Something Bright Read online

  Something Bright

  A Being(s) in Love Story

  R. Cooper

  Copyright © 2022 R. Cooper

  All rights reserved

  ISBN 9781005225551

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Lyn Forester

  Content tags: An old-fashioned view of addiction, sobriety, and recovery. Alcoholism, drinking, smoking. Guns are onpage but not used. Some gambling onpage. Mention of past sex work. Brief mention of part of some of California’s more shameful history. Onpage sex. Late 19th century attitudes toward gender roles and femininity, and one character’s navigation of those.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Epilogue

  The End

  BATCH got herself a room in a house owned by a sweet but prone-to-tippling older widow because nights got cold, especially down in the valley, and when Batch wasn’t restlessly patrolling the streets and waiting for something to happen, she wanted to rest someplace to keep a body warm until she had to face the light of morning. She valued warmth, these days, in a way she hadn’t when she’d been twenty and wilder. Or maybe warmth was just something she could give herself now that things were quiet and her mind was no longer focused on one thing only.

  She could have stayed at the hotel, which mostly held people passing through this collection of streets on its way to being a town but had a few full-time boarders. Batch would have been welcome. Carillo lived there, after all, and so did the girl, his girl, who had been one of those passing through but had stayed for him, even if neither of them acknowledged that yet. But once Batch had truly been able to call herself sobered up and the time had come to stop bunking at the jail with Tinney, her feet had carried her in the opposite direction, away from the St. Christopher Hotel.

  Not out of town. Not that far. Not back up into the hills to the logging camps, and not farther south to bigger places like Los Cerros. Just to the edge of the main streets and down a few alleys. Out of sight, with the wandering farmhands, and the miners who had never found their fortunes, and the girls who didn’t work out of the house up the road toward the geysers and the health resort for the wealthy.

  Her room had a chest of drawers she used as a wash stand also, and a tiny table with a lamp on it next to the bed. The mattress was small and full of lumps compared to the dozens of mattresses Batch had visited since she’d started life on her own, but she also compared it to stables and pigsties and just plain hard-packed dirt, and knew that small and lumpy wasn't so bad. And it wasn't as though there was a body next to her to share it and take up space. So the mattress was fine, more than fine; it was something to be grateful for.

  The chest of drawers was mostly empty. Batch was earning pay now, steady pay, and would be at least for a while, but had only been doing so for a few months. She owned the clothes she had on, and some spare shirts and underthings, and a hairbrush and some pins. That was all she’d replaced once she had spending money. Everything else she’d once owned had been sold or stolen years ago.

  In quiet moments, she thought maybe she was afraid to have things again. Not because she might be tempted to sell them for a drink, although she might, but because she couldn’t be trusted with anything precious, not even a hand-mirror or a kerchief nicer than the one she wore around her neck on hotter days. That was just a scrap of red, one of Tinney’s, given as a gift.

  The old man was kind, in his way, though he tried his best to disguise it with constant grumbles and hushed insults for the people he didn’t approve of. Batch wasn’t one of them. She still didn’t know why, but she was grateful for that as well.

  Tinney had once had a small homestead and lost it, either through cards or a debt, Batch didn’t know. But for all that he was rough, he’d been the sort to keep books in his house and still was, despite living at the jailhouse. He knew his prayers backwards and forwards but had used his rifle on a man or two, or threatened to and meant it, and he had Carillo’s gruff admiration. With all of that, and being there to witness Batch sick all over herself and shaking and crying and whatever else she’d done in that first week of sobriety, he still thought she was worth conversation and a little gift.

  Batch thought about that in quiet moments too. But she had a lot of quiet moments these days. The whole town did, now that the dust-ups were mostly whiskey-soaked loggers and gamblers and the like getting in trouble, and not disputes people had thought to settle with guns, and on one occasion, a hatchet, or farther inland, a shameful massacre, although most in town didn’t speak of that.

  The nights Batch wasn’t working, she woke with her back to the wall; some nights shivering even with her blankets around her, and blinking up at her ceiling like a kid stared at the painted ceilings of the tall buildings in big cities.

  It wasn’t a tent and it wasn’t the sky. It was a ceiling, and above that was a roof. She had a bed and a mostly empty chest of drawers. Not much else, but she had those. Pathetic, she supposed, to the landowners and the rich ladies heading up to the geysers for the hot springs and their health.

  Batch had been all over, in her somewhere-near to twenty-six or twenty-seven years, but she’d had a place of her own only a handful of times, and never as a cleaned-up, genuine member of the world.

  It was something else to think about.

  Worry about.

  Fret over while she pinned up her hair and got dressed to go walk through town in her vest and shirt and her long men’s trousers. In the old days, when she’d been a kid with her pa newly buried, the area had been full of people on their way elsewhere, prospectors and speculators heading north to find money or heading south to spend it, poor miners on their way to misery up in the mountains, and a few Pomo heading away from those others. Batch wearing men’s clothes had been just how it was, cheaper and easier and sort of a joke. Everyone then had been more concerned with themselves than anyone else. Nobody proper had been around to care what someone else was wearing unless it was worth something. So, except for a brief stint in one of the towns down near Los Cerros, Batch had never attempted women’s weeds, and those had been borrowed flash.

