ote: This is a work of historical fiction. All of the characters and events depicted are
inventions of the author's imagination. Although real persons and places are
referenced, their portrayal herein is not intended to reflect their actual behavior in any
way.
   

   
CHAPTER 1: CHEYENNE'S NEWEST RESIDENT
   
   
   I hide myself within my flower,
   That, fading from your vase,
   You, unsuspecting, feel for me
   Almost a loneliness.
   –Emily Dickinson
   
   
   By the time the stagecoach pulled into Cheyenne, Clara Dove had become almost
accustomed to its incessant jarring motion. It was a far cry from the gentle sway of the
train she had taken from Massachusetts to Denver.
   Her entire journey was supposed to have been by rail, but a freak storm had damaged
the track by Greeley, and rather than wait, she had decided to take the stage. Now she
realized that may have been the wrong choice. The repairs hadn't taken as long as
expected, and she was beginning to wonder if traveling the heavily rutted road by stage
had damaged her brain.
   Clara sat motionless for a moment as the dust raised by the stagecoach's arrival
settled outside. She felt like she needed to let the internal rattling subside as well
before she could move, but the driver was already at the door, holding it open for her.
   "This is your stop, Miss."
   "Oh yes, thank you." Clara managed to climb down, as the second driver
handed her bags down to the first. Her belongings didn't amount to much, but she
would still need help getting her things moved into her new accommodations.
   She looked around as the driver guided the stage around for a change of horses before
continuing on to Laramie. A Mr. O'Neil was supposed to meet her, assuming he received
the telegraph she'd sent from Denver regarding her change of mode.
   She didn't have to wait long before a thin, older gentleman with bushy grey
sideburns approached her tentatively. He wore a bowler on his balding head and an open
vest over a well worn shirt.
   "You can't be Miss Dove, can you?" he asked skeptically.
   "Yes, I am. Why do you sound so incredulous?"
   "Incredu– What?" he said, grabbing his bowler as if the unfamiliar word
might blow it off his head. Then, apparently remembering his manners, he took it off
completely. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Dove. Robert O'Neil at your
service. Now, I don't know what that word you just said means, but if you're
wondering why I'm surprised, well, it's just that you ain't nothing like
what I expected for our new schoolmarm."
   "I see," she laughed modestly. "What did you expect, Mr.
O'Neil?"
   "Oh, you know, ma'am. A woman that's a little more... Well, that is to
say, not quite so... Aw, shoot! Now, don't take this the wrong way, 'cause
I'm a happily married man and all, but you're just too fine looking a young lady
to be a schoolmarm, and that's a fact!"
   Clara blushed and glanced downward for an awkward second. "Why thank you, Mr.
O'Neil." Of course, she'd actually had a fair idea what had surprised him.
He'd simply been told that she was single, and no doubt expected an old widow, or
perhaps a homely younger woman.
   Clara was neither. In fact, she was "fair beyond compare" as her father used
to gush. He'd doted on his beautiful little girl all through her childhood. And as
she blossomed into an equally beautiful young woman, he used to boast that she could have
any man she wanted from any family from Boston to New York.
   But Clara preferred not to think of her father now, and put the memories out of her
mind. "I assume you have a carriage? Is there someone who can help with my
bags?"
   "Oh, I can get them, Miss Dove. I may not look like much, but what I got is
pretty much all muscle."
   Indeed, she had to agree with his self description, as he donned his bowler again and
snatched up her luggage with hardly a thought. Nodding down the road, he led her to one of
the buggies hitched nearby and hefted the bags into the back.
   She climbed onto the passenger side of the bench up front and waited for him to join
her.
   "Now, Miss Dove," he scolded as he climbed onto the bench himself, "I
didn't mean for you to climb into the carriage yourself. You should've waited
for me to help you up!"
   "It's all right, Mr. O'Neil. Like yourself, I'm not as fragile as
I may look."
   "Perhaps. But you're still a lady, and my daddy always taught me to help a
lady into a buggy."
   "Of course, I meant no offense. I'll remember to wait next time."
   Soon the pair of horses was trotting down the main road of town. O'Neil pointed
out the businesses as they went. There was a saloon, a bank, a hotel, another saloon, and
his own general store.
   "You'll be needing supplies, of course, and I got it all."
   "Yes," she agreed, making note of where O'Neil's General Store was
situated.
   "The schoolhouse is just around this corner," he continued, steering the
horses to the right. "And your apartment is in back. It ain't much, but
it's all yours. Plus that dollar a week salary, of course."
   "Yes, thank you, Mr. O'Neil. I think the arrangement is most
generous."
   He reined the horses to a stop in front of a small, unmarked structure. He glanced at
Clara as if to say "don't move" and hopped down. Clara smiled and waited
for him to circle around and extend his hand to help her down from the carriage.
   "You can go right on in, ma'am, while I bring in your bags."
   Clara did exactly that. The front room was unmistakably a classroom, with its rows of
benches filling the bulk of the space and a single desk and pot belly stove at one end.
That was it. No shelves or cupboards. Not even blackboard or chalk. In the middle of the
far wall was a door, which she assumed led to her apartment.
