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 Bloom Town Genesis
Copyright © 2024 by Ally North. All rights reserved. Printed in the United
States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.
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 A Note To The Reader

This is a work of historical fiction that takes place in 1852, which was, in
many ways, a rather unpleasant time for a great many people, especially
those in marginalized communities. This story does not shy away from
these unpleasantries, and includes instances of racism, bigotry and
homophobia, because I believe it would be a disservice to those who lived
through these times, as well as a disservice to you, the reader, to soften the
edges of history. However, these instances are few and far between, and
none of them will go unaddressed or unresolved by the end of the series.

-A.N.

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For anyone who has suffered at the hands of small-minded people, and for
all those still battling the lingering ghosts of religious trauma.

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 1
Utah Territory, June 1852
There was an enormous black fly buzzing in the corner of the train
window.
It’d been buzzing frantically for at least an hour, ever since the conductor
came by to close the windows with a grunted explanation of headed into a
dust storm. So now, rather than death by dust, they were all going to
suffocate in the stifling heat of the train car. The fly would outlive them all.
Abby turned back to the worn book in her lap.
Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heav’n.
She’d been stuck on that line, reading and rereading it for long moments,
the fly’s incessant buzz a considerable distraction. Just then, the pest flew
within an arm’s reach and she took the moment, lashing out with her book,
smacking it against the window. She peeled it back slowly, expecting a
ruined cover and a gory mess, but suddenly the buzzing sounded again, this
time across the train car’s aisle in the window opposite her own. She
sighed.
Someone was giggling—the little girl seated with her family at the front
had turned in her seat to watch. The man and his two children were the only
other people in the car. The girl smiled at her, and Abby smiled back before
returning to her book once more.
Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heav’n.
This time it was the ticket taker who distracted her as he entered the car,
stopping at the velvet seat where the little girl sat with her family.
“Tickets, please,” he asked the father, sticking two fingers beneath his
collar and tugging. There were rivers of sweat running down the poor man’s
face. It truly was stifling.
“Tickets?” A small voice asked. “How bothersome, I seem to have
misplaced them.” The boy was standing now, checking his trouser pockets.
The ticket taker looked annoyed. “Perhaps you can wake your father and
—”
 “No,” the boy’s voice was sharp, “he’s quite tired. And anyway, I’m the
one who handles these sorts of transactions.”
Abby was really watching now. The girl had a wrinkle in her forehead,
she looked nervous. It was possible they couldn’t afford the train fare.
Abby’s purse was stowed in the mahogany rack overhead and she glanced
up at it. Her instinct was to offer them the fare, yet there was no way to
know how far they were going, how much it would cost. She didn’t have
much herself, her own ticket from Iowa had cost a small fortune.
“If you haven’t any tickets, you’ll need to purchase them from me now,”
the ticket taker was telling the boy.
Both children seemed to visibly relax at that.
“Capital! Three tickets, then,” the boy said, pulling a large roll of paper
bills from his pocket.
Something about the crisp way he’d said it caught in Abby’s ear. An
accent? But when he spoke again his words had returned to a clumsy drawl,
sounding just like the children in her classroom back home.
“How long until we reach Redrock Junction, please?” The boy asked.
“Is that where you’re headed?” The ticket taker asked.
The boy glanced down at the girl and she gave him a subtle nod.
“That’s right,” he said with a smile.
“Coming up on it in short order. An hour at most.” He held out three
tickets. “You shouldn’t be carrying all that on you,” he indicated the boy’s
bulging pocket of bills, “your father should know better.” He cast an
unimpressed look on the sleeping man. “We’re headed into the wild.”
“That’s kind of you, sir,” the boy said politely, “but we’re not afraid of
the wild.”
“Perhaps you should be,” the ticket taker muttered. He started back
down the train’s aisle, tipping his hat to Abby as he passed.
The boy called after him. “Perhaps the wild should be afraid of us.”
Both Abby and the ticket taker looked at the boy, who smiled sweetly
before turning to sit back down.
They entered the dust storm shortly after, and between the day’s waning
light and the horrid cloud of sand engulfing them, Abby gave up on her
book altogether and tucked it away in the deep pocket of her dress skirt.
She took off her bonnet and laid it across her lap so she could stretch the
tired muscles in her neck. It was only her second day of travel and already
the journey was weighing on her.
In his letters home, Silas had called the trip invigorating. You’ll find it
invigorating, he’d written, seeing the majestic land beyond the small green
hills of our parish. So far, she’d mostly just seen dust.
But she far preferred the dust storm to other forms of invigoration. Silas
had written of other things, too. Campfires on the hills overlooking
Promise, hooves pounding in the dark, savage war cries in the night. He
wrote of a double hanging he’d witnessed when he’d left Promise to visit a
larger town for supplies—an outlaw accused of racketeering and one of
them, an Indian, painted and strange. They’d hanged him with the scalps
he’d taken still swinging at his side.
As far as Abby was concerned, a little bit of dust was fine. The important
thing was that Promise was safe—so much so that finally, after two long
years, Silas had at last sent for her to join him.
