Authors: Sharon Sala
Whippoorwill
“Eulis! When you get through sweeping that floor, you take Letty up some hot water for her bath! Do you hear me?”
Eulis braced himself with both feet apart and leaned on the broom before turning a bleary gaze toward Letty.
“Bats? Letty has bats?”
Will cursed and then came out from behind the bar and swatted Eulis on the shoulder.
“No, you old sot, I said, bath! Letty wants her bath.”
Eulis reeled back in shock. “I ain’t givin’ no woman a bath. Not even for a whole bottle of hooch.”
Letty clenched her teeth to keep from screaming.
“Eulis!”
He veered his gaze in her general direction.
“What?”
“Go get the hot water and bring it to my room.”
Light dawned. “Oh! Right! The hot water.” He dropped the broom where he was standing and headed for the back room.
Letty glared at Will, daring him to argue. When he remained silent, she tossed her head and started up the stairs.
She left the door ajar for Eulis who thumped up the stairs with the two buckets of hot water. He stumbled in, slopping a goodly portion from one bucket into his shoe before getting it into the tub.
“Tarnation!” he yelped, as the hot water soaked through the threadbare sock onto his skin.
In pain, he quickly dumped the water into the small hip bath then dropped to the floor. In the act of taking off the wet shoe, Letty came in from the balcony.
She saw what he was doing and thought he was getting undressed.
“Don’t even think about it!” she yelled, and picked up her hairbrush and hit him on the back of the head.
At this time of night, Eulis was always less than steady on his feet and sitting down made little difference to his equilibrium. The blow from the hairbrush sent him face forward between his outstretched legs. He groaned, both from the shock of the blow and from the pull of unused muscles at the backs of his legs.
“What did you go and do that for?” Eulis cried, ducking again in fear of a second swing.
“There’s only one reason a man ever takes his shoes off in a woman’s room and I’m done with that for the night,” Letty said.
Eulis groaned. “No. No. I wasn’t tryin’ for no poke. I swear. I spilt hot water in my shoe. That’s all.”
Letty frowned. “Oh. Well then. I guess I’m sorry for hitting you.”
Eulis shrugged. “It’s all right. It didn’t hurt none. It just startled me.”
He peeled the sock from his foot and eyed the skin.
“What do you think? Reckon it’ll blister?”
Letty snorted. “I reckon it didn’t make it past the first two layers of dirt. That’s what I reckon.”
Whippoorwill
Book One of
The Whippoorwill Trilogy
Sharon Sala
Copyright
Whippoorwill
Copyright © 2003, 2014 by Sharon Sala
Special contents, and Electronic Edition © 2014 by RosettaBooks LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Book cover: Kim Killion of HotDAMN Designs
www.hotdamndesigns.com
ISBN ePub edition: 9780795337925
Everyone has a gift. Some use it, others are never even aware that it’s there. My gift is being a storyteller. And because I feel so blessed by this gift, and because this book is so special to me, I want to dedicate it to the people who are responsible for who I am.
Through my father’s people, I am part Cherokee. While some of my ancestors were native to this wonderful land we now call the United States of America, others came from Ireland, from France, and from England and Germany. They were brave, strong-willed men and women who left the familiarity of one life for the uncertainties of another. Some left willingly. Others were given no choice. They lived and they died, owing no one but God the explanations for the way they did it. Their names are long forgotten, but the paths they struck still guide us from sea to sea.
I am grateful that their journeys all led to me.
Contents
Things Are Not Always as They Seem
There Are None So Blind as Those Who Will Not See
An Armed and Less Than Shiny Knight
A Promise Made Is a Promise Kept
We Shall Gather at the River or a Reasonable Facsimilie Thereof
Rest In Peace, You Dirty Bastard
Sleeping with men for money was not something Leticia Murphy had planned on doing when she grew up, but then, neither had she planned on being orphaned at twelve, or winding up in a god-forsaken place in the Kansas territories like Lizard Flats. But here she was, like most of the other lost souls who’d come West, looking for something better, and in her case, wishing for a second chance. She knew the odds were against her, but it didn’t stop her from yearning.
There was a ritual from her childhood that she performed each evening as the sun was going down, just as she was doing tonight. She stepped out onto the balcony off her bedroom above the saloon, looked to the heavens for the Evening Star, then stood quietly in the growing shadows to listen for the whippoorwill’s call.
The routine came from a memory of her mother who had died when she was ten. She was always sitting in her mother’s lap outside their clapboard house, watching night come over the land. They were on the bottom step with their bare feet planted firmly in the still-warm dirt, waiting for the first cool breeze of the evening. As they sat, they looked up, searching for the Evening Star and waiting for the whippoorwill to announce its presence. Her mother had always told her the bird was searching for its mate, but Letty had yet to meet a man who was worth the search.
However, the memory was one of the few good ones she had left. Two years after her mother’s untimely death, her father was killed by a Comanche hunting party. Letty survived by hiding in a hollowed-out badger hole and that was the last time fate had showed her any kindness. At twenty-seven, she was well past the marrying age and nearly too used up to care—even if she had never stopped dreaming about a different sort of life.