   By the time she took in the classroom and headed for the door, O'Neil was behind
her with the bags. She led the way through the door. Like the schoolroom itself, her
apartment was a single open space. It was furnished with a table and chair, a rough
dresser and cabinet, a bed with a straw mattress, and another pot belly stove. A bed pan
sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, and a water bowl and pitcher sat on the table.
Along the opposite wall, another door led out the back of the house.
   O'Neil set her bags down in the middle of the room and rubbed his shoulder.
"That one bag's right heavy, Miss Dove. What've you got in it? An
anvil?"
   "No," she laughed, "just some books."
   "Oh, you didn't need to bring no books. Most of the kids have their own
Bibles to study from."
   "Well, these are for my own use." She stooped down and opened the luggage.
"See. Here's my volume of Shakespeare, my Bible, a copy of Homer..."
   "What's that one there?"
   "This?" she asked, indicated a small volume with rough-edged pages and
hand-stitched binding. "It's a collection of poems."
   "Pomes, huh? I ain't never seen no need for no pomes."
   "Mr. O'Neil, I'm surprised at you!"
   "Oh, sorry, Miss Dove. I mean, I ain't ever seen no need for no
pomes."
   The lilting sounds of Clara's renewed laughter brought a smile to the old
man's naturally grim face. "I wasn't correcting your grammar, Mr.
O'Neil. I simply meant you seemed like a man who would appreciate a good
rhyme."
   "Oh, I doubt that, ma'am."
   She quickly flipped through the pages. "Well, let's find out. Here's
one you might enjoy," she said, and then recited: "The pedigree of honey / Does
not concern the bee; / A clover, any time, to him / Is aristocracy."
   She closed the book and smiled at him.
   "That's it?" he said. "That's the whole pome?"
   "Yes! Isn't it clever?"
   He shrugged. "I reckon it ain't as bad as I thought it would be. You wrote
that?"
   "Heavens no! It was written by a woman I used to know back in Amherst. Her name
is Emily Dickinson."
   "Oh, I just figured it was yours... I mean, the book looks handmade and
all."
   "It is. In fact, I made it myself. I copied the poems by hand and stitched it all
together on my own. These are all of Miss Dickinson's poems."
   "Well, that's all well and good, Miss Dove. But I best be getting back to
the store." He pointed out the back door. "The privy's over yonder. You
share it with my store and Wilson's saloon. And the water pump is around front,
between here and the store. Now, if you'll excuse me, ma'am, I'll let you
settle in."
   "Settling in" didn't take long. With her entire worldly possessions in
two cases, she was soon sitting at the table, thumbing through her little book of verse.
Though she treasured it more than anything, it always brought back such sad memories.
   Her father had forbidden her from visiting the odd woman who kept to herself and wrote
equally odd bits of verse. Yet she had persisted. Just as she had persisted in being, as
he called it, "headstrong, willful, and rude of tongue" when it came to her
relations with suitors.
   Father's impatience with her had grown with each young man who gave up trying to
woo his daughter. One by one, her chances of marrying into the best families faded. And as
his impatience turned into anger, he blamed it all on "that crazy old Dickinson
spinster".
   Finally, unable to do anything about Dickinson, and unwilling to support his
unmarriageable daughter any longer, he'd arranged this teaching position for her and
sent her on her way.
   But that was all in the past now and there was no going back. She set the book aside
and headed for the door. If she was going to get settled, she needed to go to Mr.
O'Neil's store and pick up some supplies.
   O'Neil greeted her warmly when she entered, and motioned for her to come straight
back to the counter. He reached into the till and retrieved a dollar piece. Handing it to
her, he said, "This here's an advance on your salary, Miss Dove. And you can get
as much as you need today on account."
   "Why, thank you, sir! You're much too generous. But I didn't arrive
penniless, and I will be more than happy to pay you in full for whatever I require
today."
   "Suit yourself, ma'am."
   She did accept the dollar, however, and then turned and headed toward the back where
the dry goods were kept. Just then, the door opened and a man stepped in. Clara glanced
over to him. He stopped in mid stride and returned her gaze.
   His face was hard as granite, yet his eyes were harder still. They lingered for a
moment and she felt as if they were penetrating her skull. When he let his stare roam down
her body, she realized she was holding her breath, yet couldn't seem to get her lungs
to work.
   She saw his eyes narrow as they traced her womanly shape all the way to where her long
skirt brushed the floorboard. She felt a sudden warmth flood her very core and yet she
shivered.
   The man reached up and tipped his hat. "Ma'am," he muttered.
   "H– Hello," she whispered. Her mouth and throat were bone dry.
   The man turned to Mr. O'Neil and tossed some coins onto the counter.
"I'm paying on my account," he said.
   O'Neil nodded and scooped up the coins.
   And then, just as quickly as he'd come in, the man was gone.
   Clara clutched her throat and finally managed to start breathing again. "Who was
that?" she croaked at Mr. O'Neil.
   "Oh, that's just Early Cummings, ma'am."
   "Early? Is that his real name?"
   "Oh, no, ma'am. Real name's Eli, but everyone calls him Early.
Don't rightly know why myself. Lives north of town a piece. A loner, but mostly
harmless."
   "Mostly?"
   O'Neil chuckled. "Well, Miss Dove, ain't nobody completely harmless,
now is there?"
   "No," she said. "I suppose no one is completely harmless."