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Enjoy the free stories that our authors have
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ESSIE
by
Bev Haynes
© 2008
Essie
nervously rubbed the toe of her old battered shoe across the wooden floor of
the homestead Soddy. It was early afternoon, but the foreboding thunderstorm
spilled low clouds over the pine-covered hills. A monstrous,
rolling-blackness sucked up all the light in its path. Standing at the only
window in the house, she peered into the darkening afternoon sky. Suddenly,
gusts of wind drove rain against the glass as lightning flashed and thunder
shook the ground, making the water roll down to the sill in fast moving
waves, creating a chevron pattern on the surface. As the rain turned to
hail, Essie jumped back, the noise deafening. Summer storms terrified her
and had since she was a little girl. Shuddering, she wrapped her arms around
herself and felt her heart fiercely beating against her ribs.
“Caleb, where are you?” Essie wondered aloud. Tears stung her eyes as she
tried to look through the window into the heart of the storm as she turned
away from her futile efforts to see outside, a bolt of lightning struck
nearby. The blinding flash shocked her, weakening her knees and the
tremendous jolt of thunder shook the one room house. Her heart hammered in
her chest and she began to pace back and forth, over the rough wood.
Her
husband took the team and wagon down to Old Woman Creek. He was hauling wood
for a room they planned to build, now that the weather cleared. Essie
wondered what was worse; the bitter blizzards with feet of snow that nearly
buried the house or these wicked thunderstorms that threatened to burn it to
the ground? The house with its dirt walls and dirt floor, not much more than
a shack, and it was much too small since the birth of their daughter, Viola.
The
harder the rain fell, the faster Essie paced the floor. Her imagination ran
as wild as the horses that ran free in the hills. In her minds-eye, she saw
the creek running amuck, filled with old tree trunks and debris. It could
sweep Caleb along in its path. Another burst of thunder, just as close as
the last, made her jump again. This time, it woke the baby and the little
one let out a distressed cry. Essie rushed to the corner of the room, where
the cradle sat safely away from drafts and gathered her daughter in her
arms. She sank into the comfort of her most treasured piece of furniture,
the thick feather bed. Essie's mother always told her that lightning
wouldn't strike where feathers lay.
She
tugged at the edge of her newly stitched quilt, drew it up and wrapped the
cozy thickness about her shoulders, encasing herself and the baby. Viola's
screams tapered off into little sobs and Essie felt the baby's tiny body
begin to relax.
Huddled in the quilt for the longest time, scared to death for her husband’s
safety, she dosed as the storm passed over the homestead and moved on to the
east, taking with it the violent lightning and thunder. Essie woke slowly,
Viola nestled against her breast. Easing herself from the bed, she gently
placed her sleeping Viola back into the wooden cradle.
Silently, she walked across the room and opened the door. In the distance,
she saw Caleb turn the team toward the house. Essie ran through the wet,
soggy grass to meet him.
As
they neared each other, her breath caught in her throat. He was so handsome
even dripping wet as he was, his black hair glistening in the sunshine that
peeked through the last of the clouds. Oh, and his dark blue eyes sparkled
as he looked down at her. Love flowed through them thick as molasses in the
deep of winter.
Thank
the heavens above he was all right. Her lover jumped from the wagon, crushed
her thin body to his muscular chest and wrapped his thick-muscled arms
around her, protecting her, loving her. Essie's feet left the ground as he
spun her around.
Essie
cried through her laughter. “I was so afraid something had happened to you.”
Caleb kissed her soundly and helped her into the wagon. He stepped up, swung
himself onto the wooden seat, and grasped the reins. It was just a short
distance back to the house, but she treasured sitting by this man of hers.
She never wanted him to leave her side.
When
Caleb stopped the horses in front of the house, Essie kissed him squarely on
the lips. He would want supper after he unhitched the team and did his
chores, she needed to finish the stew.
A
short time later, Essie was stirring the stew, when she heard someone
calling her name.
“Essie…Essie…wake up.”
She
shook her head and tried to make the voice stop. She didn't want to hear it.
“Go away,” she whispered. “Leave me alone. I'm happy here.”
