Chapter 19 #2
“Seems like it,” Neal said, smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
I tried not to bristle at his dark amusement.
I was terrified. Both by the fact that if Ansel ended up in prison we’d be left navigating the entire journey to New York on our own before we could access Outer Court resources for support, and by the idea that the man we’d entrusted with our lives had somehow managed to land himself in jail the moment we left him unattended.
I pulled my dress over my head and let Neal fasten up the back, then hastily pinned my braids up into a knot.
“Okay,” I said, smoothing my skirts over my belly. “I’m decent.”
Neal opened the door, and I stared down the sheriff and his companions, projecting pure, entirely unwarranted, regal competence.
“Ansel O’Faelan wants you to come pay his bail,” the sheriff repeated.
“And I’m so sorry, but involvement with a crime does mean you’ll have to vacate the room,” the innkeeper said, a small man in spectacles, barely peeking out over the sheriff’s shoulder.
“What did he do?” I asked, voice still clear and composed even though I could feel myself starting to shake from heat, frustration, worry.
“H-h-he,” the sheriff stammered. I raised an eyebrow, didn’t break eye contact. “He insulted my sister, miss.”
“Ma’am,” I corrected him sharply.
“What did he say?” Neal asked.
“I’m sure he’ll inform you when you pick him up,” the sheriff replied.
Ansel—not unexpectedly—was completely nonplussed by the entire situation. He sat on a bench in the jail cell, composed and tidy as ever, chatting with the guard.
“Ah,” he said as Neal and I walked in. “Good timing. I’ve got the most splendid news.”
“You have splendid news?” I deadpanned. “Ansel, do I have to remind you that we are currently bailing you out of jail?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute.” Ansel waved me off. “I got us passage to New Orleans. First class. Thirty percent discount. All thanks to my new friend Alfred here!”
He gestured at the guard.
“My pop works for the steamer line,” Alfred said sheepishly, “and your friend was real well behaved.”
“What did you do?” Neal asked as we left the sheriff’s office.
“Oh I called his sister a conceited old cow,” Ansel said casually. Neal and I stopped dead.
“Why?” I asked—morbid curiosity.
“Because she was,” Ansel replied simply. “Now let’s get back to that absolutely spectacular hotel I selected.”
“About that,” Neal said.
“What happened?” Ansel asked.
“You got arrested,” I muttered, curling into Neal’s side.
“Any involvement of the police and they ask you to leave.” Neal shrugged. “So we need to find another place to sleep tonight.”
“I will handle it,” Ansel said, all composure and competent diplomacy again.
“Forgive me if I don’t entirely believe you,” I snapped.
Milkweed, retrieved from his flowerbox before we left the hotel, popped his little head out from my apron pocket and repeated, “Don’t entirely believe you.”
Houston was worse at night, if anything. Still loud, still reeking from the docks, still grimy, and barely any cooler even with the sun down.
“We are not sleeping here,” I said immediately when I realized what Ansel was trying to do. The saloon was nearly falling over, all peeling paint and rusty nails and warped siding. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes rolled off the building in waves.
“I think she’s right, Ansel,” Neal agreed. “We can always camp another night.”
“We’d have to get out of the city to do that,” Ansel insisted. “And she’s gonna fall asleep on her feet if we try. Plus mules and supplies are on the opposite end of town. It’d be dawn by the time we made camp.”
“I’m sure there’s a church or a mission where we could sleep,” I suggested.
“Too many questions we don’t have answers to,” Ansel replied, opening the saloon’s door. “I’m not happy about this either. But it’s our best shot at getting you two a few hours’ rest before we leave in the morning.”
Inside was worse, if anything. The barkeep, a painfully thin man with a pockmarked face, showed us to a grimy, first-floor room at the back of the building. While it was awful and disgusting, I was at least relieved to get away from the leering gazes of the saloon patrons.
“This is a place people go missing,” Neal muttered, trying the lock on the door and finding it broken.
The shutters on the window didn’t properly latch either.
There was a rickety wooden chair in one corner, so at least Ansel wouldn’t have to sit on the ground while he kept watch overnight.
The floor itself was clean. Oddly clean.
Scrubbed. Like something terrible had spilled and the proprietor had spared no effort in cleaning it up.
I suppressed a shudder.
The mattress, on the other hand, was filthy. Stained a myriad of colors, leaking moldy straw, inevitably harboring pests. So the bed was clearly not an option.
“We’re not sleeping on that.” Neal nodded at the mattress like he was reading my thoughts. He sat down with his back to the door.
“So we’re leaving?” I asked, almost hopeful.
Neal shook his head and opened his arms.
“Come here,” he said.
At first I didn’t reply, instead going to our bags and searching around until I found Milkweed. I held the tiny jackalope against my chest, then went and sat next to Neal on the floor, tucking myself into his arms. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than the dirt. Maybe.
“I’ll keep an eye on the window,” Ansel said bluntly, resting his massive, lever-action pistol across his knees. “You two rest.”