altercation in the storeroom,
she decided.
Rachel surveyed Adolph again but still he hadn't moved.
Blood dribbled down his neck to stain the starched collar of
his expensive white shirt. Whether Adolph was dead or
alive—and she couldn't be sure which—his attack
had sealed her fate in town. She had no choice but to flee
town. He was influential and vengeful, and she had no doubt
that his hired goons would brutalize her, corroborate
whatever story he dreamed up to explain the incident in the
storeroom.
She predicted he would insist the incident was her fault,
just as he assumed no blame when his former mistress took
the short way down to the street three months earlier.
When she noticed the pistol tucked in the waistband of his
breeches, she retrieved it hurriedly. Then she took money
from his wallet to compensate for her torn dress and to
provide for necessary traveling expenses. Clutching the
garments to her chest to cover her torn gown, Rachel dashed
out the back door. She scurried down the dark alley to find
a place to change into the oversize men's clothing she had
taken as a disguise. When she scampered back to the
street— a good distance away from the freight
office—she latched on to the first horse that didn't
bear recognizable markings.
While the Texans shot out a few more streetlights on South
Side and provided plenty of distraction by whooping and
hollering, Rachel rode away from town. She lamented leaving
without a word of explanation to her boss at the boutique.
Rachel had become exceptionally fond of Jennifer Grantham
and her ten-year-old daughter, Sophie.
For the first time in years, she had a trusted friend and
she had settled into a satisfying niche. Rachel had made a
life for herself after years of trading one occupation for
another. In every case, the change was the result of her
dealings with a man. Damn them one and all!
Now she was on the run, forced to acquire more new skills to
support herself so she could survive. She detested feeling
like a weightless feather picked up and driven by the harsh
winds of fate, but she accepted her destiny. She rode off
into the night, carrying a stolen pistol and stolen money
and wearing stolen clothing. In addition, she was riding a
stolen horse.
Most likely, she had killed the domineering bastard who had
pawed at her. Even if he had it coming—and he
definitely did—she would be branded as a criminal and
forced to remain on the run because of a situation that was
beyond her control.
Her Cheyenne grandmother, Singing Bird, would have lectured
her sternly for neglecting to avoid bad omens like Adolph
Turner. Dead or alive, he would likely make her sorry she
had ever been born.
Rachel took a moment to contemplate how many women had
hanged for crimes in Kansas—and prayed to white and
Indian deities alike that she wouldn't become one of them.
Three weeks later
Rachel glanced sideways while she sat on the wagon seat
beside Dr. Joseph Grant. He took a swig from an embossed
bottle of a patented cure-all labeled Yarrow Kidney Oil,
then ignored her when she frowned in disapproval. Doc, who
had saved her from disaster and uncertainty, had offered her
a job in his traveling medicine show. Unfortunately, he had
the bad habit of drinking his curatives—to
excess—after they packed the wagon and rolled down the
road each evening.
"It isn't even dark outside and already you're drinking
your supper," she fussed at him—and not for the
first time.
"Mind your own business, girl," Doc Grant mumbled.
"I didn't pry into your past when I found you dressed in
men's clothes and walking on foot in the middle of nowhere."
True, he hadn't, and she was exceptionally grateful for that.
After the fiasco with Adolph, she had ridden five miles down
the road, then turned loose the horse she had commandeered
for her getaway. She hoped the animal had found its owner so
horse thieving wouldn't be among the list of offenses on her
Wanted poster. She had walked in the darkness for hours
before she heard the jangle of harnesses. She had come upon
Doc, who was fast asleep on the wagon seat, while the team
of horses plodded down the road on their own accord.
Rachel watched Doc tip up the bottle again to guzzle another
drink. "I appreciate the fact that you didn't ask prying
questions when we met, but that doesn't change the fact that
fifty-proof rotgut elixirs and tonics are going to burn a
hole in your stomach if you don't watch out."
"It's my stomach."
Doc smiled crookedly at her and her irritation dwindled. She
couldn't stay mad at a man who was unique to the
medicine-show business. He was a certified physician, not a
fraudulent quack, and he preached against relying on
patented cure-alls. He insisted that folks contact qualified
doctors to treat their ailments. Doc was genuinely devoted
to administering to patients in the small Kansas
communities. Although he provided the expected
entertainment, he examined dozens of injured citizens, and
mixed ingredients from his stock of authentic compounds that
he stored in the colorfully decorated medicine wagon he had
purchased.
Unfortunately, when the sun went down he turned to the
curatives he denounced and behaved as if it was his mission
in life to drink all the tonics himself. He refused to tell
Rachel what demons hounded him when his workday was done, so
she couldn't help him fight his battles. But then, she
refused to explain where she had been before she had
appeared suddenly from the darkness to halt Doc's plodding
team of horses.
Rachel was destined to tolerate his drinking if she wanted
to remain with his unique medicine show. Tradeoffs.
That's what life seemed to be about, she mused as she
took the reins from Doc's hand when he draped himself
carelessly against the back of the wagon seat. She was
allowed to wander the back roads, away from Adolph Turner's
wrath—if he had survived. In return, she
assisted Doc Grant while he treated patients, then she
entertained the crowds by singing, accompanied by Ludy
Anderson who played a banjo, harmonica or piano, if there
was one available at a local saloon. She also dressed in
costume to narrate Indian legends that her Cheyenne
grandmother had passed along to her.
At night, she put Doc to bed to sleep off his bouts with the
intoxicating tonics, though they weren't potent enough to
fend off the demons that came calling from the darkness.
Doc levered himself up on the seat, then glanced this way
and that. "Where's Ludy?"
"He decided to ride ahead and drum up business for us in
Crossville," she replied.
"Drum up business? Ha!" Doc sniffed, then guzzled
more Kidney Oil. "He's not fooling me a bit. He enjoys
carousing with the ladies and he rides into every town on
our circuit ahead of schedule, every chance he gets."
Rachel shrugged nonchalantly. She liked Ludy, who treated
her like a sister, not a potential lover. He left her in
charge of Doc more often than not, but Rachel wasn't
complaining. All she wanted was to remain on the move and
make enough money to support herself until whatever furor
she might have caused in Dodge City died down.