  But those days were gone. The valley, and the hills and mountains around it, was an area on the verge of settling down. The town would get a name soon, and probably officially elect Carillo as their sheriff, instead of just paying him to stop the bloodshed between drunken loggers and farmers and high-and-mighty landowners as needed.

  It was possibly no place for Batch with her pants and her gun and her belt with the work knife tucked into it. It was definitely no place for Blue, even if she hadn’t been Blue for half a year now.

  Six months, even if no one had said a word about it to her face. Batch could still smell the piss and sweat on herself sometimes no matter how much she bathed, still lick the sick from her teeth and taste something sweet and burning hot on her breath, dry in the back of her throat. No one would say a word, not with Carillo and Tinney standing guard like a pair of tough, cranky hens, and not after seeing Batch’s temper.

  But no one really needed to; it hung in the air behind her like echo after rifle fire, the metallic burst ringing in her ears. Her name. Her old name, a nickname to replace the first, but Batch had been called Batch so long she’d forgotten to be bothered by it.

  She washed her face and hands in the bowl on her dresser, and patted her face dry without letting her gaze catch in the dresser mirror. She was a blur, sundarkened face and brown hair twisted back and off her neck. Her shirt was the color of sand and her pants and vest o
nly a little darker. She tied Tinney’s scarf around her neck to see something bright, and only then looked up, just for a moment. Her cheekbones were prominent, making her feel as rawboned as ever. Her mouth was wide and her brows serious. But her eyes were clear.

  She blew out a breath, then bent down to ensure her gun stayed strapped to her thigh.

  Showy, having a pistol handy like that, as if she were a gunslinger from a dime novel. But it helped to have it out and noticeable, made people less inclined to challenge her. Carillo wore one in his belt, and sometimes kept a small pistol in his coat pocket, but he was more the kind to carry a heavy stick and speak in a voice that carried.

  Foolish people had tried to cross him anyway. Frequently, when this town hadn’t been more than a place for the stage drivers to get water and food and pick up mail, but most famously about six months ago. Which was why Batch had clear eyes and a shooter on her thigh. She fancied Carillo might end up a legend for that whole affair, or if not that, then for the fact that he had the same name as one of the wealthiest families around, but if he was asked about it, wouldn’t say a word.

  He was the legendary kind, despite his broken nose, and being half a head shorter than Batch, who wasn’t overly tall, and how he always wore the same black shirt day in and day out.

  Batch was more than a little surprised her nose had never been broken, although she’d had a tooth knocked out on one side of her mouth and had scars along her knuckles. She glanced at herself in the mirror one last time to make sure that if Tinney asked her if she was all right, she would look all right when she answered, then she turned the lamp down and off and left the room.

  She didn’t have oils or perfumes to put in her hair, but she bathed twice a week now that she had some coin in her pocket. It was about the only thing she’d ever dreamed of after a roof over her head, and she had nothing to save the money for anyway. Her landlady washed and ironed her clothes for her, and used lavender in her laundry soap. The fancy touch was a waste for someone like Batch, who was probably going to wind up walking another drunk down to the jail to sleep it off and smell like their whiskey and sick by morning.

  Batch didn’t ask her landlady to stop, though.

  There was no sign of the old widow out in front of the boarding house when Batch came down the stairs and then around to the front of the building. Batch’s room was in the back, overlooking a tiny yard between the house and what had briefly been the office of a dentist, with a shared outhouse.

  Batch walked on, glancing first up to the sky, which would cover over in clouds through the night, which would then disappear by noon tomorrow. Satisfied it wasn’t set to rain, she continued on, looking idly and then not idly around the street.

  Things seemed busier than usual, a touch more crowded around the cantina at her end of town and also farther up the main street, by the hotel. Visitors in town, probably on a stage or a private carriage or two heading up to the geysers or beyond.

  Batch slowed to barely more than a stroll while she considered grabbing a bite at the stand outside the cantina where they sold food for anyone not willing or not allowed to go inside to gamble or drink. She wasn’t due to work tonight, although with people in town, Carillo might want the help. He might actually rest at a decent hour, and the girl, who was not a girl despite what Carillo called her, would thank Batch for that, which was good but another thing that made Batch want to turn around.

  But it would be warm inside the hotel, and maybe there’d be some interesting news, so with a sigh, Batch stuck to her path and didn’t do more than nod to anyone who called out a greeting. Most of the stage drivers knew her enough to know to leave her alone. The visitors—the well-dressed ones—didn’t know her and might stare a bit or turn up their noses. It shouldn’t make her stomach tight.

  It did, all the same. There was no booze to dull it anymore, although the thought sounded sweet.

  Batch paused outside the hotel in the light that spilled out from the open doors, then squared her jaw and pushed herself up the wooden steps and into the noise and heat from the crowd. She’d go in. She’d eat. She’d leave.

  And look for Carillo.

  It didn’t take much to find him. He was half-perched on a stool by the bar, eyes on the room, on the strangers and the servers at the tables and, often, on the woman in the dark dress who sat at one of the tables, the one closest to the far window, and played cards whenever strangers were in town, as though ladies did that.