A
pain in Essie's head pounded and throbbed. She pressed the palms of her
hands over her ears. Stumbling, she hardly had the energy to make it the few
steps to the table and feared that she would collapse across Viola's cradle.
As she dropped onto the chair, she laid her head on her arms and closed her
eyes. If she could sleep for a few moments, her headache might go away.
“Wake
up.” The voice rang sharp and clear, but it held a feminine quality.
Who
was calling to her, she wondered. Essie tried to open her eyes, but her
eyelids felt so heavy. The storm must have circled around because she could
hear the deep rumble of thunder once again.
“Momma! Can you hear me?”
Essie
struggled with her stubborn eyelids; slowly they fluttered open. As her
vision cleared, she saw the gray haired woman in front of her holding a
spoon that contained a soggy mass of green. Essie looked around the room.
There were old people everywhere. Most of them were in wheelchairs. They
were sitting around tables and younger people fed them.
The
woman in front of her spoke. “Momma, it's Vi. Do you recognize me today?
Come on . . . eat your lunch.”
Essie
slammed her eyes shut.
No!
She wouldn't remember. They couldn't make her! But the memories flooded to
the front of her consciousness. She tried to block out thoughts of losing
dear Caleb to illness and she struggled to prevent the memory of her son,
dying in an automobile accident. The only memories she wanted were happy
recollections.
“Go
away…go away…go away,” Essie mumbled. She squeezed her eyelids tighter until
the memories holding her reality fled from her mind.
“Caleb, come in and eat. Supper is ready.” Essie called to him from the
doorway. The evening air was fresh and smelled-washed clean from the pouring
rain. She breathed deeply and savored the sweet aroma. Thank heavens that
wicked headache was gone, she thought. She wanted to look her best for Caleb
tonight. Maybe tonight they would make that son he wanted so badly.
God
had been good to her today by protecting her family from the assault of the
storm. This is true happiness, she thought, and closed the heavy wood door.
WILDFLOWER
by
Bev Haynes
© 2008
Elizabeth Adams
braked her car in the parking lot and nudged her husband, Rich. “Wake up,
sleepy head, we’re here.” He didn’t have to tell her he wasn’t interested in
the reenactment today. Sleeping was his escape. “I can’t believe you fell
asleep in the short distance from our hotel in Lead to here…It’s only like
four miles!”
Rich opened one
eye a crack, and peeked at her, then closed it, pretending to be asleep.
Pushing back a dirty, battered
hat to the back of her head, she continued, “Seriously, Rich, come on.”
“Yeah, well, this
is your dream not mine. I’d rather sleep in the car until time for the
parade.” He pulled the flat-brimmed hat over his face.
“Silly, man,” she
said, snatching the hat from his face and tossing it onto his lap. “Come on.
Get out of the car we don’t have that much time to waste.” Elizabeth threw
open the door and stepped onto the black top, she glanced at Richard
reluctantly doing the same. “Boy howdy, do you ever look good in that
costume.”
“Yeah right. Me
the science teacher dressed up like this. I hope none of my students are in
the area.” He swept back his mid-back length brown hair and donned the hat.
The day was a bit breezy up in the Black Hills of South Dakota. “Remind me
again why I’m doing this, Lib?”
Walking up to his
side, she playfully punched his upper arm. “You know why you’re doing this.
It’s for me and you love me. Besides, your body looks great in that western
suit,” she laughed.
Arm in arm, they
navigated the steps leading to the door of the Adams Museum. Libby dressed
in old time men’s clothing as Calamity Jane and Rich…he depicted his
great-great uncle, Wild Bill Hickok, two notorious characters in Deadwood’s
history.
Libby raced up
the steps pulling Rich behind her. “Come on, there is something I have to
check out before we go to the reenactment.
“Libby, this is
crazy.”
She stopped on
the top step and looked down at him. This man drove her crazy; he owned her
heart and soul, emotionally as well as physically. Today he was getting on
her nerves but he did look sexy. Rich’s dark brown hair and sleek mustache
glistened in the sun, his bright blue eyes caught the light and the white
lines radiating through his irises drew the breath from her. He looked so
handsome in his eighteen hundreds attire, even better today than in past
years--he looked the part. Maybe his age had something to do with it. This
year, he was thirty-nine the same age as Wild Bill at the time of his death,
killed in Nuttall & Mann’s Saloon No. 10.
