Chapter Text
The concrete canyons of New York were behind her. First giving way to cool, dark woods eaten away by progress and then to the Great Plains. The stagecoach swayed and rumbled over the dirt roads and Emelia stared out at the golden rolling grasslands, speckled with sagebrush like scruff on an outlaw’s chin. Bison and pronghorns roamed in the distance and hares scurried from the trail, breaking cover. Without steel and glass to hedge it out, the sky loomed huge and limitless. Pristine azure so rich and pure she had to rest her eyes from the perfection of it.
“You’re as excited as a child in a candy store, Doctor,” Mrs. Davis stated from across the cabin. She looked 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.”
A hundred miles of rough travel and still Emelia had not warmed to the wealthy couple sharing the stagecoach. She granted her well-traveled companion a weary smile. “I’ve never been this far south or west,” she explained. “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 university more than half a year.”
“You are correct, Mr. Davis,” Emelia confirmed. “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,” Mr. Davis insisted. “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… 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 improved, 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 debutant balls and cotillions. 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. The stagecoach jostled and rattled. Emelia gripped 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 were 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 ducked 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. Emelia looked out the window, saw where Clem hit the ground. He drew a leg up, restlessly, his chest heaving in panicked breaths.
The wheels locked and the coach skid to a slow stop, the horses. Emelia reached for her satchel. Gathering up her grey skirts, she opened the door.
“Doctor Griswold,” Mr. Davis cried.
Emelia leapt down from the caged and staggered when she hit the baked earth. She ran.
“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?”
“I… It hurts, Miss.”
Emelia opened the young man’s jacket, then his shirt. She checked the wound in his shoulder. Blood on the ground beneath Clem 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 menacing. He pointed a gleaming pistol at her, cocking the hammer.
“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 did not lower his gun. 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 trickled down her spine 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 thought, 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 as he mounted his dark horse, making certain they really were leaving. 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?”