Chapter 36: Fires, Isolation, and Freedom
Early December 1870
Maria lay still on her lumpy hay mattress. After a few years of thinking, she felt no remorse for what she had done. Images of what little innocence she had left being stolen from her flashed through her head often, making her more bitter with every passing second.
She was in her own solitary cell now. It took months of planning, but she had killed all four guards that had entered her cell that night.
She was not allowed to leave, there were no windows, and time seemed to drag. She was rapidly losing her mind. Meals, the only thing that even provided some sort of measurement of time, were scarce and, though she could not be certain of it, given at random. The only thing she knew was that it was one meal a day for her. It was as if they were purposefully attempting to push her to the brink. As if they wanted her to go insane.
“What sick game are they playing?” she often said.
But she had a plan. They never checked on her. That would mean breaking the illusion. Using her long, yellowed nails, she had scratched a detailed plan into the walls and floor. Planning was the only thing that kept what little sanity she had left intact. She would escape. She did not know when, but she knew it would be soon.
As she began to review her plans, she heard keys jangling outside of her cell door. A twisted smile grew across her face as she heard the platter of food drop to the ground just outside of her cell.
Late February 1871
“Colorado sounds like a beautiful place, Oliver,” Flower said, setting down the excerpt from his most recent project. “Your descriptions are breathtaking. One day, before I die, I would like to visit. To experience the Colorado Rocky Mountain high that you have written about.”
“Thank you, Aunt Flower,” Oliver said. “I am touring the country once more; that is why I am here. I am looking forward to heading to Chicago! I’ll be traveling there twice, in July and October.”
Samuel walked onto the porch and smiled at his grandmother. He set down the large bag that was in his hands and said, “Well, this is it. This is my last bag, and then I’m off to Wyoming.”
Flower wiped tears from her eyes. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning. Ma wanted to see me off. James will be meeting me at some point along the trail. He wants to make sure I make it there safely,” he replied.
Flower’s eyes lit up at the mention of James. “Is there enough room for me to pack a few things and tag along? I wish to go to Colorado before my death.”
“Oh, yes! And it will be nice to have some company on the first half of the journey,” he answered enthusiastically.
Later that evening, with the sky a deep pink and the grass swaying in the cool breeze, Hope walked up to Samuel, who was looking at the horizon with a gleam in his eye. “Is something bothering you?” she asked.
“Yes, many things, actually. I would like to apologize for the things I did in the past. It—I was wrong. I don’t want to leave this,” he said, motioning to the house, “behind without mending things. I don’t say this enough; I don’t recall ever saying it, actually—but I love you, Ma. After all you have gone through, after all that I have said to you…you still love me. And you seem to have forgiven me. And—and” tears began to stream down his face, “…to thank you, I’m leaving. I—I’m sorry.”
Hope, now crying as well, embraced her only remaining child. “You don’t have to be sorry, Samuel. Follow your heart. This is all I have ever wanted. I love you. Don’t leave here thinking that I don’t. Don’t leave here thinking that I haven’t forgiven you.”
Hugging and crying into each other’s shoulders, they stood there until the sun sank below the horizon.
March 10, 1871
Etta sat on the couch relaxing and reading a book that she had purchased not long ago. Chadlynn was in her room, sleeping peacefully.
It had been a long time since she had been alone. She could not decide if she liked it or not. The silence felt eerie. She could hear every creak that the house made, and the clacking of… What is that? she thought to herself. The hooves grew closer.
There was no way that this was James unless something terrible had happened. Etta stood up and retrieved the dual-barreled shotgun from above the fireplace. She heard the horse slow to a canter, then its snorting and shaking its head as it was brought to a stop.
As rapidly as she could, she loaded her weapon and slowly approached the door.
Peeking out of her window, she noticed a man slowly, cautiously, approaching the door. He had a revolver in his hands, a bandana over his face, and a hat tipped low over his eyes.
“I suggest you go back from where you came,” Etta called out.
“You ’spect me to listen to a woman?” he replied.
“Maybe a woman with a shotgun aimed at your chest,” she responded, crouching to the ground, and pointing the weapon at the door.
A bang erupted from outside, and a bullet shot through the door and hit the ground next to Etta’s feet. Her stomach dropped. Reminding herself to be calm, she put her finger on the trigger.
“Mama? What’s going on?” Chadlynn asked with a tremble of fear in her voice.
“Nothing, hon’,” she called back. “You go back to bed, you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The door began to open. Etta shot twice, first at the door and then to the right of it to make sure that he was not opening it from the side.
She heard a groan and the horse taking off.
Reloading as fast as lightning, she stood up and approached the door. She cautiously stepped outside, looking to her right, then at the ground in front of her.
A hat sat neatly on the doorstep with several small holes in it from where her bullets had managed to hit its mark. Just then, the door slammed shut and she was punched in the jaw. Her shotgun fell to the ground, causing it to fire, and Etta stumbled backward. When she finally regained her balance, she looked into the eyes of a redheaded man with crooked teeth.
With his revolver pointed at her head, he grinned.