“Libby, this is
nothing but a wild goose chase.”
She shook her
head, refusing to listen to him. “My book has to be accurate, Rich. If there
are any inaccuracies, well, we’ve talked about this before, no one will
believe my big disclosure!”
“Like anyone in
this day and age really cares who killed my great-great uncle? They won’t
care that you think a member of the bad element hired Jack McCall to kill
him.”
Anger flared
through her. “It does matter to me, it’s my book, my thesis and by
damn, I’m going in is museum and look for the journal. It’s the last piece
of the puzzle, Rich.”
“You don’t need
it, Elizabeth! Your thesis is complete the way it is.”
She blinked back
tears.
“Okay, don’t go
getting all weepy on me, lets go find it, then head over to the reenactment.
I can’t wait for this day to be over. I’m sick of my role as Wild Bill at
the No. 10 Saloon. I’m sick of dying year after year.”
Sighing loudly,
so she would know just how put out he felt, he moved to the landing and
stood by her, wrapping his arm around her he spoke quietly into her ear.
“I’m sorry Libby, I guess I should have slept last night instead of playing
the slots until one this morning. Now ‘that’s’ been the fun part of this
trip.”
“I know Rich, so
let’s go in and get this over with. Before you know it, we’ll be heading
home tonight.”
“Or in the
morning,” he laughed lightly, “I might feel lucky tonight and win a bundle
on the machines.”
“Yeah right,
darling. You could hit the big one, but on nickels, it still would only add
up to dinner at McDonalds.” Libby narrowed her eyes and looked at him, “So
you aren’t as ready to head back to Laramie as you indicated?” She turned
and opened the heavy entrance door to the Adam’s Museum and stepped inside
to the cool atmosphere, walking to the back were displays of early writings
stood encased in glass. This was not what she was looking for. The item she
needed lay in the room beyond. Reaching in her pocket, she removed the
formal letter from the state curator allowing her in to the bowels of
history.
“Come on Rich, I
need your help,” Sarah spoke softly as she handed the letter to the woman
assigned duty to protect the documents. After reading the letter, she
granted them access into the inner sanctum of history.
“Okay Madame
professor, what are we looking for?”
Libby smiled and
said, “A small book or journal written by a woman named Martha. Her working
name was Wildflower. So, it could be either one. It’s supposed to be a small
diary with pressed flowers inside.”
“Why didn’t you
ask the woman to help us find it when we came in?”
“No. It’s… well,
it’s not supposed to exist.”
Rich leveled a
stern gaze at her. “So we’re looking for an elusive diary…”
“From all my
research, Martha was one of the few women in early Deadwood that came here
under false pretenses. She left her home and family, in the east, to come to
a new life as a lady’s maid to a wealthy family, but when she got here, she
found her family was other working girls at the Gem Theater, and worse than
that, she was owned like a pig by Al Swearington the most vile man in the
area. The diary will prove that Swearington was the man behind the bad
element in Deadwood and that he had Wild Bill killed because all the
unscrupulous business men were afraid he would clean up the town as he had
done with other rough towns in the past.”
“And if you find
this documentation you can do what, Libby?” Rich asked softly. His easy
demeanor filled her with love for him. He had been behind her project and
her thesis would gain her the doctorate of history she had struggled to
acquire over the years.
“Libby, look
behind you, on the bookshelf. She turned and saw a tiny, glowing blue dried
flower. “Rich, it has to be near.”
They began
looking for the diary and after an hour were ready to give up. “I don’t
think it’s here, Lib,” Rich said, pulling her from the search
“Just a minute. I
have one more box to check.
“Lib…”
“Ah! Here it is
Rich! It’s the only thing in this box.”
Libby gingerly
removed the diary. It was cloth wrapped and tied with a faded blue ribbon.
Ever so gently,
she untied the ribbon and let it gracefully fall away from the book, then
she gently opened the cover.