A loud thwunk drew Abby’s eyes back to the family. It seemed the father
had stood up quickly and hit his head on the wooden rack above. He was
scowling, rubbing his head and letting out a high-pitched whine. It was…
strange. The girl and boy were both pulling on his arms now, trying to calm
him, and the girl kept glancing at Abby. To spare them embarrassment Abby
looked away, but from the corner of her eye she saw the boy pull something
from his pocket and hand it to the man, who immediately grew quiet.
A moment later the girl stood and made her way down the aisle, settling
into the seat directly opposite Abby’s.
"Hello,” the girl said. “I’m dreadfully sorry for all that,” she gestured
back in the direction of her family, “it’s unforgivable, the way we’ve
interrupted your evening. Traveling really is such a bother.”
Abby felt herself smile. “There’s no need to apologize.”
The girl looked relieved.
“That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing,” Abby said.
“Not at all,” the girl pulled at one of the blue bodice’s many bows, “it’s a
horrid little frock, really.” Her head tilted beneath her small bonnet. “My
name’s Olive.”
“Hello, Olive. I’m Mrs. Proctor.”
“Hello, Mrs. Proctor. May I ask where it is you’re going?”
“I,” Abby shifted away from the window, scooting closer to Olive, “am
on my way to California.”
“California? Oh, how divine! And what will you do there?”
 “Well, my husband is the mayor of a brand-new town called Promise—”
“The mayor! Oh my goodness.”
Abby smiled. “He’s been working hard to establish the settlement for
two years, and now that it’s a fully functioning town I’m going to join him.
I’ll be the teacher at the schoolhouse there.”
“The teacher!” Her little hands clutched at the fabric of her dress skirt
excitedly. “Oh, Mrs. Proctor. You’re on a proper adventure, aren’t you?”
Abby giggled at the girl’s enthusiasm. “I suppose I am. And you? Where
are you headed?”
“To Redrock Junction,” she said with a little nod.
“With your brother and your...” Abby glanced over at the man, who was
still busy with whatever was in his hands, “...father?”
“That’s right,” Olive said quickly. “My brother and my father. We’re
going to visit an uncle.”
As she’d spoken Olive’s eyes had flickered to the left, just once. It would
have gone unnoticed by most, but back in Iowa Abby had been the
schoolteacher in Stillwater since she’d turned seventeen. Nearly eight years
she’d worked with children, day in and day out. She knew children well.
Knew their quirks, knew their habits. And Olive, she knew, was lying.
“Olive!” The boy called her from up the aisle. “Leave the nice lady
alone.”
“Oh, I don’t—” mind, Abby was going to say, but the boy was looking at
Olive intently, as though trying to tell her something else entirely.
Olive stood abruptly, clutching her hands behind her back. “It was lovely
to meet you, Mrs. Proctor.”
"And you, Olive,” Abby nodded, “I hope you have a wonderful visit with
your uncle.”
"Yes,” the little girl blinked. “Goodbye, then.”
She returned to her seat and the car fell into a long silence as the train
clacked and chugged along, heaving its way farther and farther into the
desolate territory.
The dust storm cleared as the sun was setting. Since leaving the farmland
of Iowa behind, the terrain had been flat and open, brown and dull. But
now–Abby leaned forward, taking in the expanse beyond the window. The
land stretched endlessly in every direction, punctuated here and there by
strange rock formations, tall and arching. But it was the colors that stunned
her. Reds and oranges, streaks of rust and mottled ochre, all beneath a
dappled purple sky. Even in the dim twilight it was a palette unlike anything
she’d seen before, unlike anything she could’ve imagined from behind her
desk inside the single-room schoolhouse of Stillwater, Iowa. A thrill
shivered up Abby’s spine. What a beautiful place. And how glorious to see
it all from inside the relative comfort and safety of the locomotive.
There was a sudden noise, a commotion somewhere back in the adjacent
train car. The door to their car opened and a train worker dressed in dirty
gray slops rushed down the aisle, continuing on into the next car.
Abby glanced over at Olive and her family.
Olive was staring out the window and the boy looked as though he
might’ve fallen asleep against his father’s shoulder. It seemed they hadn’t
even noticed the worker.
Abby settled against the velvet seatback, wrapping the ribbon of her
bonnet around a finger. There was a second hat packed away in her case
above–a lovely thing, all lavender silk and creamy lace, meant to match her
skirt and compliment her pale hair. She’d spent a good deal on the outfit,
but first impressions were of the utmost importance and she intended to
make a statement as the mayor’s wife and schoolteacher.
Suddenly a screeching sounded from beneath the train, sparks erupting
and flashing by outside the window. The polished wood floor shuddered
beneath Abby’s feet and she pressed her face to the glass to see what was
happening.
The train was slowing down, yet Abby couldn’t see any indication they
were nearing a town. No lights in the distance, just the last slip of sunlight
sinking into the black horizon.
The little boy was waking, rubbing his eyes, and just then the door to the
train car opened once again and the ticket taker raced down the aisle.
“Pardon me,” Abby leaned up, holding onto the seat in front of her, “has
something happened?”
“Just, um,” the man seemed anxious, glancing at Olive’s family then
back to Abby, “a small track fire, Miss.”
“A fire?”
“Not to worry, it was spotted well in time. The workers will see to it and
we’ll be on our way.” He tipped his hat and hurried on as the train ground to
a halt.
A track fire. Her heart was in her throat.
