Harbinger

Kitty's Outlaw ATC

Chapter 1

by Lilyjack

Many thanks to hellomatt who helped me solve my tense issue (as in verbiage – present vs. simple past vs. past perfect.) It's way more difficult to write in first person, present tense than it appears, folks. If you notice mistakes, please don't tell me 'cause I don't wanna know. This is the best I could do. Next time I decide to challenge myself to writing something a little different, just point me back in the direction from whence I came.

And, as always, to my plotting partner and covid co-dependent, AZgirl66, you are a constant source of inspiration and humor. Looks like we may be stuck with each other for good.

Hope you all like this here story cause it sure as shootin' was tricky to write.

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"You can always tell a lady by her hands…"

Suddenly I recollect those words spoken to me a whole lifetime ago. It was a day I reckon I won't ever forget, a day that was probably the worst of my whole life.

But right at this moment, I'm plopped down on the riverbank, starin' down at my hands through a blur of tears. Freckles are already makin' an unwelcome appearance on my pale skin. The sun is bright today, and in my wretched state of mournfulness, I hightailed out of Dodge in a hurry, failing to put on gloves. Some lady I turned out to be.

I berate myself angrily between heaving sobs, "You're a…damn fool…Kitty Russell." The warm prairie wind no sooner dries my skin than more hot tears roll down my cheeks to wet them all over again. I glance over at my poor mount, a bay I hired in a hurry from Moss Grimmick. The horse is all lathered up from the mad gallop I gave him across the prairie. He's happy now at the edge of the river drinkin' his fill and wading into the edge to stomp and snort at his own splashes. I wonder that he can be so contented, so happy, when I'm so miserable. I abandoned him to sit here on the bank in the sheltering shade of the cottonwoods to have a good cry, far from the pryin' eyes of Dodge.

I'm still wearin' my green and gold plaid satin dress, but now it's damp with sweat and tears. It was pretty darn tricky throwin' a knee over the top pommel of my sidesaddle, but I was determined. I was too upset earlier after watching Cole Yankton die right in front a' my eyes, too distraught over…just…everything, that I had to get outta Dodge, out by myself where I could cry and think and figure out what I'm gonna do. And that meant I didn't wanna take the time to fuss over my wardrobe. I just mounted the horse Moss saddled for me and rode hell for leather.

I feel bad 'cause I realize I'm not even cryin' for Cole. Not entirely anyway. But Cole's surprise appearance in Dodge got me to thinkin'. And worryin'. And feelin' like I really have been the worst kinda fool. A sentimental, romantic fool in a world I know without a doubt has mighty little respect for women and their feelings. No, not their hopes or dreams either. Or their tender, foolish young hearts.

I know it, yet I apparently forgot, again, what with my head bein' in the clouds as I mooned over a man I am finally coming to realize will never have me as anything other than a friend. A man who is head and shoulders above me, both literally and figuratively. He's a giant in stature, both in body and soul. In these cow towns I've been workin' for several long, empty-feelin' years now, this fella is somethin' a girl doesn't come by too often - an honest man, a decent man. And here I am, just an indecent woman.

I swipe at tears with the back of my hand and half-heartedly try to smooth back the hair that came loose during my pell-mell ride to the river. I know I must look a sight, but I don't give a damn. My heart aches too much and my head is tellin' me again what a dimwitted girl I am for thinkin' I would ever have a chance with a man like Matt Dillon.

I'm not used to feelin' so low like this. I always try to make the best of things because I know there are so many folks who have it a lot worse than me. But sometimes it's hard not to feel at least a little sorry for yourself, when nothin' seems to be goin' your way. When things have actually been a mite bleak since you were still a girl in short skirts who hadn't even put her hair up yet.

That was when Mother had died, that damp winter I was kept awake at night as she coughed and coughed, the sound echoing in our big old drafty house. That raspy, gasping sound planted a cold seed of dread in my heart, a fear of the unmentionable, yawning void which lay before me.

What if…? It felt to my young self like someone dashed cold water on my body as I thought on it, as I considered something I could not even name in my head. What would become of me? I could not live without my mother. I had no father, no other family. Not any that would claim me anyhow, after my mother had obstinately defied her family, hared off and hitched up with a charming but no-count gambler by trade. Then my father ran off and left Mother when I was just a baby, abandoned us to fend for ourselves. At the very least, he had the decency to leave her the house.

