Second

I was in town to meet up with Hoss and Joe at the Silver Dollar when I saw this young thing struggling to manage an oversized portmanteau—it was obviously too heavy for her. I thought she was just a child by her size but no child was ever built like that. I looked around, hoping someone else would help her and I could just go on my way; I didn't want to be late as I needed a cold beer and planned to join in the poker game I was sure Hoss had already started. And sometimes I'm just weary of being a Cartwright and having to be helpful and polite and being a goddamn good example. And now that I had a wife and child, I had to present myself as more of a "Good" citizen; it's a heavy, boring burden.

Just that morning, Hoss had said on the ride in that he felt lucky and Joe ragged on him about his "lucky feelings" and how he was probably confusing those with indigestion. Joe said that when "he" said he felt lucky, he meant that he was going to turn some girl upside down and show her what he had for her and that she would later swear that she was the one who got lucky.

I just smiled listening to my brothers, having no real interest; all I had on my mind was to pick up the bank statements so I could balance the Ponderosa books for the month of August. And since Peggy would be starting Grade 1 in another two weeks, I'd promised her I would buy some new ribbons for her hair. She was excited about starting school but Laura was worried-she worried about everything it seemed. I tried to lay her concerns to rest but she kept asking, "What if Peggy misses me? What if she cries or the other children pick on her?" No matter how many times I replied, hoping she would see things would be fine, she would still go on and on. Sometimes I just had to leave.

Laura tries my patience and I work to keep the edge from my voice whenever I answer one of her petulant questions but Laura's not stupid and I'm not that good at dissembling so she usually ends up pouting more and acting hurt and I end up apologizing for all the sins of the world. Early on in my marriage, I complained to my father under the guise of asking advice and although he never outright said it, I came away with the idea that Laura may very well be starting arguments so that she could avoid my sexual advances under the pretense of being hurt. I think my Pa knows how things are in my marriage although when we visit or he visits us, we're one happy family. In that regard, I had lived a lie for a whole year before I met Honor. But no more.

So that morning Hoss asked me to get him a hundred or so from the bank for gambling—"Gotta have a bigger stake than what's in my pocket to win big!"-and Joe laughed at Hoss' confidence. When we arrived in Virginia City close to noon, they went off and I was on my way back from the bank and putting the statements in my saddlebags when I saw Honor dragging her suitcase down the street, I had two hundred and some odd dollars in my pocket; a hundred for me and a hundred for Hoss. Pa forbade Joe to play cards anymore since the last time he did, he lost over a thousand dollars and Pa was livid; he ripped Joe a new asshole much to my and Hoss' amusement.

Anyway, as I said, I saw this lovely thing struggling and started on to the saloon but something—otherwise known as a conscience, something I have unsuccessfully been trying to shed as it would make life so much easier—made me turn around and approach her.

"Can I help you with that, Miss?" I was polite and tipped my hat and when she looked up at me with those sad green eyes, I swear my heart skipped a beat—I felt an actual pause as if time stood still for a millisecond. I can't explain what she did to me—other than make me hard—you'd understand that easy enough—but she reopened that hole in my heart, a yearning I had to love someone.

I know what you're thinking, that I have a father and two brothers and a wife and child to love—for I think of Peggy as my child, even now, but there are many variations of love and I wanted to love a woman with all my heart and soul. I'm not really a romantic and don't believe those passionate emotions are possible, well, not for longer than one night of fucking, but nevertheless, I wanted it. I just wanted to experience it before I died and it must be universal among men because I've read poetry and plays written by men all through history and they've all expressed the same emotion. It eases my feeling that I'm a goddamn fool to know I'm not alone.

So I saw Honor and the words from Marlowe's poem came to me with no prompting other than her mere presence: "It lies not in our power to love or hate, for will in us is overruled by fate…the love is slight, whoever loved that loved not at first sight?" So I like to think I was fated to love Honor even though I don't believe that we have no control over our behavior but it lets me feel less like an adulterous sonovabitch.

"No, thank you," she said, not even looking at me and continued dragging it down the street. Why she wasn't using the wooden walk puzzled me. The dirt was acting like a barrier and blocking her progress as it piled up.

"All right," I said and left but after a few steps, I turned on my heel and went back and took the portmanteau from her; I had to give the handle a little shake to get her to release it. She looked up at me in fear. I think she believed I was going to steal the goddamn thing.

"Where are you going, Miss? I'll carry this for you." I tipped my hat with my free hand, trying to seem friendly and harmless and finally she seemed to muster herself to accepting help.

"I…I'm looking for employment. I just got off the stage from Ash Fork and I'm looking for …a job."