 Silas hadn’t been the first man to leave Stillwater to go west, and Abby
had overheard talk amongst the parishioners at her father’s church over
Sunday potlucks. Talk of danger and lawlessness. There was one man
several counties over who’d left with a group of prospectors he’d taken up
with in Des Moines. On their way to California, they’d been ambushed by a
gang of outlaws and massacred, their corpses left for the birds to pick dry.
The townships between Stillwater and Promise were safe, Silas had
assured her. The outlaws were known in the settlements both by face and by
name—they never wandered too close for fear of the noose. Likewise, the
Indians kept to the prairies and the deserts and the settlers kept to town.
There was an understanding there. But venture outside of a settlement,
venture into the unknown, and no such understanding existed. Venture onto
their land, and you were a sitting duck. An easy mark.
And a train, sitting idle on the tracks in the middle of the dark desert, its
cars aglow with flickering lamplight, was akin to a beacon. As easy a mark
as Abby could imagine.
She sat there, clutching her throat and listening to her own heartbeat.
There were voices outside the train now, and in the distance the bobbing
light of a lantern—a train worker, no doubt, sent to remedy the situation.
It would all be fine, surely.
Abby’s eyes flicked to the young boy, drawn there because the child was
watching her. Staring, really, with a strange look on his face. But the minute
she caught him, he smiled politely and turned back around.
The train was quiet now, the only sounds coming from outside as the
workers shouted to one another along the tracks in the distance.
There was a clawing feeling spreading throughout Abby. A feeling of
inevitability. Something was coming. She was absolutely certain of it.
Every Sunday in the month leading up to her departure, Abby’s father
had insisted on bringing her up before the entire church to lead his
congregation in prayer for a safe journey. It had been uncomfortable and
altogether embarrassing, all that attention. Especially considering her
history with her father’s church. Especially considering the last time she’d
been dragged to the front to be prayed over. But now, sitting helpless on the
tracks in the middle of the desert, the darkness closing in…if prayers held
even a shadow of the power her father vested in them, well. She was glad
for them now.
“Mrs. Proctor?”
 Abby’s forehead had been pressed to the cold glass of the window and
she startled at the sound of the little girl’s voice, suddenly standing there in
the aisle right beside Abby’s seat.
“Yes, Olive?” Abby forced a small smile.
“I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but I can’t seem to find my father.”
“Isn’t he—” Abby looked, but the father’s seat—the entire train car—
was empty.
“I can’t find my brother, either,” Olive was saying, as Abby looked
around the car frantically.
They were there not a moment ago, it didn’t make sense.
“The lavatory, perhaps?” Abby asked, peering down the aisle in the
direction of the toilets.
Olive shook her head. “I believe they went that way,” she pointed down
the aisle in the opposite direction, toward the back of the train.
“Well, I—” Abby swallowed, glancing back and forth down the aisle
again. The wooden rack above where they’d been sitting was now empty
too, their worn carpet bag now missing. Abby looked back at Olive. “They
left the car without telling you?”
Olive nodded. “My father, he’s—” She had that little worried wrinkle in
her forehead again. “He gets confused sometimes. I think perhaps he
thought we’d arrived at Redrock Junction.”
“You mean to tell me he took your brother and disembarked the train?”
“I’m afraid it’s entirely possible.”
“Surely once he realizes we haven’t arrived in Redrock—"
“I’d rather not wait. As I said, he gets confused sometimes.” Olive
sighed, a giant breath that had her shoulders rearing up toward her ears. “I
suppose this leaves me no other option. Good evening, Mrs. Proctor, it’s
been such a delight.” She turned on her tiny heel and headed in the direction
of the rear car door.
“Wait,” Abby called after her, “where are you going?”
The little girl just blinked at her, waiting.
“You can’t go out there,” Abby said, “come on, let’s go find the man
who sold your brother the tickets, I imagine he’ll know what to do.” Abby
slid from her seat and stood in the aisle, reaching out a hand for Olive.
But Olive shook her head. “I’ve caused such a fuss already, honestly, I’m
embarrassed at how silly I’ve been. And you, already in a state, fretting
over the little track fire—oh, Mrs. Proctor, how terribly inconsiderate of
me.” She smiled and gave the tiniest of curtsies. “Until we meet again.”
And with that, she exited the car’s rear door.
The panic was back in Abby’s chest, clawing its way up her throat. She
didn’t want to go out there, she refused, but she couldn’t let Olive go out
there either. A child alone in the desert? It was unthinkable, not even worth
imagining.
She raced to the front of the train car, opened the door and called into the
adjacent seating area for someone, anyone. But all was empty and quiet.
She reached the next door only to realize that to go any farther she’d need
to pass between cars, traverse the short iron platform connecting them.
She’d need to go outside, even if only for a split second. But what if the
train door locked behind her? What if the door to the adjacent car wouldn’t
open? What if she became trapped outside?
No, it wasn’t a good idea. She turned back, hurrying to where she’d last
seen Olive. Best to find her before it was too late, convince her to wait
inside, safe and sound, until they could speak with a train worker.
She passed back through the traveling compartment, past her own
traveling case stowed on the rack above. The rear door led to a sleeper
section; bunks built into the walls of the train for passengers wishing to
spend a little more for comfort. The car was empty, quiet and dark save for
a single lantern that flickered overhead, making shadows stretch and flutter.
