Chapter Text
“Tai, where are my boots?”
Natalie’s voice echoes through the vaulted ceilings of the ranch house. Cheap lumber throws the sound like wet clay, warping it just enough to fit beneath the slit of every door. Van, lounging haphazardly on the living room couch, winces at the exasperation that carries weight across the space.
Taissa opens the bedroom door with wide eyes, already irritated — pulling Tai to the brink of combustion before the sun has a chance to rise is Natalie’s specialty.
“If you would listen to me for once in your life, you would know they’re by the door. Where I ask you to put them every day.”
Natalie grins and retreats towards the front door before returning to the living room, victorious and accompanied by worn-soled cowboy boots clutched in her fist. The spurs in the back have long broken off and the thread is so frayed that the golden embroidery along the sides is unintelligible, but they’re trusted and hardworking, so Natalie keeps them around, much to Tai’s chagrin. It’s not like she has the money to replace them, anyway, so Natalie’s rare sentimentality is what keeps them alive, despite Tai’s repeated — and valiant — attempts at tossing them in the creek out back.
“How many times do I have to tell you to leave those nasty things on the rug when you come in?”
Natalie sits in the armchair diagonal from the couch, throwing Van a sideways smirk before tugging on her boots. Taissa stands in front of her with hands on her hips. Their knees nearly touch with the closeness. Natalie looks up.
“Just a few more should do it.”
Taissa rolls her eyes and kicks Natalie’s now-covered foot with the tips of her toes, landing a resounding thump across the floor before walking back into the bedroom and closing the door behind her.
“You ought to listen to her,” Van chides, snatching the newspaper from the coffee table and settling back into her oblong position: one leg bent at the knee with a foot against the cushions, one dangling off the couch, her right elbow perched atop the back of the sofa with her arm hanging down, grasping the paper between her hands.
“She’s not my mother,” Natalie grumbles, tugging her left boot onto her foot with a grimace. “No matter how much she acts like it.”
“It’s an easy request, Nat,” Van huffs, flipping the page with a crinkle and swinging the leg that’s dangling towards the floor. “Would it kill you to keep the peace around here? You’re just so damn stubborn sometimes.”
“Easy for you to say, she’s got you so whipped you’d sleep outside if she asked.”
Natalie wipes her palms against the thighs of her jeans before standing up, tucking her buttoned shirt into the taut waistband with practiced fingers.
“Happy wife, happy life,” is all Van retorts, flipping to the next page and reading intently. Natalie peeks at the front page curiously, though she knows there’s nothing interesting to find. Nothing interesting has inhabited that black ink in some time.
It’s all old gossip now. Every day is the same out here. The trains come into the city, cattlemen yip at their herds as they move across the plains, the piano player in the saloon knows three songs when he’s sober and one when he’s not. It’s bleak, it’s monotonous, it’s filled with an inequity that makes Natalie’s stomach coil. There’s still a hole in their roof that leaks incessantly when it rains. There’s a house in the city with bay windows.
Jobs are hard to come by these days, so Natalie does what she can to provide. It isn’t much, but it’s providing, and that’s something to her. She works temporarily, a local migrant, shifting from place to place but returning to the same house each night like a walking conundrum, lending calloused hands and a sharp tongue to whoever has money to spare. She’s a farmhand, she’s a hunter, she’s a thief. The latter tends to make the most, especially in the big city. It’s what keeps wood in the fireplace and their land from being foreclosed upon. It’s never enough to stop the bankers from watching their payments like a yellow-eyed beast, however, drooling at the thought of one going missed, though Natalie makes sure that never happens.
“Going into the city?” Van asks from the couch, folding the paper at the corner so she can leer at Natalie, who stands awkwardly in the doorway.
“Passenger train’s coming in today. Should be some activity in town,” Natalie responds, slipping a revolver into her holster and fastening the top. It’s an old Colt, silver and small, heavy enough to comfort her and light enough to hide. Van pays no mind to the weapon, which is absolutely not allowed in the house, as per Taissa’s demands.
“There’s always the goldfield,” Van says with an arched brow, wondering if today’s the day that Natalie will take the bait. It never is.