So, I asked her what she did for a living. I told her my name and that I knew just about everyone as my family had lived in the area now for nigh onto 20 years; I could help her and was willing to help if she needed an introduction.

She blushed for some reason I hadn't yet discovered and I thought she looked prettier than any woman I had ever seen only she seemed like a girl, not just in size but she had a certain innocence, a naiveté about her.

"I don't have any profession—yet. I was looking for…" She blushed again. "I was hoping I could find a place with a bed that would let me work to earn money. You know…where other women work and make money pleasing men…"

I must have looked an idiot because I honestly had no idea what she meant; it was the last thing I would have guessed but finally it dawned on me; she wanted a job at a brothel. I laughed out loud at the prospect. She looked shocked—and then hurt. But for some reason, all right, the reason was that I was attracted to her, I wanted to help her so I made a job offer.

"I don't think that's for you—not here in Virginia City at least. They need an assistant cook at the Ponderosa, my family's ranch."

That was true. Hop Sing had fallen off a horse returning late at night from a fan tan game in Chinatown and sprained his left wrist. Actually, I'm still amazed he hasn't broken his neck by now as Hop Sing doesn't really ride—just manages to get on the horse's back, grabs the reins and the saddle horn and then kicks the horse and holds on while the horse jogs out and Hop Sing uncomfortably bounces along. Usually he takes a buggy or one of us drives him in but not when he goes to gamble—he's on his own then. Anyway, I wasn't ready for her response.

"I won't cook for anyone again or work in a kitchen or anywhere else as a servant and be told what to do. And the next time I pick up a kitchen knife in another person's house, it'll be to put through a man's heart."

I was taken aback. "Working as a whore is hard work too," I said with a slight grin. "You worked in one before?"

She paused for a moment. "No," she said quietly.

"You think no one's going to tell you what to do in a cat house? Make you work long hours? And if you rebel, say no to the madam, well, you'll be punished. And as for the "patrons," well, men can be cruel—outright mean."

"I know that about men, but everyone can be cruel—including me. And I know how to take care of myself." She tried to look intimidating but it was laughable. I couldn't see her standing up to a stinking, drunken cowboy and telling him no or defend herself from the heavy fists of a lumberjack.

But I couldn't stop smiling at her. She was feisty and determined and so very pretty, so lovely. "What's your name, girl?"

"Honor McCord…and I'm no girl." She tried to pull herself up straighter and taller.

"Fine," I said. "C'mon, Miss McCord. I know where you can stay and I'll pay for it—either for as long as you like or for two weeks." I started off but to Slim Reynold's mercantile; he owned a vacant house on the outskirts of town and I knew he'd been trying to rent it out but she stood planted in the spot. I turned back to her. "What's wrong?"

"Why? Why're you willing to pay for my room and board? Do you want me in return?"

I looked her up and down, trying to honestly see her, to understand why I felt about her the way I did. She was covered with dust from her trip and her clothes were worn hard—more than likely someone's cast-offs or hand-me-downs. She had a small smudge of dirt on one cheek and I wanted to pull out my handkerchief and wipe it off but I didn't have that right yet. Here I was thinking about tossing her skirts up and pounding into her and yet I felt I would be too forward if I touched her. She was a sad little thing and yet she had a glow about her. So I figured I'd be as honest with her as she had been with me and be able to direct her—actually frighten her-into another "profession."

"Yes, Miss McCord, you'd be mine to visit whenever I desired—any time of the day or night—or not. That's up to you. I'll pay the first two weeks of your rent gratis but I expect you to either let me keep you and enjoy you whenever I'm in town—like I said, whenever I want, or you can get a job doing something respectable. I'll consider my money well spent if you end up waiting on tables at the Imperial House, clerking in a store or taking up a needle as a seamstress-even selling drinks in a saloon. Anything but being used by all the cowhands, miners and lumberjacks who come through here. Five years underneath those men will age you twenty. You're too pretty for that, for being ridden by any sweaty, sloppy, drunk ranch hand who has two dollars in his pocket and who likes to backhand the whore after he's fucked her. Your choice, Miss McCord."

Honor paused, obviously considering what I had said. I waited and then finally she spoke with great gravity as if she was going to give some great, serious pronouncement. Funny, but her decision ended up have great ramifications that I, at the time, wouldn't have believed possible; my small Honor changed my life—saved my life and I owe her for my pursuant happiness.

She cleared her throat and not even smiling said, "All right, I'll accept your proposition. And you can call me Honor—not Miss McCord. But like I said, I'm not going to be ordered about—told what to do and all so I won't be working any of those respectable-like jobs you mentioned, so I guess we'll get to know each other pretty well, you and me. And what did you say your name was?"