“Oh God…NO!”
“What’s the
matter, Libby?” Rich reached for the book.
“The pages…there
is nothing left, only blank pages. Everything of importance was ripped out
of the book!”
As their fingers
touched, the light in the room faltered. Libby’s stomach lurched, but she
continued to watch Rich’s eyes. Suddenly, he disappeared. Poof. “Rich! No…”
As the words flew from her lips, Libby looked down at herself as she
dissolved into her surroundings. Everything turned black in her mind the
moment she completely disappeared.
The sun sneaked
in past the brim of her hat and burned the light into her eyes. She opened
them and looked around. Rich? Where was he? Or for that matter, where in the
world was she? Everything looked different. Instead of standing in
the museum, she now was stretched out in a stable.
Hearing someone
moan, she pushed herself up on her elbow and looked around the gloomy barn.
Rich was in the corner of the stall, partially covered with straw. “Rich,
wake up. Something has happened.”
“Likely story,
Libby. We should have stayed home today and let someone else continue on the
history. I don’t want to do it anymore.”
“From what I’m
looking at, Rich we are somewhere we’ve never been before. I don’t know how
we did it, but I think we were jolted back to 1876. Holy crap, Rich, listen
to what I’m saying!”
Rich shot to his
feet and reached out a hand to Libby. “1876, Holy God! I thought it was bad
enough reenacting Wild Bill, but this, no way, I want to go back, now, Lib!”
“Yeah, well,
since I have no clue how this happened in the first place, I hate to tell
you…” she hesitated in stating her fear, “I have no clue in how we are
getting back.”
Rich brushed off
the hay from his clothing. Why do you think it’s the 1800s?”
“Because we’re
standing in the middle of a stable that was built and burned to the ground
the same year, 1876.”
“This is
completely incredible, it can’t be happening, not really! Right…?”
Libby looked
around the stable. “You’re right. This can’t be happening. It’s not
possible…but here we are anyway. Do you think it was because of the diary?”
Nodding, Rich
said, “Well it all happened when we both touched that little book.”
“Guess that must
be the key to why we are here.”
“Hmmm…well…I’m
ready to get back to our right date!” Taking her arm, he steered her into
the larger opening just as a heavily built man walked into the darkness from
the bright light outside.
“Bill…Clam…what
are you two doing in here?”
Libby looked at
Rich, Rich snapped his head in Libby’s direction, his eyes wide with
surprise. “They think we’re them,” Rich whispered.
“I don’t know
what to do, Rich.” She whispered, trying not to arouse the man’s suspicions.
This time period doesn’t need two Bills and two Calamity. “Let’s walk out of
here and see if we can figure out a way back to our time.”
Libby nodded at
the man staring at them as she ambled past him, “Later,” she said.
The man’s heavy
eyebrows drew together in a frown.
“Clam, you look
different. What ya do, get thrown in the creek?” he laughed a boisterous,
open mouth guffaw revealing a mouth filled with broken teeth. “You look
clean for a change and you don’t stink like the inside of a whiskey bottle.”
Libby stifled a full-body shudder. Shaking her head at the man, she
continued making her way from the stable. Rich followed her.
Mud, dung and
slop comprised the street and it really didn’t surprise Libby. These
conditions filled history books. What wasn’t represented in all the books,
she had read over the years, were the smells. Deadwood, a mining camp of
epic proportions reeked. She wanted to gulp fresh air, but there wasn’t any
to be had. The gulch held the putrid odors close to the ground.
“Why do you think
we’re here?” Rich asked.
Libby shook her
head. “The only thing I can think of is that I need to find Martha and get
her diary.”
“And just how are
you going to do that, Madame professor. You don’t even know what she looks
like or where she lives.”
“Wrong.” Libby
stepped out into the most shallow area of the street and headed in what she
felt a southerly direction. “I wish you would quit calling me that. You make
it sound like a put-down.”
“Ok-Ok, but where
are you going?” Rich cried, following her, imploring her for answers.
“To the Gem
Theater, that’s where she’s was known to live. Or exist. Just look at these
conditions, Rich. Women had to be really tough to make it out of here
alive.”
