Grace and the Guiltless

Chapter 3

As the morning sun rose higher over the hills, Grace leaned into Bullet’s canter. The blisters on her palms, raw and oozing, stung in the whistling wind. Her father’s gun, hidden under her bodice, dug into her side. Bullet’s mane whipped in her face, but the warmth and closeness of her horse did not ease the hard knot of grief that was sitting deep in her gut. Every inch of her body felt numb, though the pounding of Bullet’s hooves jarred her body the way reality battered her heart.

Each hoof beat was a denial. This isn’t real. It can’t be. It can’t be. The rhythm echoed in her brain.

“Faster,” she whispered against Bullet’s neck. As if he understood her, the palomino picked up speed. Fury fueled her ride. She would make them pay. Every last one of them. She needed to find the sheriff.

By the time they reached Allen Street, the main road in Tombstone, Bullet’s coat was lathered with sweat, and Grace’s throat was parched. She slowed him to a walk.

Heads swiveled to follow her progress through the street, making her conscious of her ill-fitting, outgrown clothes. Bloody stains on the hem of her skirt. Torn leggings underneath. Red clay caking her boots. Ash and soot streaking her bodice and sweaty face. Her cheeks burned with shame.

Grace funneled her embarrassment into her thirst for justice. Those murderers would hang.

Before she reached his office, she spotted the sheriff, his badge glinting in the sunlight as he sauntered across the street and entered the Bird Cage Theater. Grace reined in Bullet and headed toward him.

Every time she had come to town with her family, Pa had crossed the street to avoid the Bird Cage. Grace had been fascinated by the painted ladies in their revealing dresses, by the flouncing, colorful petticoats visible behind the doors. Some of the bolder women grabbed at men’s arms to lead them inside the pink building. A few men shook off the ladies’ polished claws, but others smiled and accompanied the women inside. Now that she was older, Grace understood why Pa had shied away.

Ignoring the stares of passersby, Grace slid from Bullet’s back. After looping the reins around a post at the edge of the wooden sidewalk, she stiffened her back and lifted her chin. The planks vibrated under her boots as she strode to the Bird Cage’s door. But with one hand on the ornate brass doorknob, she hesitated. No decent woman would enter such a place. Disheveled as she was, and in her too-small clothing, people might think . . .

A host of terrible images flashed through her mind. Her mother’s lifeless body next to Abby’s. The gunshot. Pa’s body falling. Zeke’s limp, lifeless form.

The open grave.

A sob rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down.

The sheriff was in there — she had to go inside. Justice for her family mattered more than her reputation.

“I’m sorry, Pa,” she whispered. Then, taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.

Clouds of smoke enveloped her. Unlike the black, acrid smoke from the burning cabin that still clung to her pores and clothes, sweetish cigar smoke and the sharper scent of burning tobacco from hand-rolled cigarettes filled the air. Raucous laughter, the tinkle of a piano, and the clink of glasses pulsed through the room. The infamous alcoves, or birdcages, some with their red velvet curtains drawn, perched overhead like rows of fancy packages.

Her eyes stinging from the haze, Grace squinted to find the sheriff. So many black frock coats blurred into an indistinguishable mass.

A deep voice purred behind her. “Looking for someone, darling?”

She shook off the paw resting on her shoulder. “The sheriff.” Her voice came out clipped, curt.

“Not a very friendly one, are you now?” The whiskey on the cowboy’s breath overpowered her as he rounded her to get a better look. “Bit young for this business, aren’t ya?”