Natalie scoffs and takes her hat from the hook by the door, settling it against her blonde curls. It hugs the space just above her ears and devours half of her forehead with casted shadows.
“I don’t feel like going to prison today. Tourists are safer.”
“Good luck,” Van retorts before returning to the paper, the thin page hiding her face from view again. The wishes come without malice, as they always do with Van. Natalie hums and opens the door, listening as the heels of her boots sing against the hardwood on the way out.
The Wyoming sun beats down on her with hot breath. It’s crass on the back of her neck, sticky and humid, and Natalie reaches around to itch the expanse just beneath her collar, pulling her palm away to find her fingers damp. She grimaces and wipes her hand on her pants before heading towards the hitch behind the house.
Her horse is tied up, flicking flies away with his long tail. Gray hairs dust his muzzle and pepper his brown mane. Natalie got him as a hand-me-down; it was Van’s old horse, the one she had growing up. He’s ready to retire now, only has a few good years left in him, and Natalie makes sure that the days are easy and the food is good.
“Hey boy,” she soothes as she approaches, taking her saddle from the rack by the hitch. She slides it across his back, reaching up on her toes to make it. She’s found that she’s not teased about her height anymore now that she’s got a big brute of a horse and a pistol on her hip.
Natalie reaches into the saddlebag and extracts a sugar cube. They’re usually meant for keeping morale during long treks, however the sun has made her soft. Her horse takes it greedily, thanking her with a press of his nose into her palm. He huffs against her skin in brief appreciation and pulls back. Natalie slides beneath his belly to fasten the saddle around his torso.
She mounts his back with ease, slipping a practiced foot into the stirrup and swinging her leg over, settling into position. She takes the reins between her hands and pulls to the left, guiding her horse away from the house and towards the long driveway. He trots along the dirt path, kicking up clouds behind him that soil his chestnut coat with a fine layer of summer-made filth. Natalie makes a note to brush him when they return.
The ride into town is short but hot. The cacti along the side of the road are flourishing beneath the conditions, while Natalie feels like melting into the firm arms of the Earth. Her brow is damp beneath the rim of her hat and she resists the urge to wipe it away with the back of her hand, simply kicking her horse’s hind legs and urging him to speed up with a click of her tongue. She foolishly hopes the breeze against her face will work to settle the fever.
Cheyenne comes into view over the brink of a sloping hill. The sun reflects off of shop windows and there’s greenery hanging from balconies like the lolling tongue of a drooling dog. Baneberries are planted in wooden pots down the sidewalk, dousing the street in powdery white with sprouts of red berries hidden amongst them. There’s a sign about a town hall meeting outside of the Baptist church on the corner and banners of upcoming events are pinned to the lampposts.
People are bustling around as usual. Over the years, the city has become extravagantly wealthy beyond their wildest dreams. The railroad brings people in by the armful, contributing to the easy trade of cattle and linen, sold by the local farmers and tailors. The goldfield just outside of city limits financially provides, making products cheaper and salaries higher. Though permanent jobs have been hard to obtain, the post-war spending influx has been beneficial for a city of such prestige, and it hasn’t been too bad for Natalie either. Her nimble fingers can find their way into at least a dozen pockets of distracted tourists before the sun sets. She’s hopeful that today is no different.
She dismounts outside of a saloon and hitches her horse’s reins to a post along the sidewalk. She runs her palm along his neck passively as she surveys the area, tipping her hat lower and effectively hiding her eyes. Her horse chuffs as she runs her gaze along the street, finding a less than desirable crowd today. Old women walk carefully along cobblestone and mothers hold their children’s hands. The preacher from the church is standing outside with a few pamphlets in his arms, talking to a man who works in the lumberyard. Natalie may be a thief but she has morals, however convoluted and untraditional they may be.
It’s mid-afternoon now, promising a decent crowd of day drinkers within the belly of the saloon, nursing tepid whiskey and low-slung jeans. Natalie can hear the clinking of poker chips from behind the batwing doors, making for even easier targets; if they have money to lose, perhaps they won’t be too shocked to find their billfolds missing by the end of the night. She smiles to herself and gives her horse one last pat before heading inside, swinging open the creaky wood and stepping across the floor with light feet.