My mother was a strong woman even though her body was not. She proceeded to open our 6609 Mercier Street house, just two blocks down from the Ponchartrain lakefront, to outsiders, renting out rooms, cleaning and cooking for them, doin' their laundry, from sunup to sundown and sometimes late into the evening. It was a hard, unforgiving life, backbreaking work for a lone woman with a little girl, but it kept a roof over our heads and food in our bellies.

Then when I was old enough to beg my mother to lower my skirts a few inches like the other girls my age at school, Mother fell sick. It was a sickness that hung on and on and never seemed to get better. A sickness that she tried to deny, but I knew. Deep down, no matter how many times she insisted, I'm fine, sweet girl, as she patted my cheek, I was eaten up with worry. She got real bad one winter when I was fifteen, coughin' so hard she left crimson stains on her white handkerchiefs. She'd lost so much weight, I was afraid I'd wake up one morning and she'd have disappeared completely into thin air.

Her coughin' at night didn't just keep me up. Some of the boarders complained of the racket and thereafter took their leave of our place. Good riddance to them was what I muttered darkly behind their backs. But silently I was wonderin' how we'd pay the doctoring bills.

That's when I quit school, the real nice school run by the Ursuline nuns who'd given me a scholarship because they knew my mother. They took pity on me, I reckon. But I'd decided I wanted to stay home and take on more of my mother's work so she could get more rest. So she could get well. I cooked and washed dishes and cleaned until my skin was raw and chapped and cracked. I hated it. I hated it with a passion. I did it to keep my mother alive.

But it didn't work. She passed one night nearly a year later while I was sleepin', wore plumb to a frazzle from haulin' water, moppin' floors all day and cookin' three meals to boot. I cried when I found her, cried so hard I tuckered myself out and fell asleep in the bed beside her, clutching her still warm body close to me one last time. Then I got up and pulled the sheet over her soft expression, peaceful at last after so much weariness, so much pain.

I washed my face, brushed and braided my hair, and went down to cook breakfast for our boarders. After I cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, I took off my apron and hung it on a peg on the wall where Mother always kept it handy. Then I walked to the undertaker to fetch a hearse to come get her. I paid for it with the money hid away in a cracked cookie jar in the pantry way back behind a sack of flour.

A full month earlier, Mother had told me what undertaker to go to, Marchand's Funeral Parlor on Lucerne. She said she'd already made all the arrangements and a down payment. I would only hafta pay them the remaining balance. When those terrible words had come out of my Mother's mouth, her face pale, her expression drawn, she had smiled at me and called me her sweet, brave girl and kissed my cheek tenderly. Then she'd held me tight for a long time. I trembled a little, but I didn't cry at all. Not until the nighttime when I donned my cotton flannel nightgown, warmed it in front of the fireplace and then jumped between the icy sheets. I had cried silently so as not to wake my mother or worry her any at all.

The day of her funeral, I stood beneath the sagging branches of an old oak tree draped with gray Spanish moss. I shivered in my thin cape, and I watched as they put my mother in a cold marble crypt with a name on it that was unfamiliar to me, Thibodeaux. I didn't think we knew anyone by that name, but I didn't ask any questions. I'd learned long before that questions about family were firmly discouraged with a stern look and a raised brow. So instead of askin' questions, I just watched them lower her casket, and I felt my heart was being sealed right up inside that tomb with her.

That was the day I turned sixteen. I had put my hair up that mornin' for the first time, and I'd looked in my mother's chifforobe and found her second-best skirt to wear. It came clear down to my ankles just like a grown woman. I was a tall girl already and looked older than I really was.

I'd buried Mother in her prettiest dark blue skirt, the one that matched her eyes and complemented her deep auburn hair. Before my mother got sick, she was a real beauty. But she never dallied with any man after my father left her, and I'm not sure why. Like I said, a child who's been rejected by her family doesn't ask a whole lotta questions.

There weren't many people at Mother's brief graveside services besides me. Through the hazy veil of grief and time, I don't really remember who all was there, truth be told, aside from my old school pal Lucy and her family. The Critts begged me to come home with them afterward, but I told 'em I had to cook supper for the boarders and put the red beans to soak in water because, of course, the following day was wash day. Everyone in New Orleans fixes a big pot a' red beans and rice on wash day because it can be cooked low and slow, mostly unattended during chore time. And I certainly had plenty of sheets and towels to get clean.

