Reality Check – Chapter One
The hazy, concrete canyons of New York were behind her. They gave way to cool, dark woods eaten away by progress. Here, the golden grasslands rolled for miles, speckled with sagebrush like scruff on an outlaw's chin. Bison, the biggest cows she'd ever seen, roamed the distance. Pronghorns leaped, and the hares scurried from the trail, breaking from cover. To a girl born and raised in the relentless bustle of New York City, this was… tranquil. Without steel and glass to hedge it out, the sky loomed huge and limitless. Pristine azure so rich and pure Emelia had to rest her eyes from the perfection of it.
They neared her destination; the town of Blackwater. The sky blue as ever, dotted with clouds white and defined as cotton puffs.
"You're as excited as a child in a candy store, Doctor," Mrs. Davis stated, looking up from her book. An Oscar Wilde effort. Her limpid, wide set blue eyes regarded the young doctor with open scrutiny. "It's nothing but dry grass and tumbleweeds. A big city girl like you will be bored in a week."
Emelia smiled at her well-traveled companion. "I've never been this far west," she admitted with an embarrassed little shrug. "This is all a grand adventure for me."
"Truly, my dear girl," Mr. Davis joined in, a puffy partridge of a man in a grey three piece and felt bowler. "I can't help but wonder why you would want to travel so far from home. You can't be out of school more than half a year."
"You are correct, Mr. Davis," Emelia confirmed proudly. "Time to put all this education to the test."
"Syracuse is in such lovely country," Mrs. Davis added, closing her book and placing it in her lap. She folded her gloved hands over the cover.
"And already you strike out?" Mr. Davis said. "It is highly… unusual. A woman your age. All alone."
"Travel can be dangerous," Mrs. Davis agreed. Emelia took a breath and tried not to bristle under their concern. They mean well.
"Especially for a lady of your… well, appearance."
"Christopher," Mrs. Davis admonished, flushing pink as her blouse.
"Well… I only mean to say," he sputtered, jowls shaking. "Well, you're very… well, delicate, Doctor. And lovely, I dare say. Very lovely. Some men, well…" he flushed a ridiculous shade of red and cleared his throat. "Not all men are of pure intention…"
"Christopher," Mrs. Davis hissed, swatting his arm.
"Well, I…" Mr. Davis continued, digging himself deeper. Emelia suppressed a laugh. "Your family! They must be worried. Yes! Terribly worried. Why not seek a practice closer to home, Doctor Griswold? Your family is not without means…?"
Emelia nodded, too honest to deny the significance of her name. "You speak good sense, Mr. Davis," she said diplomatically. "But I'm afraid New York is drowning in progress."
"You say that like it is a bad thing, Doctor," Mrs. Davis tutted.
"Well, no… it's…" Emelia said, carefully trying to find the right way to articulate what she meant. "Well… I would be little more than a glorified nurse. The practices are all so established within each neighborhood. But out here?" She took a great breath. "Out here I hope to be of use."
"Ah," Mr. Davis said with a chuckle. "The spirit of a missionary, I see."
"Well…," Mrs. Davis allowed graciously, "You have been charming. I will certainly call on you, should the need arise."
"Oh, no darling," Mr. Davis soothed. "We'll only be staying as long as is absolutely necessary, I assure you."
"Well… I am thankful for that," Mrs. Davis said haughtily. "Blackwater has made progress, I will admit, but it will never match Boston or New York for sophistication. Regardless of how much silver or gold they pour into it."
Their conversation shifted to the merits of the Great Eastern Cities and their hope of returning for the Social season. Emelia smiled and stared out the window. On the crest of a hill she noticed them, three men on horseback. Kindred travelling souls, she thought. She waved to them. They watched the coach roll by, faces shrouded in the shadows of their wide brimmed hats. So different from the dapper little city bowlers and top hats her own brother so favored.
"So mysterious," Emelia remarked wistfully, swept up in the romance of their freedom. "Where could they be going with only the clothes on their backs?"
Mr. Davis cast an indolent glance out the window. "Local Ranch-hands," he stated dismissively.
They had no cattle or sheep with them. Emelia continued to watch them, as they urged their horses down the steep hillside. Picking their way around the rocks and trees and sagebrush. Eventually, they picked up speed, their horses rapidly closing the distance. She could make out the colours of their shirts, their horses' coats. "They don't even use the roads," she remarked enviously. "Oh, I think I shall have to get a horse of my own."