She doesn’t ask for a drink; it makes her recognizable. Instead, she slides into the leather seat of a booth by the front window, shaded by white linen curtains, and scans her surroundings. She fiddles with the tassels of the tablecloth dripping into her lap, gathering her courage in lungfuls.
Though she’s done this a thousand times, it never gets easier. It never gets cleaner. It still fills her with nerves beforehand and a wave of relief right after, riding home to deposit her earnings on the kitchen table in front of her roommates. She cracks her knuckles to relieve the tension in her bones before standing up.
There’s a man lounging by the staircase, an amber bottle in his hand. His back is to the door and he’s lewdly calling after a woman on the second floor — who is, by all accounts, profusely ignoring his advances. Natalie has no intention of playing God, nor is that why she does this, but she quickly decides that he could stand to lose a few bucks.
She approaches him from behind, pretending to examine the portraits on the wall, lined with gold plaques and heavy overexposure. A photograph of a shedding buck briefly catches her eye and it makes up for the row of kitschy decor that precedes it.
She ghosts her left hand into the man’s back pocket on her way down the hall, retreating when she latches onto a billfold. She quickly pockets the money to count later and retreats down the corridor, tracing the picture frames with the tip of her index finger and curling her lip when it comes away coated in a fine layer of dust. She slips into the restroom for a moment — effectively creating an intricate facade to any potential onlookers — and pulls open the metal clasp to thumb through the bills. She turns on the faucet as she counts four dollars with a growing smile; a lucky grab. It’s enough to feed them for another week, and she’ll be able to get Van the strawberry hard candies that she likes so much but rarely receives. With a few more hands, she’ll be able to gift Taissa the Columbian coffee that’s proudly displayed in the window of the general store. Her eyebrows set with determination.
Natalie turns off the faucet and escapes the bathroom, tucking the billfold into her front pocket before returning to her work.
There’s a handful of coins from the abandoned satchel of a poker player and ten dollars from the coat pocket of some sort of landowner, or perhaps a merchant, drunk and lopsided against the bartop, dressed in a navy suit that makes him stick out like a sore thumb. Natalie takes pride in that one; he reminds her of the man who laid her father off when she was a child, young enough to be confused about the circumstances but old enough to remember the consequences laid upon her with the back of a firm hand. The scar in the center of her spine itches.
Her well of luck runs dry when she slips delicate fingers into the tailored pants of what she had assumed to be a city clerk. A man bumps into her, slipping against the uneven floorboards and flailing to balance himself. He pushes against her, landing a palm on her shoulder, causing her to lose her balance and falter a bit on her feet. The hand still in the back pocket of the gentleman before her becomes painfully obvious with the movement. She freezes.
It’s uncharacteristic, but so is everything about this moment. Natalie had fumbled, a near-nonexistent occasion. She reprimands herself for not being attentive enough, diligent enough, for not sensing the man approaching her from behind. She’s trained for this. She could do it blind, half-hearted, hopeless and exhausted. It’s her first mistake since she started in this new city. It’s her first mistake since they were forced to move here, nestled in the mountains. The thought of explaining her misadventures to Taissa makes her stomach churn.
Her breath catches painfully in her throat, jagged and thick. She rips her hand from the man’s pocket just as he turns to face her with a knowing — albeit surprised — look of dissatisfaction.
The gold of his sheriff’s badge glints in the light from the oil lamp above their heads.
Natalie doesn’t allow herself much time to think. Her mind skims over every thought while she tries to remember every possible exit in the saloon. She remembers one towards the back, the patio door upstairs, the batwing door at the front; the latter is the most obvious and provides the least amount of coverage, but it’s the fastest, and Natalie needs to be fast. She can be — she knows she can.
Before the sheriff's whistle has time to perch between his chapped lips like a nuisant parrot, Natalie turns on her heel and is halfway out the door. She hears the shrill blow behind her, alerting every nearby patron to her movements. The sound follows her onto the sidewalk and she’s burdened with wide-eyed, questioning stares from passersby. It flusters her and makes her cheeks hot, even while shaded from the summer sun by the brim of her hat and the awning of the saloon above her. Her heart pounds beneath the cage of her chest, thumping heavy and loud and filling her throat with heat and fire.