There was no answer when Abby called Olive’s name, softly at first, then
a bit louder.
At the far end of the car there were two tall closets on either side of the
aisle, likely storage space for the passengers of the sleeper car. Long velvet
curtains hung in place of a closet door, and the effect was eerie—anything
could be hiding behind them. The mere thought had her heart pummeling
against her chest. The quiet was surging in her ears and the panic was
building, and in a fit of terror she tore open the curtain on the right side.
Empty.
She sighed. She was quite literally jumping at shadows, and it was
ridiculous. The train was safe. Everything was fine.
She walked the few remaining steps to the backdoor of the car and
stopped short. Through the small glass panel, she could see Olive standing
there on the metal platform. It was the very back end of the train—there
was nothing beyond her but the dark night. Her hands were clutched behind
her back and she was staring up at the door as if waiting for someone.
 In that moment, Abby’s horror at the small girl being alone outside
completely vanquished her own fears and she pulled the door open.
“Olive? What are you doing?”
“Waiting,” the little girl said, avoiding Abby’s eyes.
“Waiting for—for what?” There was a tingle. A tiny prickle of dread,
meandering its way up Abby’s spine.
Olive’s eyes flicked to hers at last. “For you.”
The velvet curtain of the left closet flew open with a distinctive whoosh
that Abby would remember for many years to come, and the boy and his
father burst out. Before she could run, before she could scream, before she
could even think, the father had a massive hand over her mouth, his
muscled arm in a vice grip around her waist, holding her back to his chest.
The initial shock gave way to holy terror and Abby began to scream
against the man’s hand before biting it with every ounce of fortitude she
possessed. It worked—he recoiled, clutching his hand and looking at Abby
as he whimpered. She was so shocked at her own success that it took a
moment before instinct took over, before she realized she needed to run.
She tore down the train car, her only intent to keep going until she found
help.
Then, there was a sudden, deafening crack, and a good portion of the
door she’d been about to open was in splinters by her feet.
The boy was standing in the aisle halfway down the train car, a smoking
revolver still in his hand.
“Next time you run, it’ll be your leg I aim for,” he said. “And I never
miss.”
Abby’s mind was spinning. The boy had a gun—he’d shot the gun—at
her, no less—and his voice—it was an accent after all, a crisp foreign sound
that had Abby’s stomach sinking lower and lower because if their earlier
display in the passenger car had all been a charade then who were these
people?
“Lewis,” the boy said calmly, still pointing his revolver, “please come
collect Abigail, and keep a tighter grip, will you? Clearly, she’s quite
spirited.”
Abby’s veins turned to ice. She hadn’t told Olive her first name.
“Bite,” the man said, whimpering as he pointed at Abby. He had the
accent too.
 “For God’s sake, man!” The boy shouted. “Why are you so utterly
useless?!”
The man let out a broken cry, keening miserably.
"Jack!” Olive yelled from where she still stood at the car’s rear door.
“Apologize to Lewis at once!” The revelation of Olive’s accent was the
most shocking—Abby had spoken with her at length and the child had
sounded every bit an American.
Jack's eyes closed on a small, frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“Honestly, Jack.” She went to the man called Lewis' side and dropped a
tiny kiss on his hand where Abby had bitten him, which seemed to calm
him, and in the next moment he closed in on Abby, pulling her back down
the aisle.
At the door, Jack pointed the revolver up at Abby’s face. With his
freckles and floppy brown hair he was the farthest thing from dangerous
that Abby could imagine, but she’d witnessed what he could do with that
gun and she didn’t have any interest in testing his patience again.
“Listen carefully,” Jack said, “because I’m going to tell you exactly how
tonight will proceed. Nod if you understand me.”
Lewis’ hand was clamped over her mouth to the point of pain, her eyes
had begun to water, but she gave Jack the slightest nod.
“We’re taking you from this train, and you’re to come willingly. Nod if
you understand.”
She gave another slight nod. Between the revolver and Lewis’ iron grip,
what choice did she really have?
“You’re to come quietly. Alerting anyone else will only mean more
targets for my revolver. Nod if you understand.”
She nodded, but in the back of her mind a plan was forming. If she could
just find a way to alert the train workers outside on the track—Jack was a
child of ten, eleven at most—surely he could be overpowered before
anyone got hurt.
“If you fail to come willingly, if you fail to come quietly,” Jack was
saying, “we will be forced to render you compliant. Olive?”
On cue the little girl took a small bottle from the pocket of her dress
skirt.
“Chloroform,” Jack said. “They’re using it in all the surgeries now, both
here and abroad. Just the tiniest whiff and poof,” he waved the revolver
through the air before fixing it back on Abby, “you’re unconscious. Nod if
you understand.”
She nodded a final time and he actually smiled at her, like they’d arrived
at some sort of friendly agreement.
"We'd best be going then,” Jack said.
The children stepped from the train first, jumping down to the dark
tracks below without a moment’s hesitation.
Abby’s heart was pounding, her panic manifesting as deadweight and
she couldn’t take another step, revolver or not, she couldn’t bring herself to
leave the safety of the train. With a loud grunt Lewis merely picked her up,
jumping down with her onto the tracks.
