Page 85 of Charlotte's Reckoning
“What will you do, Charlotte?” asked Molly.
“I’m going to fight him in court.” As she looked around her disaster of a room and thought about her disaster of a life, she didn’t have the energy to, especially since she suspected, like Quentin had boasted, that the law was on his side. “I can’t stay, not with him here,” she said quietly, sounding as defeated as she felt.
“Where will you go?”
“The inn, I suppose.” She’d quickly go through the little money she had, but her options were limited.
Charlotte accepted a hug from each of them as they exited. Patsy and Violet were the last to go.
“Don’t you dare leave without saying goodbye!” Patsy warned.
“I won’t,” she said, scanning the room. “It’s going to take me a while to pack. What are you two going to do?”
They exchanged uncertain glances.
“Since the railroad opened to California, I’ve dreamed of seeing the Pacific Ocean,” Vi mused aloud. “I have some money saved. This seems like as good a time as any.”
Patsy’s plan was more shocking. “I think I’ll say yes to Oren Fillmore. He’s proposed at least a dozen times.”
“He’s sixty if he’s a day,” Violet reminded her, with an appalled expression on her face.
“He’s fifty-six,” she clarified. “He has a farm out past Rawlins and says he has household help, so I wouldn’t have to lift a finger. And a baby would be nice.” She gazed into the distance. “He’s not the man I envisioned marrying one day, but he has always been sweet to me, and I’d finally be out.”
Even Violet had no argument for that.
With them gone, Charlotte bolted the door and dashed to her hiding spot. She pushed aside her dresser and pried back the loose wall plank. Taking out the metal box, she almost wept in relief, finding the cash, Fen’s valuables, and her few pieces of genuine jewelry tucked safely inside.
It took two hours to pack. There were more hugs and tears when she hauled her luggage out the door. Some were tears of fear when Quentinordered his men to search her trunk and satchel. But his henchmen weren’t very bright or worldly wise and didn’t find the false bottom where she’d hidden all she had of value.
***
“No account, lickspittle, four-flushing, rotter!” she muttered as she trudged along beneath the late afternoon sun, the layers of extra clothing causing sweat to trickle between her breasts. “If I had Fenton’s Peacemaker, I’d settle this dispute, sure as certain.”
But Quentin’s men had found it in her trunk and taken it, along with the bullets.
The Laramie Inn was her first stop. The clerk, upon one look at her, stuck his nose in the air and declared there were no vacancies. Seeing at least a dozen keys on the hooks behind him, she knew he was lying. Arguing with him was a waste of time and energy. She left, dragging her trunk behind her.
The three boarding houses she knew about also turned her away. At one, she saw the curtains move, a disapproving set of eyes peer out, and they didn’t even open the door to her knock.
Her only other option was by no means certain. If her plan failed, that left her to go crawling back to Quentin, which wasn’t an option at all and wholly unthinkable.
“I’d rather die,” she muttered, her anger reigniting.
A sudden jolt when the trunk got stuck in another deep rut caused her arm to nearly pop out of its socket. Almost as tragic, the handle snapped off. Charlotte threw the useless piece of leather into the trees on the side of the road, but it didn’t go far as pain pierced her shoulder and ran down her arm. She plopped down on her trunk, beyond frustrated, miserably hot, and thirsty—and something was digging into her foot. She removed her walking shoe and turned it over, watching as dirt and a jagged piece of rock fell out.
As she sat there, unsure whether to rub her sore shoulder or her sore foot first, she fought back tears and the desire to give up. But that would assure Quentin acquired the saloon, and she refused to let the imposter win.
Taking only a short break, Charlotte stood on aching feet and rubbery legs to set off again, although she really didn’t want to. But the sun was setting over the mountains. If darkness fell before she found the turnoff to the property, she would have to spend the night in the open, surrounded by bugs, possibly snakes, and forest animals—wolves and bobcats called the woods around Laramie home. If she saw signs of either, or, heaven forbid, heard them in the trees, that would be her breaking point.
Her trunk was still a problem. It was too cumbersome to carry, and heavy. She’d have to leave it. Out of frustration, she kicked it but instantly regretted her impulse when pain shot through her foot and up her leg.
“Why is everything so damn hard?” she asked the empty road and surrounding wilderness.
After removing her valuables and stuffing them into her satchel—having to pull out several less valuable items to make room—she pushed the trunk off the road under a tree, covering it with twigs and dried brush. She could only hope it would still be there when she returned.
“Not likely,” she muttered, as she resumed her westward trek. “Most of the so-called ‘decent’ folks in this town are awful.”
An hour or so later—maybe more, maybe less, it was hard to tell—with sweat pouring down her face and her feet throbbing with pain, Charlotte staggered to an uprooted tree by the side of the road and collapsed onto it. Glancing behind her, she tried to estimate how far she had come. According to the deed, the property was three miles west of town. Had she walked that distance? Heaven help her, it felt like thirty.
