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“You said Jessica left town to live with a relative.”
Theodore’s ears turned red. He lowered the paper. “Now see here—”
“I rode into town expecting to find she’d gone east to live with some maiden aunt, but do you know what I heard instead?”
“Son—”
“I heard she was living on that old farmstead past Black Rock Creek.”
Theodore stared at him, mouth finally shut as he waited for Caleb to continue, but he didn’t look like a man set to apologize.
“Why did you lie?” Caleb pressed.
“Because I thought a lie was kinder than the truth.”
“The truth that she’s a whore?” Caleb spat out.
Theodore slapped the table hard. “Watch your language in this house. Yes, I thought a lie was kinder than telling you what that…that harlot had done. She was practically a daughter to us. Do you know how humiliated your mother was? The whole town was whispering!”
But Caleb couldn’t get his mind around the most basic fact. “I don’t understand. How did this happen?”
“Who cares how it happened?” Theodore barked. “It’s disgusting, and I don’t want you stirring up talk again. Stay away from her. The worst of it has died down at long last.”
Caleb let the subject drop, but his mind spun, circling and circling around the knowledge of what she was.
The first person to tell him had been a stranger. He’d meant to see his mother first, of course, but he’d found her home empty, so he’d headed to the big house Jessica’s father had once owned.
He’d asked after her, and the kitchen girl had stared at him with big eyes. “You’re Caleb Hightower, right? You went to school with my brother Ricky.” Then she’d leaned closer to whisper something ridiculous. “She’s a whore now.”
“Who?” he’d asked in confusion.
“Jessica Willoughby. She lives in a whorehouse.”
Caleb had backed up one step, looking past the maid toward the doorway beyond. He’d waited to hear howling from within or a cackle of insane laughter. This girl was clearly not right in the head. Perhaps the building was being used as a madhouse of sorts. Perhaps it was part of the clinic now.
“Hey!” she’d called when Caleb had spun and fled toward the street.
Just one block over was the general store where he’d spent pennies on peppermint sticks for Jessica, small offerings to make up for his work-rough hands and large size. He’d thought of going in to ask afte
r her, but no, he couldn’t inquire there. Word would get out that some girl had told a vile lie about Jessica, and she’d be mortified.
He’d walked three doors down to the saloon and found nothing but strangers.
Caleb had ordered a whiskey and tossed it back. When the barkeep had offered another, he’d downed that one too. “Any of you know a Miss Willoughby?” he’d finally managed to ask, his head buzzing with something far more destructive than liquor.
The barkeep shrugged, while the other men looked blankly at each other.
“She lived a couple streets down,” Caleb added. “Her father was a doctor at the consumption clinic. Died a few months back.”
Two of the men shook their heads, but a third had leaned forward, his mouth loose with drunkenness. “He’s lookin’ for that fancy whore,” he’d slurred. “Moved out past Black Rock Creek.”
The oldest man laughed. “You don’t look like you can afford that kind of pussy, friend. You’d do better to head over to Ella Mae’s place.”
The buzz in Caleb’s ears turned to a roar. “How far past Black Rock Creek?” he’d asked instead of shooting all of them.
“About a mile, I’d say. There’s a black girl out there too, if you like that kind of thing. Probably more girls than that now, but this place is only for rich folk. Gentlemen and the like. You’d better flash some gold or you’ll get run off like the rest of us.”
The drunkest one added, “I hear they come all the way up from Denver to fuck that Willoughby woman, but I can’t imagine what she’s got under her skirts that would be worth that kind of trouble. Maybe highfalutin pussy tastes different.”