The road is bustling with stagecoaches and church stragglers, enjoying the rest of their afternoon while window shopping in the city, holding linen umbrellas above their heads while twirling the handles absentmindedly.
Natalie will have to take the side streets, the back alleys. The thought of running in such a maze makes her stomach roll. She’s done it before, she can do it again. She has to.
She breathes deep and commands her feet to move, forcing them to take one step after another until she finds herself slinking behind the alley wall of the hardware store two buildings down, pressing her back against the gristly brick and inching into the dark like a stray cat. All she’s missing is a cardboard box.
She sneaks around loosely bagged trash and over large, muddy puddles persistently fed by the perfect storm of humidity and shade. It dirties her boots as she jumps over and she reminds herself to take them off outside today, appeasing Taissa as much as she can; just this once, situation considered.
The sound of the whistle nears closer, threatening Natalie with its shrieking metal. There’s another one now, and another, a cacophony of shouting do-gooders with gold badges strapped to their breast pockets. Recruitment. Natalie had forgotten that the sheriff's station is just across the street from the saloon. Great .
She rolls her eyes and tips her hat lower, dodging behind the hardware store and cutting into the back alley of the tailor beside it. It’s a tight squeeze and her palms get scraped raw and angry along the brick but she makes it through safely, although one of her shirt buttons was ripped from its thread in transit. She’s behind the mortuary now, and the smell of formaldehyde burns her nose and makes her eyes water. She covers her mouth with the crook of her arm.
Natalie coughs into her elbow at the stench and inches across the back of the shop before finding herself spat back out onto the main street, albeit farther from the herd of officers still looking for her around the saloon. She can hear them call for her and question frightened strangers on the street to no avail; they never win. However, they’re still inching closer to her location, so she isn’t out of the woods yet. Natalie knows this dance by heart, knows she still needs to find somewhere to disappear in plain sight, but it doesn’t stop her from laughing quietly at their ineptitude before jogging across the street with a full gait, holding onto the top of her hat as she crosses in front of a moving coach.
A post-war Victorian towers above her. It’s the only building on this side of the street and Natalie’s only ever seen it in passing. It’s massive when she stands at its feet, looking upwards as if whispering to God. There’s an adolescent cottonwood to her right, enclosed by a black iron fence with fresh dirt spread at its base. Before her is a wide staircase, white and painted. There’s no signs of boot scuffs along the wood, something Natalie rarely sees around this part of the country; there’s always boots.
The place is nice and the area is calm, much calmer than the hustle and bustle of the main street, the one that regurgitates tourists onto a long stretch of shops and entices them not to leave. Natalie wonders how many lives a person of her standard would have to take in order to make it into a place like this. She wonders if her father’s boss was a member here.
The main section of the building is held up by thin, white columns, spreading their arms at the top and cradling the red brick with precision. The wraparound porch is large, and evenly-placed rocking chairs lay across its expanse. An areca palm waves gently in the wind, living inside a deep-bellied, navy blue pot by the front door. It’s entirely out of place, and it should be dead by all accounts, yet it continues to listen to the breeze and move accordingly. Natalie fights the urge to tip her hat in kinship as she climbs the stairs.
The gold-plated plaque beside the door frame reads: Cheyenne Club .
Opulence bares its pearly teeth at her as she steps inside, the soles of her boots meeting soft carpet. There’s a large bar to her left, towered high with dark liquor and a bartender shining crystal glasses, thin and dainty. Natalie is almost convinced that they might shatter if you so much as look at them wrong. She averts her gaze.
There are tables and booths spread across the main floor, all of them filled with men in pressed suits and women with long dresses and silk hats pinned to their delicate curls. There are chandeliers above them that refract the subtle sunlight coming in through the windows with rays of technicolor, dancing across the room. A piano is nestled beneath the large bay window on the right side, ivory keys compressed beneath the knowing fingers of a musician. He is unfamiliar with saloon jaunts, instead serenading the social club with the melodious instrumental of something old, classical, romantic in a way; not that she’d know much about that. Natalie squints and reads Debussy in large black print across the sheet music. It’s impressive, to play such a large instrument entirely sober. Natalie isn’t quite used to it.