  That lady did, anyway, and didn’t seem to care about the other ladies, the ones passing through, who sneered or looked reproachful or took their meals in their rooms so as not to encounter women who gambled or liked a good time or were paid to like a good time. Ruby de la Tour, which was the name the girl gave and the name everyone used, sat at her table and dealt hands, and won or lost, and charmed just about everyone she talked to, including Carillo, who wasn’t charmed by anybody.

  Ruby was for her reddish hair, maybe; Batch had never dared ask. Ruby’s dresses were not as costly as those others, but neither were they glittering and beribboned as the good-time girls’ things. Ruby dressed nearly like a schoolteacher, but in softer fabrics with more color, and with jewelry that, made of paste or not, sparkled.

  Carillo looked at her often, crinkles forming at the corners of his dark eyes, as if he wanted to smile but wasn’t going to, not in front of others. For the first few weeks Ruby had been in the area, he had simply called her, “the girl.” Tinney had cackled each time he heard it. Batch, half-drowned in whiskey and listening from the corner of the hotel or outside the doors, hadn’t understood.

  Batch turned away from Carillo toward the bar, then turned away from that too, although there were no empty seats at any tables. Eulalia, the owner’s wife, would feed Batch in the kitchen if Batch was having a bad night, but with this many people in the hotel, Batch would likely get in the cook’s way. So she sighed and sidled up to the bar, near to Carillo without impeding his view, and asked Bill behind the bar for something to eat.

  Then, while she was waiting, she twisted to look over the crowd, and count heads, and try to spot anyone who might be trouble. She wasn’t as good at it as Carillo, but then, she’d only been doing it for a few months. Anything before then, before Batch had been Blue, had been more unofficial help than anything. A silly girl following around a man who was more or less good, and often kind, and—a word Batch didn’t use but Tinney did—noble.

  She’d helped then, sure, and hurt things as well, with her fists and her mouth and her drinking. But thinking it over now, she supposed that she must’ve helped Carillo more than she’d fucked up, otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered with her when she was at her worst.

  But he had. He had faith and it made Batch’s palms sweat with the thought that she might let him down again.

  Brawls on rowdy nights, the occasional accusation of cheating or stealing, that was all the town had to deal with these days. The wrangle and fuss with Brannan seemed to have ended all the scheming and land-grabbing attempts from newcomers to the valley—or at least, ended all the rougher attempts. Tinney muttered darkly about lawyers and senators and money and respectability. But Brannan had been the biggest bully around, and all his hired muscle and gunpower hadn’t done him much good in the end, so the rest had quieted down too. The valley belonged to the farmers now, more than likely. White farmers, anyway. Most of the old Californios had ended up like Tinney.

  “Didn’t I just send you home?” Carillo asked without taking his eyes from the room.

  “Have to eat.” Batch focused on the plate Bill set before her, digging in without any fanfare to chicken and carrots and two thick slices of buttered bread. Bill also put a cup of coffee down in front of her, with no cream or sugar, and winked when Batch nodded her thanks.

  Carillo paid Batch no mind while she ate, or at least, seemed to, but when Batch was down to sopping up gravy with her bread, he tipped his head her way. “You aren’t any use to anyone tired.”

  Batch
stiffened, more for the words than his tone, which was light. A long time ago, she would have thrown a punch at him for that. And been sorry for it the next day, because he never would fight her back. She knew what he meant now, anyway. He was worried.

  Ruby frowned when they talked like this, but she didn’t understand yet how Batch was.

  Even now, Batch looked up at Carillo just to scowl. “When I can’t take it, I’ll let you know,” and shoved the last of her bread in her mouth.

  Carillo had that almost-smiling look about him again, which made Batch return to her plate and her coffee while her cheeks went hot.

  “Well, I don’t need you here.” Carillo reached back for the glass he’d left on the bar and had a sip from it. Batch swallowed, then downed what was left of her coffee in one painful gulp.

  “I don’t need to go home.” Batch started up from her seat, one hand clenched reflexively, then caught sight of Ruby watching them both, mouth puckered in concern.

  “Didn’t say you did,” Carillo replied, easy except for how now Batch had most of his attention and he wasn’t trying to hide it. “You do a lot, Batch, and I’m grateful,” he added, sending Batch’s heart to racing and making her shoot a panicky look to Ruby, who must have told him to do this. “But someone your age should be enjoying the night off.” Carillo rubbed his nose, visibly uncomfortable for a moment. “Bill is a good ‘un, or so says Tin.”

  Carillo was about ten to fifteen years older than Batch, but hardly an old man like Tinney. Batch didn’t say a word about her age or his age, however, too busy glancing wildly from Carillo, to Ruby, to the bar, where Bill was busy uncorking a bottle down at the other end. Bill was average height, with hazel green eyes and a decent mustache. He was also pale, with smooth hands, and would likely be disgusted by the mud and the filth of the loggers up around Stumptown. The mud got on everything in the rainy season. That was no place for fuss, or clean, soft hands.