“I think it will
be a wonder if we make it out of here alive, Libby. We don’t even
know if we can get home.”
The large
two-story structure of the Gem Theater stood before them. It didn’t look
nearly as glamorous as history had drawn. It was made of limestone and the
upper floor had a balcony spanning the distance across the front. For a
showplace of Deadwood, it was sorely lacking in anything beyond planks and
square nails.
“Wait for me out
here, Rich,” Libby said as she turned to enter the building. “I have to find
Martha.’”
“Okay, I’ll try
to look inconspicuous, but it’s going to be difficult if everyone thinks I’m
Bill Hickok.”
“Make sure you’re
here…Bill!” She turned around, gave him a peck on the cheek, and then walked
into the infamous business.
The front held a
bar with seats for patrons and spectators on each side. The rear of the
building she knew from her research on the area, was divided up into small
rooms where the Gem girls entertained customers. Saddling up to the bar,
Libby pretended an inebriated state as she read Calamity Jane stayed in.
The bartender
walked up to her on his side of the bar and shook his head. “Calamity,
you’re not in good shape this morning.”
She nodded,
“Yessh, b’ I have to assh you somethin’ afore I crawl off to sleep, Can you
tell me if that girl Martha is around?”
The man’s eyes
grew large. “You’re goshing me, right Calamity? Do you need your key, is
that what you’re asking?”
“My key?”
“For your room,
Martha? What’s the matter with you? Are you so drunk that you forgot
who your really are? I think you must have drank the gulch dry.” He reached
under the counter, came up with a large key, and tossed it at her. “Now will
you go on up and let me be? I have work to do.”
Libby had to
stifle her glee. Calamity Jane was really Martha? Of course, Martha Jane
Cannary, the woman’s real name! This knowledge would make her book come to
life. She had to get Rich and take him up to the room and together, they
would look for the diary.
Turning, she
pocketed the key and turned to walk back out of the Gem.
“Calamity, don’t
loose that gift I gave you. It’s the only one.”
She tipped her
hat to the bartender and continued out the door, but when she stepped
outside, she saw that Rich wasn’t where she left him. Where the heck could
he have gone? It wasn’t safe for him to be anywhere in this town, not on
this day, August 2, 1876 the day the real Wild Bill Hickok was shot dead in
the Number 10 Saloon.
Libby’s blood
chilled in her veins. She didn’t know much about the ideas Einstein had
regarding physics, but she wondered if Rich could be drawn to the saloon and
if so, would history attempt to repeat itself? Libby stood in the middle of
the street, her head spinning as she thought about the location of the
infamous bar. This real Deadwood didn’t look anything like the pictures and
maps she had studied for her thesis. Suddenly it dawned on her where it was
located. Running what would be the equivalent of six blocks she neared what
she thought was the Number 10 and standing in the doorway, she saw Rich.
“Richard!” Libby
screamed. “Get your ass over here…NOW!” He turned and smiled at her. “Ok,
Lib, I just wanted to see where it all went down. I wanted to see if I got
it right for the reenactment. Come on, let’s go in.” He pulled at her arm.
Shaking his hand
from her arm she said, “Richard remember what day it is?” Her eyes searched
his face to see any semblance of understanding, but his brows drew together
in question.
“Richard, I have
a half mind to let you go in there and have your ass blown away! Now come
on. I found something at the Gem.
Rich stood there;
his feet planted, refusing to budge.
“Richard Adams,
today is the day Wild Bill gets killed in there. Do you get it now? You
can’t go in there.”
Rich pulled out
of the trance and his eyes glistened as he looked at her. “God Libby, I
could have been killed.”
“No kidding. Now
come on. We have to go back to the Gem. I know where the diary is.”
As they made
their way through the mud, Libby told Rich about the key and about Martha.
Entering the Gem,
they looked straight ahead and took the stairs two at a time leading up to
the upper floor. People were calling to them, thinking they were in fact the
real couple. Libby reached into her pocket, pulled out the key, and saw it
had the number four stamped on it. Putting the metal in the large hole, the
key turned easily.