Mrs. Davis finally looked for herself. "Heavens. Dear? Are… are they following us?"
Her husband said nothing. His lips disappeared under his waxed moustache, and the crease between his thick brows deepened. He rose from his seat and hit the ceiling with his fist. "Mr. Stone," he called out. "Be on your guard!"
Over the clopping of hooves and the creaking rumble of the wheels, the din of conversation passing between Mr. Stone and Clem, the Messenger, quieted down. A sharp snap of the reins and the shaking intensified as the coach picked up speed.
"My heavens!" Mrs. Davis exclaimed, clutching at the glittering brooch on her high lace collar. Emelia griped at the brown leather seats, trying to remain stable, and made certain her satchel was still safe and secure at her feet with a touch.
The beating of more hooves escalated. Two men rode up next to her window on the left. A dark-skinned man in a soft slate coat. Slim and graceful. He kept his eyes forward, focused. His companion was… older. Heavier, rounder, compared to his clean and nimble companion. His long dark hair streamed from under his tan hat. Their faces are covered, their pistols drawn, gleaming in the sun. Another rider came up fast on the right. Beyond Mrs. Davis's hat, Emelia saw only a flash of blue. They overtook the coach.
A shot rang out and Emelia flinched. Mrs. Davis screamed, and they all duck lower, the coach continuing at a bone rattling pace. Over it all Emelia heard a hoarse and angry voice.
"Stop the goddamned coach!"
Another crack of thunder. Two. Someone cried out and the horses screamed. Their young shooter, Clem, fell from his perch, just as the coach rolled to a jumbled stop. Emelia looked out the window, saw where Clem hit the ground. He did not move.
It was instinct. Satchel and grey skirts gathered, Emelia opened the door. She ran.
"Doctor Griswold," Mr. Davis cried.
"What the Hell!"
She did not look back for that angry voice. A terrifying crack echoed and Emelia flinched but did not check her step. She slid to a stop in the dust next to Clem. Poor man panting in pain and panic.
"Look at me," she ordered. His grey eyes rolled about, unfocused. She did not see the fall and so she did not jostle him needlessly. "Look at me. What's your name?"
"C-C-Clem," he managed.
"How old are you, Clem?"
"He…he got me good, Miss."
Emelia opened the young man's jacket, then his shirt. She checked the wound in his shoulder with a glance. Blood on the ground granted her some hope that maybe it pierced through.
The clinking thud of steps fast approaching forced her to look up. The third rider. A bull of a man, broad-shouldered and tall. He filled her vision with his presence. She could not see his face under the black cloth but everything about him was squared and menacing.
"Get back in the goddamned coach," he snarled, coarse voice barely muffled by the road stained bandana. She applied pressure to staunch some of the bleeding with a lower portion of her skirt… the only thing she had, and steadily met his gaze. Blue eyes wild and bright under the shadow of a battered black hat.
He was in a cold rage.
But Clem whimpered, quivering beneath her hands, blood hot and sticky beneath the pressure. It lent steel to her spine. She did not look away from the brute looming over them both.
"Please?" she managed. "I have to help him."
He raised his hand and pointed the gleaming pistol at her, cocking the hammer. His voice dropped in volume. "Don't give me no trouble, miss."
Emelia's pulse doubled, and Mrs. Davis wailed like a wounded animal. Sweat cooled her neck and Emelia swallowed despite the fear constricting her throat. She took a steadying breath. Then another. Don't panic, Emma. Don't panic…
"No…" Emelia said. "No trouble, Mister. I… I just want to help. Please. That's no trouble to you."
He blinked, and she thinks, maybe, that his scowl softened a degree or two.
"Is it, Mister?" Emelia pressed, testing her luck and putting too much faith in his hesitation.
He said nothing, only glowered at her for a moment that felt like an age.
"Popped the lockbox," the dark younger man shouted. That snapped the threatening degenerate out of his contemplation and he finally lowered his gun.
"Gonna get yerself shot, miss," he growled before stalking off. She watched him briefly, making certain they really were leaving. When he mounted his dark horse, as the hoofbeats receded into the ambient sounds of twittering birds and Mrs. Davis's sobbing, Emelia allowed herself a breath of relief. She looked at Clem's pale face. Conjuring confidence, she asked; "You still with me, Clem?"
"Y-Yes, ma'am," he said.
"Brave man," she said, warm and steady. "Let's get a proper look at this now, shall we?"