the peace. Too much shunning. So, not wanting to destroy Liza’s trust in her, Rachel had not reported the plan to the sheriff.
Rachel had been such a fool—first for being so cocky, thinking she could just invest the money and thus solve all the women’s troubles, and then later for not doing more to stop Liza from confronting the thief. If she’d tried harder, perhaps Liza would still be alive.
Of course, there was no way to know for certain if Liza’s death had been the result of her going to talk to the thief. She had been working that night. Her killer could have been a customer. The sheriff at the time had said it was a common yet unfortunate end to some soiled doves’ lives, but Rachel’s heart still clenched at the memory, convinced Liza’s death had been at the hands of the man she’d confronted.
Throughout the five years since, the guilt had dogged Rachel, as did the question of why Liza felt she could meet that man who she believed had committed such a heinous crime. Why had she thought she was safe doing so?
Pushing away the disturbing memories and focusing on Zane as he stood over her, Rachel fished a small tract from her pocket. This was why she went out each night, she told herself as she thrust the paper at Zane. “Here, read this. This is my hope for these women, what I must do.”
As he read the pamphlet, leaning it toward the dim moonlight, Rachel slipped into the dark alley between the haberdashery and the saloon. The shadows, long and deep, swallowed her up.
Oftentimes, with her escort, Rachel would first go into the saloon to get a feel of the evening’s mood. Occasionally, a surly customer would harass the women and set them on edge. Those nights made it all the more difficult for her to help them.
But, pressed for time tonight and without Jake, Rachel headed straight to the cribs via the alley. This route was dark, stinking of garbage and waste of all sorts. She risked tripping over discarded tins and such, or even the occasional drunk. All she had to deal with tonight, thankfully, was her skirt brushing against the outer walls. Although she would wear last season’s styles while doing her ministry work, Rachel tried in vain to avoid snagging her skirt’s material on the rough boards that sided the buildings. At least her maid was adept at tugging the threads back in. Mother would be less likely to notice that the fine clothes she’d purchased, albeit last year, were on their way to ruin.
As she entered the yard behind the saloon, Rachel stopped to press herself against the building’s rear clapboards.
The yard was empty except for the stray dog that had had puppies this past autumn. It now trotted past with a piece of garbage in its mouth. Rachel glanced around, thankful that no ejected drunk was trying to sneak back into the saloon through its rear door. She took the moment to pray that Zane would give up following her.
“Please, Lord,” she whispered. “Hide me.”
When, over the lull in the music, she heard firm steps upon the sidewalk pause by the narrow alley, she drew in a breath and held it, eyes shut tight and bottom lip pinned between her teeth.
Then, thankfully, the steps continued on. Zane didn’t enter the alley. Rachel dared to let out her breath and look around again. A pair of lanterns on the rear-door posts lit the yard and the cribs, those tiny huts where the women plied their trade. Still clinging to her basket handle, Rachel felt her heart wrench. It always did when she first arrived.
This way of life shouldn’t exist. There was no reason why the women here couldn’t have decent, safe lives. Rachel had been teaching some of them some basic skills that could lead to jobs as seamstresses or domestic work. If she was going to encourage them to change occupations, she should provide them with some skills to aid their departure.
With a fast glance around the corner, Rachel stepped toward the cribs just as a woman in a filthy pink dress stumbled out of the rear door. Rachel recognized Annie Blake, an older woman who’d been in town as long as she could remember. She was short and scrawny, her face lined like crumpled paper and her teeth stained brown.
Annie fell, and when the woman turned back toward the door, Rachel gasped. Her face was bleeding.
The door stayed open, spilling out additional light as Annie rose unsteadily to her feet. Rachel could see tears glittering in her eyes.
Stirred to action, Rachel rushed over to her. She set her basket down in front of the narrow nearby porch that led to the woman’s rented crib before wrapping her arm around Annie’s thin shoulders. The woman dropped her head into her hands and began to weep.
Father, have mercy on this woman.
The wind chose that moment to rise, drawing out from the open door the unpleasant smell inside. Rachel held her breath as she led the older woman toward her crib. After setting Annie down on the steps, Rachel opened her basket. In it she had all the things she needed for the night. Bandages, salves of arnica and comfrey and salts to stanch blood, willow bark among her various teas to help with pain because she refused to use laudanum. Thanks to Abernathy’s attempt to poison her, she’d learned firsthand the dangerous effects that an opiate could have on a person if overused. It might be the painkiller of choice nowadays, but she knew too many people who seemed to want it overly much, a thought that scared her.
From the small flask of water, Rachel wet a cloth to clean the wound near Annie’s eye. She would apply only the salve, given the location of the wound, for the salts could cause blindness. After, she would make tea for the woman and perhaps add some lemon balm to calm her. She reached out to turn Annie’s face toward her.
The older woman’s expression twisted into hatred as she backed away. “You! Thief! You’re the last person I want helping me! Give me back my money!” Then she lunged at Rachel.
When Zane looked up from the tract Rachel had given him, he was alone. He’d only glanced down for a moment, but in that time, she’d vanished. Feeling sudden frustration, he shoved the tract into his pocket and stalked away. He stopped at the entrance to the alley, but it was shadowed and still. Had Rachel slipped in here? He could hear nothing, no breathing, shifting shadows or anything that might give away a presence.
Where had Rachel gone? She was shrewd enough to try anything to escape him, he was sure, but she was also focused on her mission, which, as his quick perusal of the tract would suggest, was to help the women who plied a disreputable trade. She would hurry to that.
Would she head straight to the saloon? That seemed the most logical place for her to go. Not wanting to second-guess himself, he strode past the alley and hurried inside. The stench of ales and tobacco hit him.
He scoured the main room. Rachel wasn’t inside, and a curious wash of relief doused him. At the same time, he studied those patronizing the place. No shocked expressions when he entered, only a few offering mild curiosity. The saloon’s customers appeared relatively well behaved, considering the late hour. No one seemed to mind the poorly played chords on the out-of-tune piano, either.
Frustration bit at Zane as he headed to the far end of the bar where he could observe the whole room without being the center of attention. If he had to think something about Alex’s disappearance, he’d say that no one here had been involved in it, for surely they would have been surprised to see that he’d returned.
Zane’s breath hitched with worry. Alex, where are you?
For that matter, where was the lovely Miss Rachel Smith?
A series of guffaws and one female cry of indignation dragged his attention to a nearby corner. Someone shoved a thin woman in a filthy pink dress away from the men playing cards. She was older and looked worn down by life. Zane easily guessed her occupation. Pulling up on the neckline of her dress, she stumbled past him toward the back door and then outside, leaving the door open behind her. No sooner was she outside than she tripped on her drooping skirt and toppled headfirst to the ground.
Zane straightened, but before he could a step toward the back exit, he spied Rachel hurrying over to her from