There are eyes on her now, staring as she lingers across the threshold. They pry her apart like a hot knife, poking and prodding against her insides to find out what she is. They’re all asking the same question, though none of their mouths seem to move; even the bartender stops polishing to gawk.
Natalie feels warm, unbearably so. It creeps up the length of her neck and swelters beneath her chin, crawling towards her cheeks, and she lowers her hat out of instinct. She can hear the shrill whistling from outside growing closer, the telltale howl of hungry wolves nipping at her heels.
There’s a small, round table in the back right corner of the room. From what Natalie can see, three girls sit around it, polite and laughing, oblivious to the disturbance at the front. There are cards splayed across the table in a messy fashion and each of them cradles a decent pile, plucking a card from one hand and laying it against the green felt with the other. Natalie wills her feet to move beneath the heavy weight of uncomfortable visibility.
In a few strides, she finds herself beside the table of women, giggling playfully amongst one another. Natalie pulls out the chair in front of her and sits down, her back now facing the front door. It’s an easy defense, not entirely clever, but her distance from the entrance — and her mere existence within a populous social club — may work to fool the sheriffs loitering outside. She hopes, at least.
The girls fall silent and Natalie prays they say nothing, ducks her head so that her hat covers her face. She sends wishes to whatever lives above that none of them grow wise enough to speak.
“Hello,” one of the girls murmurs. Natalie all but huffs at her, still listening intently at the shrill call just outside.
“We’re playing bridge, if you want to join.”
Natalie is intrigued by this. She raises her head slightly, against all reason and judgement, her eyes deadset and scanning the faces of the women sitting passively across from her.
There is no fear within them, far unlike the others in the room — who have just now resumed their low chatter. The women are young, their faces full, their dresses pristine. They’re low-collared and blousy, the bodices restrictive with white buttons down the center. The sleeves bloom a bit at the shoulders, not ostentatious by any means, but perhaps a step beneath elegant; a day dress, light and airy, accentuating and wealthy.
Though similar in style, the colors vary amongst them. The girl to Natalie’s left wears a light pink ensemble, white thread embroidering dainty flowers across the expanse of her bodice. She has lighter hair, sun-kissed and weathered, and it’s pulled up into a loose gibson girl style. Natalie had seen the updo on a model in a magazine once, tucked into the creaking rack of literature at the train station years ago. Her own blonde tresses suddenly feel like they need to be washed.
The girl in the middle wears a blue dress with white lace around the edges. The straight collar of her bodice is trimmed with snowy embroidery, accentuating the darkness of her open eyes. They’re soft and deep brown and Natalie feels submerged in them. She has to look away before she drowns.
The final girl sits to Natalie’s right. She has long, dark hair, curled by the summer heat. It’s sectioned into two parts, the top half pulled away from her face with a thin, black bow, tied perfectly in the back. The rest of her loose curls lick the back of the chair pressed into her spine. Natalie is briefly jealous of the way it shines, the way it's never met the dull end of a razorblade over a washbasin in the afternoon, the way it's never known how dust storms and campfire smoke can sometimes smell the same when the sun is just right.
Natalie examines her, puzzles across her with slitted eyes, examining the virgin white of her dress and the soft heat of her skin, her arms bared and folded politely beneath the edge of the table, pressed to her stomach. Unlike the others, her eyes are curious, drinking Natalie in like a miraged lake in the desert. She seems to trace the edges of Natalie’s features with a barely cocked head and it makes Natalie uncomfortable, clearing her throat and shuffling awkwardly in her seat. She takes her hat off and puts it into her lap, running a hand through her unruly hair.
“Do you know how to play?” the girl to her left asks, her big blue eyes wide and quizzical.
“What?”
“Bridge. Do you know how to play?”
Natalie looks to the abandoned pile of cards strewn across the table. She laughs under her breath and tucks her hair behind her ears.