It was mid-April when James and Flower finally neared the Rockies. Though he longed for home, he wanted Flower to see the mountains more than anything. He had met with Samuel and, together, they travelled by train and horse to Wyoming. In Wyoming, Samuel and James split apart and James began to return home with Flower. Though it was faster to keep away from the mountains, he traveled through them with Flower. James never saw her happier.
They sat one evening on a blanket, eating what little food they had left, and watching the sun sink behind the mountains. Flower was resting against a tree staring west with tears and a gleam in her eyes.
“It’s even more beautiful than I would have ever imagined,” she gasped.
There they sat together, admiring the mountains, until Flower nodded off into a deep, peaceful sleep from which she never awoke.
She was buried under that tree with a flower carefully planted above her. James doubted it would live long with it being directly under a tree, but he smiled at the thought of a pasture of flowers spreading all around the tree within a few years.
Having paid his dues, he set off toward home. In memory of Flower, he continued to travel through the mountains.
Late April 1871
Dear Anna,
It was awful. Terrible. Not sure what I am going to tell James when he returns. I am no longer home. After the incident which I don’t wish to share too many details about occurred, an Indian man came to see if I was safe. Apparently James had requested them to keep watch, though they were not present when I needed them.
When they arrived, I was on the floor, shaking. The man had just left and Chadlynn was by my side, trying to make sure I was okay. They picked me up off of the floor and clothed me. They sent men to find who had done this to me, then they took me to their colony that isn’t far from where we live.
I feel so…violated! So ashamed. So embarrassing. No one deserves something like this to happen to them. No matter the crime, no matter how evil they are, no one is deserving of the humiliation that follows.
I fear I may be pregnant with that evil man’s child; I know it. I feel it. I wish I could say it was James’s but saying that would be lying. I don’t know what to do, Anna.
Etta
Early May – Navajo Village
James watched without saying a word as his Indian brothers separated flesh from bone and the redheaded man screamed obscenities.
He would never let her know how Jeb Andrews died, only that he was dead, and she would never have to worry about him ever again. Lord knew she had already gone through so much as it was. Last thing she needed was a reminder.
But watching him die slowly gave him great piece of mind and for the first time in years he was glad to watch someone suffer as much as did Etta.
The Memoirs of Oliver Kincade
July 15th, 1871
I was touring for my book in Chicago, finally happy to have it finished and published, when I returned to my hotel. The Clifton House, where I was staying, is quite nice. I had the pleasure of meeting the son of our 16th President: Tad Lincoln. It is this meeting that I am writing this entry in my memoirs for, as I am not supposed to tell a soul about what I saw that day.
My day had been incredible. I sold more books than I sold at any of my previous presentations, and I visited with an old friend of Owen’s.
Upon returning to the hotel, after an exhausting day, I—quite literally—bumped into Tad. My papers spilled all over the floor, and he helped me pick them up.
“Thank you,” I said.
“It is my pleasure. I read your book and attended the presentation this morning. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you working on anything else?”
I told him of my expedition to Colorado and how it inspired me to write [note to self: insert title here next year when you have it finished]. I told him enough of the plot to whet his appetite, but not enough for someone who was eavesdropping to steal my idea before I have the opportunity to finish it. I asked him about his father, his mother, and his siblings, among other things.
After a long talk, we parted ways. I noticed something lying on the ground. As I bent down to pick it up, several men walked past me.
It was a pen. It wasn’t there before I met up with Tad, so I figured that I would return it to him. I figured another conversation wouldn’t hurt. I turned around and saw one of the men who passed me choking Tad, while another was making sure he didn’t escape. There was also a constable and three doctors watching it happen. The constable noticed that I had seen what was happening, and he approached me. Scared, I avoided eye contact and ran to my room.
Locking the door behind me, I sank to the floor, breathing heavily. After a few minutes, I heard a knock on the door. After knocking three times without an answer, he called, “Kincade, I know you are in there. Please open your door and let me in. We need to talk, and I assure you that you won’t be harmed.”
Reluctantly, I let the man in.
“Sir,” he said, “I need you to keep what you just saw today secret. If anyone asks, he died from tuberculosis. If you mention anything, you will be killed. Someone famous like yourself isn’t that hard to track.”
He left me to sit in my room and think. Though no one will know what I witnessed today by hearing it from me, upon my death, my memoir will be published. It is then that the truth about the death of Tad Lincoln will be revealed.
I know that I was told I would be safe unless I spoke up, but I cannot help but feel as if I am being watched as I ride on this train to my next touring location. Not to mention the fact that the man in the fedora across from me is definitely not reading the newspaper he is holding.
August 1871
Samuel sat on his property, happy with how far his homestead had been developed. He was all alone, and isolation was something he enjoyed. He had a moderately sized farm with a small barn. On top of his farm work, he hunted frequently. In fact, which was what he spent the majority of his time doing: hunting and tending his farm. Due to this, he rarely needed to go into town.