Libby stepped
into the room and walked over to a small table beside a narrow bed. The room
had a washbasin, narrow bed and a window. Reaching under the table, she
pulled out a small journal. Glancing through it, she saw the scrawled
handwriting.
“Okay, what did
we do earlier when we were at the museum that tossed us back here?” Libby
asked.
Rich shook his
head. “Heck if I know. One minute we were in the museum and the next minute
in the stable.”
Libby’s head
snapped up from reading Calamity’s words. “That’s it. We have to go back to
the stable. I think we’d end up in a parking lot by the Celebrity Hotel if
we stay here. We have to be alone at the museum.” Tucking the book into her
loose shirt, Libby took hold of Rich’s hand and the left the room after only
moments of being there.
As they raced
down the steps, they exited the building to the sounds of cat calls and
laughter from the bar patrons. They didn’t look back.
When they were a
distance from the Gem, Libby slowed to a walk. “Okay, Rich, we have to go
past Saloon No. 10 to get to the stable. Are you going to be okay? Don’t go
getting weird on me.”
He nodded, but
the far away look in his eyes worried Libby a bit. She would hang tightly on
to him and maybe, just maybe that would be enough to keep him by her side.
At the last minute, Libby decided it might be better if they circled around
the No. 10 and headed across the street to a small copse of trees that
butted up against the rock wall of the gulch. That way, they wouldn’t have
to walk directly past the saloon.
Suddenly, they
heard voices coming from inside the small forest.
“Well you have
to do it Jack. He can’t go getting no wife and not telling me about it. It’s
jest not right. I wanted him for myself and if I can’t have him, no circus
performer will have him either!”
“Clam, I’ll
get away from here and they won’t be no one to stop me. I’ll do it for ya.
You’ve helped me out the last little bit I’ve been in Deadwood.”
Libby gripped her
husband’s hand. “Sounds like the man at the stable. Didn’t he call me Clam?”
Rich nodded, but
put his finger over his lips to call her silence.
“What if
you’re caught? Are you going to tell them about me?”
“Course not.
Bill killed my brother in Kansas. I’m doing this for myself as well. If they
catch me, I’ll tell em that no good drunk killed my brother Jim.”
The voices melted
away as the couple walked out of the trees.
“Now what?” Rich
asked.
“We’d better stay
here a bit. Could Calamity have hired Jack McCall to kill Wild Bill?”
“Could be, but if
that’s the case, we’d better get to the stable now. It won’t do to have a
dead Wild Bill on the loose!”
“Right you are,
let’s go.”
It didn’t take
very long to reach the stable. No one was around, and the stable didn’t even
hold any horses as it had earlier. Libby was reluctant to attempt anything
with the journal, until Rich was in place as he had been at the museum.
“Where do I
stand, Libby?” he asked.
Reaching out, she
said, “I had just untied the ribbon, opened the book and found the pages
ripped out. Then you reached for the book and our fingers touched. Lets try
it.”
Libby opened the
book, Rich reached for it, and as their fingers touched, Deadwood began to
melt away. This time, instead of her physical body melting, she watched as
the stable fell away to become an empty space, followed by the rapid
building of a house. Could this be the museum? As suddenly as the thought
struck her mind, she returned to the present. She and Rich were standing
just as they were earlier.
Libby looked at
the large clock on the wall and saw it was only fifteen minutes later than
when they had entered the back room at the Adam’s Museum.
“We made it,”
Rich whispered.
“I’m afraid to
look in the journal. What if the pages are still gone?”
“What does it
matter, Libby? We both know the truth. You have enough for your thesis as it
is. You don’t have to go proving that through all time they had it wrong.
And that poor woman, Calamity Jane. She was so desperately in love with a
man that didn’t love her. What a sad story that is.”
Libby looked at
the book again. Now, it was aged and yellowed, not the bright journal of
1876. “You’re right. I do have enough. Now that I know what happened, why
make Calamity Jane any worse a character than she was?”
As she closed the
journal, Libby saw that the pages were back and the temptation to read them
assaulted her. No, she couldn’t do it. Placing the journal back in the box,
Libby whispered, “Rest in peace Martha Jane Cannary.”
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