The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World Page 6

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Don’t even matter, though. Irene’ll be her old self inside of a week. You’ll see.”

  Temperance reached out. “I hope so. Pray with me?”

  ​Annie scoffed. “I know I said all that stuff about baby Jesus back there by the stairs, but let’s be straight. I ain’t about to go blathering on deaf ears.”

  Sophia ignored the offer, too, but Temperance bowed her head anyway, only to look up when the door opened. The Professor hurried in, followed by Doc Banks.

  Portly and red-faced, the surgeon clutched a worn leather bag. “I came…as quickly…as I…could.” Huff, huff. Like he’d never run across town before.

  “She’s upstairs,” Temperance said. “First bedroom.”

  Nodding, Doc headed for the staircase. Sophia jumped down and followed, taking the steps like a welcome escape.

  In the remaining quiet, Temperance tilted her head. “Do you need some help, honey?”

  Annie tested her legs again. How in Sam hell had Sophia gotten away? The little ice queen had matched her shot for shot, and then some. “Might be.”

  “Palmer, will you?”

  Annie shook her head. “You know he don’t like to—”

  Her voice died as Palmer’s fingers closed around her elbow. Peering down, she found a sun-browned hand amid the white lace spilling from her sleeve. “Well, would you look at that.”

  “I don’t mind,” he said.

  Gazing into his steady chestnut eyes, she used Palmer’s face as an anchor to keep the room from swaying. “Why, thank you, sugar.”

  ***

  In the boudoir, Madam lay still, eyes closed, breath shallow.

  Despite the whiskey’s warmth, ice threaded Annie’s veins. She stumbled to the four-poster to clutch at Irene’s limp hand. “Madam?”

  Nothing.

  Doc Banks prodded at the gash. “How long’s she been unresponsive?”

  Temperance answered. “When I went downstairs, she seemed fine. That was ten minutes ago, maybe.”

  Doc pushed closer, jostling Annie. “Will you move aside, Miss Marigold?”

  She shook her head—somehow, that was just about the cruelest thing he could’ve asked. “I’m staying right here.”

  Doc shot a cutting look. “Suppose I’ll kneel, then.” Arranging himself, he leaned in and pushed Madam’s eyelids up.

  Annie gasped. Even in the quavering lamplight, Irene’s pupils looked all wrong: one was enormous, the other shrunk to a pinpoint.

  A wave of sour acid rose in her throat. “Don’t say it, Doc. There’s something you can do, I know it.”

  But Doc just shook his head, defeated. “I’m terribly sorry. Truly. But I’m not a miracle worker.” He tapped Irene’s temple. “She’s bleeding in here. There’s nothing to be done.”

  Annie blinked furiously, suddenly focused on the broken vessels littering the surgeon’s cheeks. What he’d said was plumb wrong. Had to be.

  Because without Madam, she’d be at the mercy of the wide, cruel world, and nobody would be left standing between her and Samuel.

  “I’d suggest you say your goodbyes,” Doc murmured.

  Just like that, the room untethered, spinning like a top while the floor dropped out from underneath her.

  9. Temperance.

  Temperance administered the last rites herself. She prayed, anointed Irene’s forehead with holy water, kissed each closed eyelid.

  The sun awoke. Newborn light flooded the boudoir, gilding the mahogany and velvet, and a few minutes later, Madam Irene’s last breath came and went like an autumn rain, quiet and unobtrusive.

  For Temperance, an icy shadow passed through the room, though nothing moved. Madam’s dark chocolate hair still fanned across the pillow. Her jeweled fingers still rested against her midsection. Yet the moment Irene’s lungs quieted, the air went cold, and whatever had made her a person was suddenly, undeniably gone.

  It was nothing like the way Peony had died. And yet…

  As Riley lifted his snout and howled a mournful requiem, Temperance squeezed her eyes shut. A dark, familiar chasm threatened, but she wrenched herself back. The others needed her—she had to be strong.

  From the wingback chair in the corner, Sophia swore softly. Her hands moved continuously over the twin revolvers in her lap, as if seeking comfort in their touch.

