Outlawed(57)

“And then?” I asked.

“And then I got a job with a traveling veterinarian. He was getting old and needed someone strong to help him with the larger animals, the cows and horses. At first I hated him—he was mean and demanding and he scolded me over every little thing.

“But one day we were called to examine a horse with founder. The rancher had waited too long to call and the horse could barely walk—when the vet diagnosed her, the rancher was going to shoot her. So the vet took her himself. Over the next three months I saw him nurse her—he soaked her feet in ice baths, trimmed her hooves, and when she was ready, he rode her a little more every day until she was almost as good as new. He could never sell her—she’d be a little bit lame for the rest of her life—but he kept her on his own farm and fed her and cared for her along with his other horses. Once I asked him why he hadn’t let the rancher euthanize her, and he looked at me like I was crazy.

“ ‘She’s a living thing,’ he said.

“Afterward I watched how he was with all the animals, from the most beautiful prize stallion to the scrawniest chicken, as though each was worthy of his utmost care and attention. On the rare occasions when he had to put an animal down, he did it quickly, and took care to calm the animal first, so it didn’t die in fear and pain.

“In the whole time I worked for him, he never warmed up to me. In fact I think he hated me. But I knew if I ever tried anything like I’d done at the roadhouse, he’d do anything he had to do to save me—he’d consider my life worth any amount of effort, dislike me though he did. And so I never tried anything, and when I’d been working for him for a year, I discovered I didn’t think about it anymore. Except for a few dark times, I haven’t since.”

When the light returned, Lark’s face and the way he held his body made sense to me in a way they hadn’t before. That combination of caution and confidence—I imagined the old veterinarian slowly training the sick horse to walk again, to trot, to canter, knowing where her weak points were but knowing, too, how she could become strong. I wished I could think of my own failed body with that kind of care. Instead I was full of shame and fear.

“We’re going to die in here,” I said.

“Maybe,” Lark said. “But we’re not dead yet.”

We knew morning only by the changing of the guard, the new one tall and young, the kerosene lamp revealing a soft, hairless face. He had brought along a bag of hard-boiled eggs in bright colors, which he peeled and ate as he paced. I had been lying with my head on the bench and my eyes shut, but I had not been asleep. I had been turning plans over and over in my mind.

“If I throw myself against the window—” I said to Lark as he began to stir.

“Save your energy,” the woman said. When the light crossed her, I saw her eyes remained shut, her body relaxed in its sleeping posture. And yet her voice was fully awake and alert. I wondered how long she’d been listening.

“There’s no way out of here,” she said. “That glass is double-paned, with metal wires in between. This might not be a big town but the sheriff comes up from Telluride. He’s caught some of the worst outlaws west of the Mississippi. He made sure this jail was watertight.”

“So that’s it then?” I asked. “We’re just going to rot in here?”

I regretted my words immediately. This woman had served twenty years for the misfortunes of her sisters-in-law, and here I was panicking after a single night. But when the light came back, she was smiling. With her missing tooth she reminded me of Ulla suddenly, that mischievous gap in her grin.

“There is one thing you can try,” she said. “I’d do it myself, but I haven’t found anybody willing. You can ask to get married.”

“I’m not sure our young friend out there is going to be keen on marrying either of us,” Lark said, “if that’s what you mean.”

“It’s not,” the woman said. “The sheriff here is very serious about the holiness of the family. If you request a marriage, he’ll have you taken to a church for the ceremony. And then he’ll give you a private place to consummate the union. If you can manage to conceive a child—well then you might just save both your lives.”

“I can’t have children,” I told her. There seemed little risk in admitting it now.

“Even so,” she said. “You’ll have the trip to the church and the wedding ceremony to figure something out. You’ll be under armed guard, of course, but our little church is a lot easier to bust out of than this jail.”

The mirth in the woman’s voice felt out of place in the dark and airless room.

“Why are you telling us this?” I asked, suspicious.

The woman sat up and stretched.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about how much I hate the sheriff,” she said. “Anything that hurts him is reward enough for me.”

I could feel Lark’s smile in the dark.

“What do you think, Ada?” he asked. “Will you marry me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the sheriff said. “Of course I won’t take you to the church. You’re wanted for grand theft. And you,” he said, looking at me—“I don’t even know what crime the judge will want to charge you with. If it weren’t Easter week, you’d be dead by now.”