The children were rummaging through their carpet bag, pulling out items
that Abby couldn’t see in the dark. There was shuffling and shifting—not
just from the children but from Lewis as well, still grasping her tightly as he
shimmied, seemingly removing his waistcoat.
Suddenly there was a gigantic rip.
“I despise,” more ripping, “wearing dresses,” Olive said. “Next time you
wear the dress.”
That last sentence seemed to be for Jack, who chuckled as he pulled
something else from the bag. A rope, Abby realized a moment later when he
came over and tied her hands behind her back, as well as a rolled bandana
that he slipped around her head after asking Lewis to force her to her knees.
She’d landed awkwardly, half on the wooden track and half on the rocky
ground, and a starburst of pain had exploded in her knee. Lewis tied the
bandana around her mouth, the knot catching several loose strands of hair
and yanking them from her scalp. The fabric tasted of dirt and salt and
sweat and she gagged.
Why? Why was this happening to her? And how could children—
seemingly well-mannered children—be so cruel?
The clouds shifted and the moon slid out, shedding dusty light on her
surroundings. The dress and waistcoats lay in a tattered heap on the tracks
and it was no longer a respectable family standing there before her. Gone
was the façade.
They were wearing filthy linen shirts and trousers, all of them—even the
little girl—that they’d tucked into stiff, knee-high leather boots with pointed
toes. To Abby’s dismay, both children had leather holsters strapped around
their waists—a revolver and a dagger each. In the moments after they’d
discarded their proper clothing they’d taken some sort of black substance—
grease, perhaps, or coal—and painted a row of streaks across their cheeks.
They looked positively feral.
Outlaws. Bandits. Savages. Abby’s stomach was churning. They meant
to kill her, she was certain, even if the point and purpose eluded her.
“Ready?” Jack asked, and Olive nodded. “Lewis, help Abigail please.”
Lewis hauled her to her feet, forcing her to walk by his side as he
followed Jack and Olive off the tracks and into the desert night, leaving
their clothing—costumes, Abby corrected herself absently—behind on the
tracks.
A flood of desperate thoughts swept in—her belongings, would someone
steal them or would they be turned in at the next station? Silas—would he
know? Would he find out that she’d been taken or would he think she’d
gotten lost? Ended up on the wrong train?
They seemed to be headed for a collection of red boulders not far from
the tracks, and as they walked Abby kept looking back over her shoulder at
the train, the flickering light of the workers’ lantern on the track in the
distance at the opposite end of the locomotive. Even if she could scream it
was unlikely they’d hear her from such a great distance.
Lewis pulled her along, following the children as they disappeared
behind the rocks, and when Abby saw what was awaiting her she began to
struggle in earnest.
Horses. Three horses, saddled and tethered to a piece of wood that had
been secured to a cactus. Someone had planned carefully, but for the life of
her Abby couldn’t understand why. She was a teacher, a wife—what could
they possibly want from her?
Just then, in the distance, the train sputtered to life. The whistle blared,
blasting into the night, long and lonely and it was the worst sound in the
world. It was leaving; grinding and squealing into motion and Abby
panicked, wrenching out of Lewis’ grasp and running back toward the
tracks as fast as she could.
Which, it turned out, was not very fast at all with her hands bound and
her shoes impractical and her corset squeezing the life from her lungs.
She’d barely made it ten feet when Lewis caught up, dragging her back
behind the rocks and throwing her down at the children’s feet. Jack was
waiting with the revolver and Olive was waiting with the small bottle.
 No, Abby cried through the bandana, please, but the words were lost in
the filthy fabric now sodden with her spit and tears. Olive was uncorking
the bottle, holding it well away from her own face as she stepped toward
Abby.
The girl had the nerve to look concerned, that little wrinkle in her brow.
“I’m awfully sorry for all this,” she said, ignoring Abby’s muffled cries,
“I meant what I said earlier. It’s unforgivable, the way we’ve interrupted
your evening.”
She held the bottle beneath Abby’s nose, and the world went blissfully
black.

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 2
Abby woke to a thunderous pounding.
She fought down a wave of nausea. There was a churning queasiness in
her stomach and a searing pain scorching the inside of her skull. Her eyelids
felt heavy, everything foggy and surreal.
By the light of the moon, the ground below appeared to be moving.
Horseback, she realized. She was on horseback, and the thunderous
pounding was coming from the hooves. The rest came back in flashes.
The train. The children. The gun. The abduction.
Up ahead she could make out the form of a small child astride a light tan
horse. Olive. To her right the other child, Jack, was astride a black horse.
The horse beneath her appeared to be gray, and the solid wall of muscle
behind her could only belong to Lewis, who was keeping her upright with
an arm around her middle.
She shifted and the cloth in her mouth shifted too, forcing the disgusting
fabric deeper and she gagged, a wretched heaving that was followed
immediately by an anguished sob because everything hurt and she just
wanted to be back inside the train. Safe.
Suddenly Lewis was wiggling the knot of the bandana, loosening it. He
also managed to knock several pins from her hair, which had been coiffed
and proper not two hours earlier. Ridiculous, Abby realized, to worry over
her hair. To look down and see the stains on her beautiful lavender skirt, her
clean white blouse, and feel anything but relieved that she was still alive to
wear them. But all the same, there was a certain sense of dismay, knowing
that with every stain, every un-pinned curl, her propriety was slipping away.