In the middle of her muse, a gunshot sounded on the streets below. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that sound in Lizard Flats, and she would bet a year’s worth of wages it wouldn’t be the last. When the sound of an argument followed, she didn’t even bother to look down to see what was going on before she went back into her room. Chances were she’d see both of the stupid louts who’d started the fuss before the night was out. Men were always the same. Drink. Fight. Then celebrate their victories or losses by paying for her pleasures. Ever since Truly Fine had left Lizard Flats months earlier, Letty was the only woman still working at the White Dove Saloon, which meant she got more than her share of fools in her bed.
Refusing to think about the boredom of her life, she pushed the coal oil lamp a little closer to the mirror and then leaned forward, giving her appearance a final check before going downstairs.
Her eyes were still blue. Her hair was still brown, but there were fine lines at the corners of her eyes that hadn’t been there last year. She pouted her lips to check her lip rouge then gave a stray curl a final tuck. It didn’t do to dwell on the inevitable. She was getting older. The day was going to come when she would no longer be able to get a dollar for each man that she laid. The strange thing was that she had never been able to see beyond that fear. What happened to old whores, she wondered? Did they just dry up and blow away like the earth in Lizard Flats, or was there something worse—something more sinister than even she could imagine?
She made a face at herself just as Will the Bartender banged on her door.
“Letty! You come on downstairs now. I got customers wanting a little female attention.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” she yelled.
Just before she left her room, she blew out the lamp and then walked to the open door leading out onto the small balcony overlooking main street.
There was a faint breeze blowing, shifting the thin lace panels over her windows in an effort to get inside. She ran her fingers over the lace. Hanging the curtains had been a feeble attempt to give elegance to her life, but she did have a sense of satisfaction knowing she’d paid for them herself. Her momma would have loved the fine lace, she thought, as she walked out onto the balcony, although she would have heartily disapproved of how Letty had come by the money to pay for them.
Once outside, she looked up. The sky was clear without a cloud in sight—the Evening Star already evident. The air smelled of dust and gunpowder. The thin slice of moon hanging just above the horizon would not cast many shadows upon the darkening land. For Letty, it was a night like so many others, yet she still listened, waiting to hear that call.
“Letty! You get on down here now!” Will the Bartender yelled again.
Letty ignored him, watching as half-a-dozen cowboys from a neighboring ranch rode into town in a flurry of whoops and shouts. She frowned, hoping most of them got drunk and passed out before they got the notion to take her to bed.
Just as she was about to give up and go inside, she heard the haunting, mournful coo she’d been waiting for. The lone whippoorwill’s call sent shivers up her spine. Somewhere beyond the lights of the town, a small brown bird was calling to its mate. The sound was a reminder of who she’d been, not what she’d become, and it gave her enough solace to face the oncoming night. Satisfied, she walked back into her room and closed the door. It was time to get to work.
As she started down the stairs, Pete Fairly began banging on the piano keys. She didn’t recognize the song, but it didn’t matter. The noise level inside the White Dove had already reached fever pitch and no one was listening to him play. When one of the cowboys saw Letty coming down the stairs, he let out a whoop.
“There she is!” he hollered, and took off his hat and threw it in the air before yanking her off the last two steps and whirling her around in his arms.
Letty pasted a smile on her face and let her mind wander as the cowboy took her around the room in what passed as a dance. Pretending that she liked it was part of the job. She knew how to laugh and flirt and drink with the best of them.
One hour passed and then another. Letty’s toes had been stepped on so many times by so many drunk cowboys that she wanted to cry, she’d been up and down the stairs to the cubbyhole where she serviced the clients a half-dozen times, and she was wishing for something substantial to eat.
“How about a song?” someone shouted.
Letty sighed with relief. At least while she was singing, they couldn’t step on her feet.
“Yeah sure, cowboy.”
Letty was sauntering toward the piano when someone suddenly picked her up and sat her on the end of the bar, instead. She threw back her head and laughed and when she did, the men in the room laughed with her. Then she looked over at Pete, who was waiting for her to begin.
Letty cleared her throat. The room began to settle. She had a good voice, but it never occurred to her as she sang that her life was a perfect analogy for the small brown bird to which she listened each night. She would never have admitted, not even to herself, that through her songs, she was calling for a mate of her own.
“Mother, oh Mother, where did I go wrong?
I was a good boy until I left your sweet home.
Now I sleep on the ground and spend my days on the run, with nothing to remind me of you but this song.”
The poignancy of the words blended with the pure notes of Letty’s voice, bringing more than one wild cowboy to tears. Before she was through, the room had gone completely quiet. Even the gambler at the back of the room had laid down his cards and was leaning forward, his elbows on the table, his gaze fixed on Letty’s face.
His name was James Dupree. He’d been at the White Dove for exactly six days now, and each night he found himself drawn to the woman sitting at the end of the bar. He knew her name was Leticia Murphy, but she called herself Letty. In her youth, he figured she must have been quite a looker, but the hard life and the years had etched their own brand of scars on her face. The smile on her lips never quite reached her eyes, and her laugh was too brittle to be believed. Still, there was something about her that drew him. Maybe tonight he’d make it his business to do more than tip his hat.