  “This wasn’t your fault,” Temperance offered.

  Sophia’s fingers stilled. “You don’t know that. You weren’t there.”

  “It was an accident. Madam fell.”

  Sophia looked away. Temperance caught a glimpse of something fragile within her silence, as if that icy demeanor hid a delicate heart of spun glass. She couldn’t put her finger on what gave that impression—maybe the raw shine as ink-dark eyes caught the light, or the way Sophia rubbed her thumb along the barrel of her gun.

  Like Connor, Sophia carried a wound, somewhere deep inside. Temperance was certain. Yet whenever she tried to help the new girl, she was met with withdrawal.

  She sighed. Beside her, Palmer leaned against the wall, his face as closed and locked as always. Annie had disappeared, barricaded in her room. The sound of weeping leaked through the thin walls.

  Temperance steadied herself. “We have to fetch the undertaker.”

  “I’ll go,” Palmer said.

  She didn’t bother to hide her surprise. The Professor, willingly breaking his ironclad routine? She scrutinized him, but those impenetrable brown eyes revealed nothing.

  “I’ll be back in time to brew coffee at eleven,” he said.

  “Madam just died,” Sophia cut in. “How can you even think about coffee right now?”

  Temperance’s breath caught at the blunt words. Yet a whispered prayer for strength girded her, a barrier that kept grief at arm’s length. “The Professor always brews coffee at eleven. No matter what. And he takes care of us. He deserves your respect.”

  Palmer just nodded, seemingly unbothered, and left.

  Sophia unfolded from her chair, her movements feline. She glided across the floor like a panther.

  Temperance stood her ground. Though the new girl radiated an aura of danger and was unusually strong for her size—the rounded muscles of her bare shoulders said as much—she still had to crane her neck to look up.

  “Don’t tell me what to do.” Sophia’s thumbs roamed over the grips of her revolvers. “I’m my own woman. I take care of myself.”

  Temperance studied her. Sophia hadn’t liked her since the beginning, had rebuffed every attempt at friendship. She wished she understood why. “We’re all our own women. But if you’re going to live here, you’ll find we take care of each other. Which includes the Professor. He might be odd, but he’s a good man.”

  Sophia left without another word.

  ***

  Downstairs, Temperance measured the cavernous silence of the house. A few oil lamps still burned in the parlor, but with the curtains drawn and the sun still waking, the vast purple emptiness only echoed with mourning. Even worse, the quiet seemed to ask a question—one she didn’t have an answer for.

  How can you hope to replace Madam?

  She couldn’t, of course. She was no Irene Blumen. She was a nurturer, without any of Irene’s fearless fire or unbending will.

  Sighing, Temperance took her cloak from beneath the bar. The walk across town would be chilly at this time of morning. Still, she’d find comfort most easily in church.

  Yet when she approached the front door, she paused at the heavy footfalls on the wooden boardwalk outside. Someone stopped, their boots scraping on the rough planks.

  She waited for a knock. None came.

  A shy tendril of hope unspooled in her chest. Reaching out, she swung the door inward. On the boardwalk, a man stared at her with anguished eyes.

  Heat leapt into her cheeks. One prayer had been denied, but another had been answered. God was always fair. “Honey. I hoped I’d see you again.”

  Connor shifted a
wkwardly. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, truth be told.” He just looked at her, lost.

  “A moment of grace,” she murmured. Then, “It’s all right. I know exactly why you came. Why don’t you step inside?”

  ***

  In her own room, with its rough oaken furniture and wall of simple crosses, a glimmer of solace breathed warmth into her soul. By the window, her Bibles populated a small bookcase, their silent pages whispering a soothing lullaby.

  Connor perched on the edge of her bed. Beyond him, the windowpanes glowed lilac in the dawn. “I’m not here for…for…” He trailed off, not meeting her eyes.

  “I know.” She leaned against the wall, resolving not to mention Irene. He didn’t need the burden of her troubles, too. “I didn’t think you were.”

  Looking relieved, he glanced around. “Are you a woman of God?”

  “The Lord has always done right by me. I try to do right by Him, too.”