But when I walked down Mercier Street, my feet began to feel heavier and heavier the closer I got to the house, empty of all that was dear to me. All that I loved. I felt like there was a leaden weight in my chest, and a cold dread came over me as I contemplated what was to become of me. I didn't feel like I could run my mother's boarding house all by myself. I was afraid.

I swallowed back frightened tears, then noticed with surprise a fine lady waitin' on my front porch. She wore gloves and an expensive navy velvet suit and beautiful hat festooned with a luxurious feather. Panacea Sykes, she said was her name in a lilting voice, and then she announced she'd come to take care a' me.

My jaw dropped. I'd been pretty much takin' care of myself for quite a while by then. "Whatta you mean, lady?" I asked her, my brows knitting together. "I don't even know you."

"But I know you, my dear. I've known of you for a while now. And I can see that the stories of your great beauty are true."

I eyed her askance, lookin' down at my plain clothes with frayed hems and my young hands already rough and reddened from scrubbin' floors and doin' the wash.

She smiled prettily at me then and took one of my hands. "You can always tell a lady by her hands." Panacea Sykes' merry eyes gleamed at me as she added, "But you can fake it for a little while if you'll just wear a nice pair of gloves, my dear."

"I assure you my very best pair are beyond repair at this point, Missus…?"

"Miss, my dear. And you can call me Panacea. Don't you fret - I'll buy you some new gloves." Then she took a step back and eyed my attire, clean but serviceable. "And a dress or two while we're at it."

"But…I have work to do." I didn't say anything about the fact that this perfect stranger was wantin' to buy me clothes, was askin' me to go away with her. I just said the first thing that came to my head. I had too much to do to be dallyin' around takin' the air with this fancy lady. I reiterated stupidly, "I don't have time."

"Oh, I'll take care of that, Kitty Russell."

"You know my name?"

"I told you I've known about you for a long time. Let's just say I know people who know you."

"Who?" I placed my hands on my hips in exasperation, but more than that, in frustrated curiosity.

"Oh, my dear, I am always the soul of discretion, and I fear I could never divulge such delicate information." Panacea lay her hand upon her ample breast to emphasize her point. "But enough of that. Let's take you away from here. All this work and drudgery! I can see by the looks of you that you've been slaving away, just as I was told."

"You were told?" My hair prickled a little on the back of my neck. "Who…?"

"Ah-ah-ahh…" She waved a finger in gentle remonstration. But then she patted my hand companionably and looked at me so kindly that my throat tightened, and I was afraid I might cry.

"I've got employees I'll send to take care of this old house for you. We'll give the boarders their notice and…" She stopped and slanted her eyes over at me archly, a smile playing at her lips. "Oh, come on, honey. Come with me right now, just for a visit. I promise I've only got your best intentions in mind. But if you indeed decide to stay with me, then perhaps we can sell this old place."

"Sell it?" My throat went dry. This was the only home I'd ever known. It wasn't fancy and it'd seen better days, for sure, but… The thought of my mother's body as it had lain in the upstairs bedroom made my chest hurt. I looked at my hands, a crack on my knuckle now startin' to bleed, standin' out here on this cold, misty day, the old boards of the porch creaking and sagging beneath our feet. Mother had said, come summer, we'd have to get it worked on. But she wasn't here now to tell me who to hire. Where would I get the money for the repairs? How could I ever manage to keep this big old house clean and keep of all our…my…boarders fed and happy? That feeling of dread, of fear and loneliness, swept over me again.

"Come on, child. You look cold and tired. Just come with me for a little bit of supper at least." Panacea put a hand around my waist and urged me toward the steps. "See that nice carriage down there on the street? I'm gonna take you back to my place for just a little while, and we can talk about things later. That sound alright to you?"

I didn't know what to say. It felt so good, such an utter relief, to have someone tellin' me what to do, someone who wanted to take care a' me. And the thought of warm food and hot coffee sounded heavenly right then as I shivered. "Alright," I finally reluctantly agreed. "I'll go with you. But just for a little while…"

tbc

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