“No, no. Can’t say I do.”
“Well, do you want to?” This time, the girl in the center. Her voice is something softer than Natalie had imagined, chocolate around the edges of her words, thick on her tongue as they escape her full lips. Her eyes are slightly downturned but exuberantly expressive nonetheless and Natalie briefly regrets her standoffish behavior; Lord forgive her, it’s been so long with only cattle as company.
“Actually, ladies, I’m just here to disappear, if you catch my drift.”
Natalie hikes an upturned thumb over her shoulder towards the front door, where the whistling and increasingly frustrated yelling draws nearer and hotter like a liquor-burned fire.
They all nod in immediate understanding and Natalie breathes a sigh of relief at their clear comradery, willing to house and disguise a stranger amongst their table, however out of place she may be.
“Here,” says the girl to Natalie’s right. Her arm is outstretched and a pile of cards are nestled between her index finger and her thumb. Natalie takes them with a questioning look, though she isn’t given a chance to taste the words before she’s acknowledged again. “To blend in. They won’t look at you if you’re playing, we’re here every Thursday.”
Natalie nods her appreciation, embarrassing herself when she attempts to tip a hat that is no longer there, and fans the handful of cards between two hands. She rests her elbows on the table and takes delight in the way the woman to her left grows viscerally discontented, though neither of them speak on it. Natalie is rarely in a stand-off without drawn guns; she quite likes the tension.
“I’m Shauna, by the way,” says the woman in the center, raising the palm of her hand in a half-hearted wave. Her lips quirk into a sideways smile and Natalie finds it endearing.
“I’m Jackie.” The woman at her left.
“Lottie,” says the woman at her right. Natalie only faces her. They stare at one another as if willing the other to speak, as if piecing together intricacies about the other that they don’t even know about themselves. Natalie wonders if her history is stamped across her forehead like a scarred-over brand. She tries to read Lottie’s but it’s in a foreign language.
“What’s that short for?”
Lottie chuckles softly and draws a card from the table, settling it between two other cards in her hand. Clearly a good grab.
“Charlotte. But no one calls me that. Not unless you’re my father.”
“Duly noted.”
Jackie clears her throat and leans back in her chair, though still maintaining her posture against all odds. Natalie slouches as if to prove a point, leaving her cards in her right hand while propping her left against her thigh and hunching over slightly. She doesn’t know why she does it, though she supposes that pushing buttons — especially those of city women —is hardwired into her circuitry.
“So, why are you here? That doesn’t really clear things up,” Jackie says with a nod towards the front door. The piano player has resumed his lullaby and the chatter is picking back up, seemingly disregarding —or forgetting — the impromptu display from earlier.
Natalie sniffs and lays a card down after Shauna, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Honesty evades her for good reason, tail tucked and running. She attempts to formulate a vague declaration, an excuse that passes enough to not prompt further questions. As she thinks, Lottie lays down a card, the delicate curve of her wrist drawing Natalie’s attention. There’s a gold ring on her middle finger.
“Just a misunderstanding.”
“Oh, is that so?” Jackie teases, though her inflection has more bite than bark. “Seems like there’s always a misunderstanding in this town.”
Natalie scoffs and angles her cards towards herself as she leans closer to Jackie, almost hoping that some of the powdered dirt on her collar jumps onto Jackie’s pristine linen. It doesn’t, and her disappointment is palpable.
“I can assure you that an occasional misunderstanding is the best scenario for a mountain town like this,” Natalie says, halfway between her teeth, though she says it with a smile. It’s beastly, and Jackie returns a matching one in stride. Natalie decides then and there that she likes the girl.
“I’ll be out of your hair soon,” Natalie continues organizing the cards in her hand while leaning back in her chair, sloping against the back and scooting her legs outwards, spreading her feet apart. “They should be here any minute.”
“Who?” Shauna asks, eyes widening a bit.
Just then, the door to the club slams open. It startles everyone except Natalie, who pays no mind to the raucous behind her. Rather, she finds the queen of hearts in her hand and moves it to the front, cradled by the warmth of her left palm.