  Confusion roughened his tone. “I don’t understand. I thought you were only in church to find…”

  “Customers?”

  Connor flushed. “Don’t be saying too much. About what you are. About what you do. For everything else that I am, for everything I’ve lost, I’m a man of the law. I am still that.”

  As if she could have forgotten. When she studied his profile, she saw now what she’d missed before. Between his upright bearing, arrow-straight nose, and hardened brow, he looked every inch a corporal, even without the uniform. Yet even amidst all that, his faraway eyes spoke of a man who’d borne intolerable grief, and for her, that overshadowed everything else.

  “I don’t know what I’m expecting.” He scrubbed at his hair, sending black ruffles every which way.

  “You’re hoping I can help,” she said gently. “You’ve lived through something horrible. Sadness is eating you alive. And now you’re drowning and alone and desperate enough to seek aid from a whore.”

  His eyes flashed. “Don’t—”

  “Tell you what I am?” She straightened. “I’m not ashamed, Corporal. I won’t make apologies for myself, and I won’t lie to you, either. Not even if you ask me to. What I will do is help, if you’ll let me.”

  He stared. “I should arrest you.”

  Under his hard-edged gaze, her heartbeat stumbled, but she stood and awaited his judgment. If he took her to jail, the others would be furious, especially after Madam had left the Blossom in her hands. Yet she needed to be of use. She needed to help, to lose herself, to escape this terrible keening ache that snapped at her heels whenever she thought of Irene.

  Finally, Connor’s face crumpled and he buried his head in his hands. “Will I always be feeling this way?”

  Relief washed over her. Stepping in, she touched the crown of his head, granting him what benediction she could. “The pain of loss never leaves. But it becomes bearable, over time. It stops consuming you and…retreats into the background, in a way, even if it doesn’t disappear. When that happens, you’ll be able to breathe again.”

  He looked up, his eyes glowing like aquamarines in the rising light. “Will I? I don’t know how, without my wife. I loved her like I’ve never loved another human being. Until our son was born, of course. Then I knew God put me on this earth to be a father, so he did. And now…”

  Her breath hitched. To live through the death of a spouse was heartbreaking enough, but the death of a child… “You lost them both?”

  “I’m a husband without a wife. A father without a child. Pieces of me are missing, and I’m not making sense of what’s left. It’s like more of me is gone than remains. I thought coming to the Yukon would help. Yet my days here are only longer and emptier.”

  Compassion swelled in her depths, chased by an old, familiar surge of sorrow. She still carried the pain of Peony’s death. She always would, just the same way Connor would always bear the scars of his own loss. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  He swallowed so hard the sound echoed in the tiny room. “It was me. I killed them. It was an accident, and yet I’ll be blaming myself forever.”

  “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.” The words were woefully inadequate. She realized that the moment his expression shuttered.

  “I’ve heard that more times than I can count. Everyone is sorry. And yet no one is sorrier than I.” He stood, retreating from her touch. “I don’t know what possessed me, coming here. My apologies. I’ll leave you be.”

  “Wait,” she said, but he reached for the knob, shaking his head. She tried again. “We have more in common than you know.”

  Connor stilled, his hand on the latch. He turned back, his expression at war with itself.

  “Once upon a time,” Temperance said, even as the words sliced her apart from the inside, “I killed my own sister. It was an accident. But I’ll blame myself forever.”

  Thunderous silence met her words. Then, “So you understand.”

  “I do.”

  His hand fell to his side.

  Temperance sat on the narrow bed and reached deep, groping toward that dark and untamed place where guilt and shame swirled like caged beasts. She usually let the monsters be, but right now she could use them, no matter how painful it might be to expose them to the light of day. “Sit down. Please.”

  When he did, she looked out the window, watching the lavender horizon exhale its way toward dawn. Her heart lodged in her throat when she contemplated the story before her, but she forged ahead anyway.

  “Let me tell you,” she began, “about the day I killed Peony.”

  10. Sophia.

  The day after Irene died, Sophia awoke with a burning ache in her chest. She rolled over, trying to escape the midday sun glaring through the window, but only succeeded in tangling the sheets around her legs. She stared at the flecked violet wallpaper.