That her control was slipping away. Had slipped away. Had been taken.
The loose bandana slipped down over her chin, falling to hang around
her neck. She took several deep breaths before turning to peer up at Lewis.
“Thank you.”
He met her eyes quickly before looking away, nodding firmly several
times. “Thank you,” he echoed. “Thank you.”
 She didn’t know what to make of him, and perhaps Jack sensed her
confusion because he slowed his horse to keep pace beside them.
“He’s like us,” Jack said. “Lewis, I mean. He’s a child, like us.”
Abby felt herself frown at that, because for one thing there was nothing
childlike about Jack or Olive.
“He’s not a child, Jack,” Olive shouted from her horse ahead, “and you
know you’re not to say that, she hit you for it the last time. He’s not a child,
he’s a man. He’s just different.”
“Alright, Olive,” Jack sounded annoyed before glancing back to Abby.
“Lewis is different here,” he said, tapping his own head with a finger, “but
not here,” he tapped his heart.
Abby glanced over her shoulder at Lewis, who blinked and smiled
before looking away.
A family had passed through Stillwater on their way out west when Abby
was a girl; they’d camped in the woods across the meadow. The children of
Stillwater were instructed to avoid them. Vagabonds, Abby’s father said.
But Abby hadn’t listened. She’d noticed they had a child with them, a
daughter named Ella who, it turned out, was mute but occasionally made
noises just like Lewis. Ella’s family stayed in Stillwater the whole of that
summer, and by August Abby had learned there were plenty of ways to
communicate without talking, and that two people can be wholly different
and utterly the same in equal measure.
She didn’t trust Jack and she didn’t trust Olive, but she was nearly
certain there was some goodness in Lewis. People who were different,
people on the fringes—they were usually the most decent. The kindest. In
Abby’s experience, anyway. And if she had any hope of escaping, the
strange man behind her was likely her best chance.
“It’s good to meet you, Lewis,” she said softly. “Even if it was
involuntary.”
She was almost certain she heard a smile in his answering hum.
The horses galloped on and on. Abby was exhausted, and with the
exhaustion came an unclenching of sorts—an inability to maintain the sense
of blinding fear.
As the night wore on the terror had begun to lessen and shift toward
anger, and then even that faded and slipped into annoyance. It was
uncomfortable to be on horseback for so long, and Abby was hungry.
Dinner aboard the train had been scheduled for just after sundown, and by
now the passengers had long since eaten and settled down to sleep.
She was going to ask where they were taking her. No—not ask, demand
to know. Demand that they tell her what this was all about. She was just
about to ask when Olive brought her horse to a halt, putting a hand in the
air. The other horses stopped. All was still and quiet when Olive suddenly
whistled, loud and bright, the sound carrying across the desert night.
They waited as silent seconds slipped by.
Then, in the distance, someone whistled back.
Olive’s horse reared up at the sound but the girl barely flinched, leaning
into the horse’s neck as she peered into the night.
“There, on that ridge.” Olive pointed into the dark. “I see the campfire.”
Jack nodded before glancing at Abby. “Blindfold her, Lewis,” he said,
tossing over a wadded strip of fabric. “Tie the bandana back around her
mouth, make it tight.”
“No—” Abby’s panic returned full force, “there’s no need to gag me or
to—to bridle me like a horse, I’m—I’m bound as it is!” She twisted to show
Jack her wrists, tied so tightly she could no longer feel her fingers.
“Believe me,” Jack said, “it will be far worse for you if we turn up and
you’re not gagged. Worse for all of us.”
“Why are you doing this?” Abby held back a small cry. “What do you
want?”
But Jack just shook his head. “You’ll know soon enough.”
Just before Lewis tied the bandana back in place, she spotted where they
were headed—a black ridge alight with a campfire’s glow.
The ground grew steeper as they headed up the ridge. The horses’ gaits
were unsteady, their hooves slipping and clacking against loose rock.
Up and up they climbed. Abby could smell the fire as they drew closer to
whatever fate awaited her, and soon she could hear it snapping and popping.
Finally, the horses slowed, then stopped altogether.
“Took you long enough,” a new voice said. It was a woman’s voice,
raspy and impatient, with a strange accent like the rest of them.
“We got her here, didn’t we? All you did was start a little track fire,”
Jack said, following it with a mumbled, “might try saying thank you.”
The woman let out a dark chuckle.
Lewis dismounted, hauling Abby down after him.
“Where should we put her?” Olive asked.
 Let me go. End this nightmare. Let me—
“Set her there, by the fire,” Jack answered, “and tether your horse, Olive,
you know better than to—”
“Bring her here,” the new voice commanded.
“The horse?” Jack asked.
“The girl.”
Abby was pushed from behind, stumbling blindly forward, tripping over
her own feet and falling, wincing when her left knee split open against the
solid rock below, a sharp explosion of pain.
Lewis tugged down her gag and tore off her blindfold, taking the last of
her hair pins with it. She blinked at the ground, letting her eyes adjust,
everything eerie in the fire’s orange glow.
Standing before her was a pair of black boots. The woman.