“Excuse us for a moment, folks, we just need to take a look around,” says a faceless sheriff from behind her. His voice is gruff and a bit breathless. Natalie can’t help but grin at the thought of the run-around they had to accomplish just to get here. She lays a card down.
No one speaks as three sets of spurred boots clunk against the floor, weaving between tables and across the bar. One escapes into the washrooms in the back only to return a minute later, empty-handed. The piano player doesn’t dare continue, though the bartender offers the men drinks out of innate — and perhaps nervous — hospitality. They refuse, busy examining the club and scanning the faces of the guests.
Natalie’s hat feels heavy in her lap. She drops it to her feet, kicking it beneath the table for good measure. It’s easily identifiable; it’s a custom make. Van had procured it for her one evening many years ago, after they first met, offering it with a gentle smile. The leather is so dark it could be mistaken for charcoal and there’s a fine strip of knotted rope leaning against the base, accentuating the band. The front brim has a small hole in it from a poorly placed cigarette and the crown is light washed and sun-bleached into a dark ochre.
She overshoots and the hat is bounced against Lottie’s leg, hidden beneath the shadow of the table. Lottie doesn’t flinch, merely smiles down at her cards and briefly acknowledges Natalie’s apologetic eyes. With one hand, Lottie reaches down and fists the dent of the hat before pulling it up and hanging it on the back of her chair. Natalie wants to scold her, tell her that it’s seen worse places than the floor of a social club, that it’s best to be kept hidden, but Lottie seems intent on respecting the belongings of strangers. Natalie rolls her eyes, knowing what’s coming now.
“Miss,” says a deep voice, gruff and firm. Natalie feels his hot breath bearing down behind her. “Where did you get that hat?”
Lottie feigns ignorance, and Natalie has to admit that she does it fairly well. She furrows her brow and looks around, as if confused at being spoken to at all. A girl like this doesn’t get spoken to by the law.
“What, this?” she asks, pointing towards Natalie’s hat, “my father got it for me years ago. It’s a little ratty now, but I still carry it with me. It reminds me of him while he’s gone.”
Natalie resists the urge to kick her beneath the table. Instead, she acts as though there’s something intriguing about her hand of cards, organizing left to right by color then by suit.
“You don’t happen to be a Matthews, do you?”
Lottie smiles and it’s sickly sweet, full teeth and a slight dimple on her left side. Her canines are crooked as her lips pull around them and Natalie thinks they look like fangs, feral and imperfect in a way she never expected from a girl like this.
“I am! Charlotte Matthews,” she says, and Natalie watches as the girl tries not to shiver at the name that leaves her mouth. Shauna and Jackie pay no mind to the interaction, far too concerned with beating each other at bridge.
“Pardon me, ma’am, I had no idea. Your father does this town a lot of good, you know.” The sheriff submits and shows his belly to Lottie, acting coy and apologetic to the rich heiress at the table. Natalie rolls her eyes at the display; if she ever tried to charm away a sheriff, she would be locked up faster than she could blink. She has no rich father to bail her out, either, like everyone in this room does.
“Thank you,” Lottie agrees politely, lowering her cards and leaning forward a bit to seem more docile, if that’s even possible. “I’ll let him know that he has some fans when he returns.”
The sheriff chuckles and Natalie listens as his footsteps retreat slowly. She feels as if air finally enters her lungs and the sudden atmospheric change makes her dizzy.
“You do that Miss Matthews. Pardon me again, have a good evening ladies.”
The officers regroup at the front and leave together, letting the door swing shut behind them. Natalie groans and rubs at her face with her hands, dropping her cards haphazardly against the tabletop before standing up.
“What’s the matter with you?” she hisses at Lottie, checking her pockets to make sure she has everything. “It would’ve been fine on the floor.”
Lottie doesn’t flinch. “It looked more suspicious that way. They can see our feet from the door, they would’ve eyed you in an instant. It was a good call, admit it.”
Natalie grunts and tightens her belt buckle, feeling the cool metal snug against her hand. Her fingers itch for a cigarette and the matchbook in her pocket feels immensely heavy with the want drooling down her throat.