  You understand, I mean to take the Blossom.

  The Reverend Gray’s angelic smile lurked in her memory as he whispered the threat over and over. With each repetition, the fire beneath her ribs burned hotter, until eventually, she had to embrace the truth.

  She cared about something. Dearly, in fact.

  Grimacing, Sophia sat up and found the floorboards with bare feet. Her chemise bunched around her waist and she smoothed the wrinkled fabric, as if to smooth away her scorching anger and the dreaded feelings seeping through the cracks in her armor.

  But it was no use. Because not only did she care about Irene, she cared about all of it—about the Blossom, about her new life, about keeping the house out of the Reverend’s hands. About not giving in and not giving up. She even cared about the others. Except Temperance, maybe. Something about that woman set Sophia’s teeth on edge. But Annie and the Professor seemed like good people, and she couldn’t bear the thought of letting Gray destroy the home they shared together.

  Sighing in defeat, she reached for her brush and ran the bristles through her waist-length locks. With her hair brushed and braided, Sophia traded the chemise for her customary shirt and trousers, then contemplated her next move.

  She felt like a soldier on the eve of battle. The Reverend had as good as declared war on the Blossom, and the worst part was that the others didn’t even know it. They still thought Madam had tripped, that her death had been an accident.

  The truth was far more painful, and it weighed more than Sophia could carry.

  Still, she didn’t have the heart to tell them. Not with the house in mourning. Not with Madam’s perfume still lingering in the corridor and her laundry drying on the line out back. Not while everyone still had freshly broken hearts.

  As Sophia dabbed powder onto her toothbrush, the ghost of an idea coalesced in her mind. Maybe she could save the Blossom without ever burdening the others with how senseless and awful Irene’s death had truly been.

  Her glance fell on the revolvers on her nightstand. The long barrels gleamed in the sunlight, but she left without touching them. Best not to take them where she was going.

  Stepping into the hallway, Sophia shut the be
droom door behind her. The house lay deep in stillness, as if the very walls had gone silent with sorrow. She resisted the urge to tip-toe.

  Down the hall, a doorknob turned, breaking the hush. Sophia glanced back, but the person who emerged from Temperance’s bedroom was someone she’d never seen before—a tall man, lean and wiry, with eerie blue eyes and a shock of black hair.

  He inspected her as he approached, frowning—scandalized to see a woman in men’s clothing, no doubt.

  Sophia couldn't have cared less. She was on a mission, and this stranger had only moments to explain himself or get out of her way. “Who’re you?”

  He stopped, looking down. “Corporal Connor O’Cahill, of the North West Mounted Police.”

  Her heartbeat stuttered. “A Mountie?”

  “So I am.” His words curved strangely, echoing with the music of some far-off country.

  “What were you doing in Temperance’s bedroom?”

  He paused. “Trying to find some small measure of peace.”

  Sophia succumbed to a bitter, knowing smile. In the wake of Irene’s death, she’d forgotten about work, but she couldn’t fault anyone for squeezing in another customer. The money was too good. Still, the knowledge didn’t do her opinion of Temperance any favors.

  The Corporal moved to step past, but Sophia shifted with him, blocking his path.

  He raised an inky eyebrow. “May I?”

  “Not just yet. I’m glad you’re here, actually. It saves me a trip across town.”

  The Corporal blinked, bewildered.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Reverend Gray,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I need you to arrest him. He was here last night, and he killed the woman who owns this house.”

  11. Annie.

  They buried Madam on a Sunday.

  The Professor hitched Irene’s dappled gray gelding to the cart that held the coffin, then led the horse out of town. Temperance and Sophia shuffled behind, their eyes dark with grief.

  Heartbroken and terrified, Annie trudged along at the rear, following the procession out past the river bend and up onto Shinbone Hill. She fixed her gaze on Riley, who stood vigil atop the long pine box, and tried to drown the questions swimming in her mind. What would happen when Samuel finally came? Would Temperance and Sophia put up a fight, or just shrug and let her go?