Abby's eyes traveled up the boots to the woman’s knees where they met
a pair of fitted brown trousers. A pair of leather suspenders were clipped to
the trousers but rather than wearing them properly they hung uselessly
down the sides of her thighs. She was wearing a dark linen shirt with a large
leather belt and holster at her waist, the butt of a revolver sticking out, and
there was a frayed and yellowing bandana tied in a loose triangle around her
neck. Her dark hair was tied back but a single curl had come loose by her
ear, betraying her otherwise perfect constitution and she was smoking—
Abby’s eyes caught on the sharp angle of her jaw as the smoke plumed
from her full lips.
The woman’s face was cast in shadows beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and
when Abby finally caught sight of her eyes she swallowed a gasp because
while the others had streaked their faces with coal dust this woman had
rimmed her eyes in it—a thin smudge running around both perimeters. The
effect was every bit as mesmerizing as it was terrifying. She was staring
past Abby, gazing out at the dark expanse of desert beyond the little ridge.
“Abigail Proctor, yeah?” The woman blew out another plume of smoke.
She hadn’t even bothered to look when she'd asked.
“Abby,” she spit back, mustering every molecule of dignity, every
modicum of bravery. Every ounce of ever-growing hatred toward these
animals who’d captured her. “And you are…?”
The woman’s sharp eyes flicked down to Abby’s once—just once—
before she looked back out over the ridge. There was a flash of something
—a smirk, the slightest upturn at the corner of her mouth and then it was
gone, her features returning to steel.
“In charge,” she said, throwing her cigarette to the ground, close enough
to Abby’s already-ruined skirt that she had to scramble away or risk being
set alight. “Welcome to the West, Abby.”
With that, the woman walked away without sparing Abby a backward
glance.
Then she was gone, leaving Abby to wonder how the hell her day had
ended here on this godforsaken ridge in the middle of the lawless desert,
and what the hell she was going to do to escape.
Because she would escape, Abby decided then and there. She would find
her moment and she would run, faster than she’d ever run before. She’d left
Stillwater, Iowa with all its oppressions behind her, and she’d be
goddamned if she was going to be anyone’s prisoner ever again.

OceanofPDF.com
 3
S,
Dreamt of you last night, and now I can’t shake the feeling of judgment
off my back. So, I'll tell it to you straight—it's a job, no different from
washing traps on the docks the way we did years back. Just a job, and I
didn't have a choice. They’re depending on me.
Lewis is fading. Talking less and less and I don’t know what can be done
for it. Olive’s fucking cough keeps coming back, and she looks at me with
those eyes and asks me if it's like the cough that took her mother. And what
can I say to that when I’ve been terrified thinking the same thing? Then
there’s Jack. Ten going on thirty, cheeky as all fuck and making me wish I’d
left him behind on the boat some days. But he’s scared, I wager. Terrified
they’re going to find us. Reckon we all are.
So, last thing I need is your judgment when it comes to the girl. Means to
an end is all. Besides, she’s stiff as a board—stodgy country girl, dull as a
drape. You know the type. Reckon the experience will be good for her in the
end. Fine, maybe good for her is a leap, but long as everything goes to
plan, she’ll be back in her boring husband’s arms in a fortnight and we’ll
be free of her.
There you have it. It’s a job, and I won’t apologize for it.
-J

OceanofPDF.com
 4
Abby woke to something scampering across her side.
Her eyes flew open as it all came racing back: The train. The children.
The abduction.
And a lizard, spotted and yellow, perched atop her hip and staring at her
with sharp eyes like it was trying to figure out what she was doing there,
sleeping on the ground in the middle of its home. She froze, afraid to take
even the shallowest breath lest she tempt the fiend to—
It darted closer, onto her ribcage, and the noise that launched itself from
her throat was akin to a bridled scream, tethered by the fear that anything
louder would spur the demonic thing to rip out her throat.
“Don’t make another sound.”
The whispered warning came from across the remains of last night’s fire,
and Abby turned her head fractionally—one eye still on the lizard—to see
the woman, sitting on a rock with a steel nib pen and some sort of bound
book.
Abby swallowed and nodded, turning her full focus back to the lizard as
she waited for the woman to do whatever it was she had planned to scare
the creature away.
The lizard cocked its head.
Abby glanced over at the woman to see what was taking so long and
found that she’d gone back to writing in her book.
“Are you—” Abby swallowed again. “Aren’t you going to help me?”
The woman stopped writing and blinked down at the page, looking
annoyed.
“Help you what?” She started scribbling again.
“With—with the lizard—”
The woman didn’t look up. “Just shoo it away.”
“But you said—” Oh God. Its tongue was flickering and Abby could’ve
sworn it looked amused by her terror. “You said not to make any noise—”
“And yet that’s all you’ve done.”
“Is it venomous? Will it bite me if I—”
 “Christ, it’s just a fuckin’ lizard,” the woman slapped her book closed
and glared at the sky. It was an odd moment for Abby to notice how green
her eyes were.
“It’s a lizard,” the woman hissed again, after seeming to rein in her
temper. “Dumb as shite. Probably thinks you’re a rock. Just push it away,
and for fuck’s sake be quiet. Let them sleep.” She nudged her head in the
direction of Lewis and the children, fast asleep in a pile by the fire’s ashes.