“Maybe so. I need to get going, I don’t belong here.” She looks kindly — as kindly as she can — towards Jackie and Shauna, nodding her head at both of them as she speaks. “Ladies, thank you for your company, but I hope to never see you again. Oh, and Shauna? You can beat Jackie with that ace of diamonds you have.”
Jackie balks at the suggestion and Shauna smiles in appreciation, nodding her head and returning to the cards in her hand just as Natalie turns on her heel and moves towards the front with a swiftness.
The air in this place is too light, too rich, too something that Natalie can barely digest. She feels eyes on her back as she exits and she knows they’re tearing apart the faded colors of her flannel shirt as she walks past the bar, whispering to one another about the way it ducktails in the back against the tight waistband of her jeans. It makes her move faster.
She swings open the doors with both hands and nearly trots down the stairs, fishing for her matchbook and carton of cigarettes, undoubtedly smushed now. It doesn’t matter; it will still give her what she needs.
“Hey!” shouts a voice from behind her. It’s familiar, soft, far too innocent for her liking. She halts and closes her eyes before turning dramatically on her heel, facing the social club from the bottom of the stairs.
Lottie is standing at the top, her hands behind her back. The Wyoming wind seems to take a liking to the downiness of her dress, brushing through the lacey skirt that barely hides the matching eggshell of her satin pumps, giving her an extra inch of height -- though she doesn’t much need it. Natalie hadn’t realized how tall the woman was while they were sitting, but it’s made obvious to her now. Natalie lifts her chin and holds a hand over her eyes, blocking the sun.
“What?”
“You forgot your hat.”
Lottie pulls Natalie’s hat from behind her back and tosses it down the stairs. It’s plucked by the wind just so that Natalie’s outstretched hand catches it perfectly. She replaces her makeshift shade with the familiar brim of her hat and she tips the low hanging front towards Lottie in thanks.
“I never got your name,” Lottie says, almost awkwardly, as if she’s embarrassed to even ask. She plays with her fingers in front of her, now void of Natalie’s belongings.
“Natalie.”
“Well, Natalie , Shauna beat Jackie, you know.”
Natalie furrows her brow. “So? I knew she would.”
Lottie smiles, biting her lower lip and crossing her arms over her abdomen. Natalie catches a dusting of freckles down the length of her right forearm.
“ So , maybe it’ll do her some good, to be beaten like that again. You know, she gets real cocky about a silly card game and it drives us mad. I live on Pershing, just a little ways East of here, if you ever want to play again. It’s a gaudy thing, you can’t miss it.”
Natalie nods and purses her lips, happily realizing she’s still holding the carton of cigarettes in her hand. She flips open the lid and draws one out, tucking it between her lips before looking back up to Lottie, who lingers on the top step.
“Can’t make any promises,” she says around the stick, lighting a match head against the sole of her boot before bringing it to the cigarette in her mouth, lighting the end and protecting the flame from the breeze with a cupped hand. She shakes the match out and tosses it to the side, white smoke puffing from the side of her lips. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“I’d like that.”
Lottie smiles, about as sincere as it can be, before walking back into the club and closing the door. Natalie draws a deep inhale and feels billowed smoke caress her lungs like a ghost, lingering in the hallways of her chest. It makes her feel better, soothes the peculiar turning in her stomach that began to brew when Lottie first spoke, eyes mellow and kind. Natalie shakes her head.
The walk back to the saloon is short, and she takes the back streets again, trying to avoid the main road and any gold badges that come with it. When she rounds the corner of the hardware store, she finds that the horse hitch closest to the batwing doors is abandoned, no trace left behind. It’s as if her horse was never there. She curses and stamps her nearly-burnt cigarette into the ground with her boot.
They took her horse in the chase. It’s an old tactic, and a dumb one at that. Natalie’s too familiar with the law to be confused about their ways. Ideally, a bounty would come searching for their horse, might even approach the lawmen for it, falling into a simple trap and, therefore, a metal cage. Natalie cares for her horse, she does, but not enough to serve life for it.
She removes her hat and runs her fingers through her tattered hair before replacing it, walking back the way she came and kicking loose rocks as she goes. It’s going to be a long walk home. At least it will give her time to think.