Abby glanced from the children to the woman, from the woman back to
the lizard. “How am I supposed to shoo it away with my hands bound?”
Suddenly there was a familiar click and Abby’s head whipped around to
find the woman squinting an eye and aiming her revolver at Abby’s middle.
“Wait!” Abby twisted away and the movement disturbed the lizard,
sending it scampering away in a side-to-side undulation that would likely
make an appearance in all of her future nightmares.
“First thing you need to remember,” the woman said, already back to her
writing, “I like my mornin’s quiet.”
“And I like mine unshackled.”
There it was again—that flash of amusement, that slight upturn at the
corner of the woman’s mouth, so brief it could almost be dismissed as
imagined.
There was a great yawn from the pile near the ashes.
“I’m hungry,” the boy, Jack, was sitting up.
Abby glanced at the woman and was taken aback to find her glaring,
eyebrow arched as if it was Abby’s fault Jack had woken up. Like she was
supposed to stay quiet when someone was cocking a gun and aiming for
her. Like she was supposed to care at all about the children’s sleep or this
lunatic’s quiet morning when the group of them were criminals depriving
her of both her dignity and her freedom.
The woman liked her mornings quiet? Good. Good to know. Abby would
remember that. And she’d do everything in her power to raise holy hell
every morning, as soon as the sun rose, every day until she found a way to
escape.
Breakfast was a vile combination of salted meat and brackish water from
two large canteens.
Abby hadn’t had a drop of water since the train and perhaps her thirst
was palpable because as the children passed one of the canteens between
them, Lewis brought the other to Abby and held it to her lips. She gulped
and gulped for long moments, hardly caring that it was silty and strange
tasting. But then the woman caught sight of her frantic drinking and shouted
at Lewis, who instantly hugged the canteen to himself and looked at the
ground, thoroughly chastised.
“What,” Abby wiped her mouth, “is wrong with you?”
“Beg pardon?”
“You yell at him for giving me a drink of water? For having a heart?
You’ve had me out here all night, hands bound, nothing to eat or drink or
—”
“Canteen’s meant to be rationed, not poured down one singular greedy
gullet all in one go.”
“Everyone else was given water.”
“Sips.”
“I’m thirsty.”
The woman’s lip curled. “You’re in the fuckin’ desert, you twit. Want my
advice? Make peace with bein’ thirsty.”
“I don’t.”
The woman turned. “What?”
“Want your advice. About anything. You sleep on rocks in the middle of
the desert like a snake and you kidnap women from trains, so I’m not
entirely certain what sort of advice you can offer that, if heeded, wouldn’t
then be a grave detriment.”
The woman stuck her bottom lip out, nodding thoughtfully. “Well. Could
give you advice on how to not get kidnapped from a train to start with.
Could give you advice about tellin’ lizards apart because the one you woke
up to was harmless but the one that was hitched to your skirt not five
minutes ago could’ve killed you with one bite.”
Abby looked down, twisting left and right in panicked horror to see if the
creature was still there. When she found her skirt to be lizardless she looked
back at the woman, who wasn’t even trying to hide her amusement.
“Could also give you advice on not just takin’ any drink that’s offered,
case you’re actually bein’ offered water from the horse’s flask.” She pulled
a large bowl from the saddle bag and took the canteen from Lewis, dumping
the rest of the water into the bowl and bringing it around to the horses.
As if on cue, Abby's stomach surged.
 “Water from the horse’s canteen comes from the reserve.” The woman
ran a hand over the gray horse’s nose. “Rainwater runoff, ‘s all it is.
Perfectly fine for the horses.”
“And…for humans?”
The woman shook her head. “Not nearly. You’re ridin’ with Lewis.
Already ruined my mornin’ with your natterin’, don’t need you to ruin my
clothes with your vomit.”
Abby was ill.
But as the others packed the saddlebags, milling about, readying
themselves to go wherever they were taking her next, she found herself
biting down on her tongue, willing the nausea away. She didn’t want to give
the woman the satisfaction of seeing her more pathetic than she already
was, sitting there on a rock in a ruined skirt with her hands tied and her face
turning greener by the moment.
They set out on horseback and Abby fought the urge to gag with every
bounce and jostle. She had to hang on to some scrap of dignity, no matter
how small, and she would not succumb to her roiling stomach. She refused.
Even if it killed her.
Fifteen minutes later she found herself kneeling on the scorched ground,
retching into a patch of dry grass.
After she’d thrown up everything in her stomach, which amounted to
almost nothing at all, she continued to heave for long moments, using her
shoulder to wipe sweaty strands from her face, her hands bound and numb
behind her back. Finally, when the nausea cleared and her stomach, for the
moment at least, seemed settled, Abby sat back on her heels and blinked at
the sky.
“You set to keep movin’, then?” The woman called from atop her white
horse, sounding impatient.
“I need a minute,” Abby mumbled, staring straight ahead at a distant
rock formation, her jaw clenched tight.
“What’s that?”
Abby whirled around. “I need a minute!” She’d never screamed at
anyone like that before, and for a split second the woman’s eyes went wide
before her mask slipped back in place.
“You’ve had a minute. We need to get goin’.”
“Where? Where are you taking me? Why are you taking me there?”