Though the beliefs and works were a few decades old, Samuel had discovered transcendentalism. He did not believe in it, though he did think that something good could come from isolating himself. He wanted to find himself. He often wrote about his day before going to bed, a habit he tried to form but could never fully commit to for one reason or another.
He wrote to his mother often, happy that the relationship between them was being mended after all of these years. She longed to see him, and though he wanted to see her as well, he told her frequently that he could not yet visit. Not until he had found his purpose. Not until he had forgiven himself.
He was always thinking. His thoughts seemed to race a million miles a minute, sometimes leaving him behind. One day he would find himself.
One day…
October 8th, 1871 – Chicago, Illinois
Oliver ran into the burning building as the cries grew louder. He heard someone scream, then the smack of someone jumping out of one of the upper story windows and falling to the ground below. He had to find the child that had run in after his mother.
“She’s stuck!” he had said, running back inside.
“Please don’t let that have been his mother,” Oliver said, remembering the scream of the woman who had committed suicide only seconds ago.
Who could blame her, though? Her choices were burn or jump.
Oliver coughed. He was inhaling more smoke than he would have liked. He heard sobbing and whispering up ahead of him. He turned down the hall and saw a sad sight. The boy was kneeling next to his mother who had been pinned beneath a fallen rafter. Her body rapidly melted away, leaving a black, barely human-shaped lump underneath. Oliver wrapped his arms around the boy’s waist, picked him up, and began to run his way back to the exit.
“MOMMY!” the boy screamed as the ceiling behind them collapsed.
An explosion sent the two flying through the wall to the right. Fire surrounded Oliver; the boy was pulling himself off of the ground.
The boy began calling out to Oliver, but he could not hear him over the ringing in his ears. His mouth tasted like copper. Blood dripped from a gash in his forehead. The boy continued to shake and call for Oliver.
When another beam fell from the ceiling the boy pulled Oliver’s arm, hoping to help him up.
Finally gathering his senses, Oliver stood up and began to limp toward the exit. All he could think about was Azalea.
December 25th, 1871
Dearest Azalea,
I am glad to hear that Oliver made it home safely! You will have to tell me more about Jeremy when you have the chance. It is horrible that his mother died in the fire.
Was there a father? Regardless, it is admirable of you to be taking him in with your four kids already. Tell Oliver that I agree with you: after that endeavor, he needs to stay home for a while. Not to mention, we will be coming to visit soon! However, that is not why I am writing to you on Christmas morning.
Today, he was born. I don’t know how to feel about it. He has been born, and he is adorable with his red hair…but every time I look at him, I just see the man who raped me. I look at him and see pain, so, so much pain…
I want to raise him as my own, as he is my flesh and blood, but at the same time, I don’t want to keep him at all. My emotions are confusing me. I love him and I hate him. In a month, I will be deciding whether or not I am to keep him. Hopefully by that time I will be able to sort through all of these unusual combinations of emotions and feelings.
When James came home, he was furious. All he could do was think about killing the man who had humiliated me. But, alas, he calmed down after a month and has shown nothing but love and care toward me since. He did inform me, though, that the man who did this to me is dead. James is by my bedside now, checking up on me and asking me if I’m all right. Chadlynn has no idea, and I plan to keep it that way. She knows something happened, and I’m sure she’ll put two and two together as she gets older, but at the moment she thinks that Scottie is James’ son.
Etta
The breeze felt good on her face. She had not felt it in so long, she did not care how cold it was. She licked the blood off of her lips and admired the bloody mess on her hands.
Maria had completely lost it. She knew it and did not care.
“How many guards did I kill again?” she asked no one as she began to walk forward through the snow. She stuck the gun in her pants and began counting on her fingers.
“I don’t care! I am free!” she spun around, arms spread wide, as she walked across the yard.
As she stepped through the front gate, she was greeted by a guard.
“Ma’am, I am going to have to ask you to stop right there.”
Maria smiled and batted her lashes. “Sure, sweetie.”
He grinned.
“Come a little closer,” she said with a wink and a kiss.
He lowered his weapon and walked up to her. She wrapped one arm around his neck and leaned in to kiss him. Just before their lips made contact, a shot was fired.
“Men,” Maria said, kicking his body to the side and continuing her journey.
Early March 1872
Azalea, Etta, and Anna sat at the table, sipping tea, and talking. They were happy to finally be able to meet again, after so long. Oliver was still home and did not plan to leave any time soon, though he was hard at work in his office, writing. Lately, Azalea said, he seemed to have hundreds of projects that he was working on simultaneously.
“Once,” Azalea continued, “he came into the living room nearly in tears. He told me that he had written something beautiful; one of the best chapters he had ever written. He flipped through the previous chapters and realized that, not only did he use the wrong names, but he had also combined all of his previous stories.”
The girls began to laugh hysterically. James and William played with the children in the front yard. Jeremy ran past the window, laughing while being chased by William.
“What’s his story, Azalea?”
“Whose?”
“Jeremy’s,” Etta said, gazing into the distance.
“Of course, his mother died in the fire, and he said his father died before he was born. He has had a hard life. It seems tragedy is waiting around each corner for him, much like the Kincade’s. His name is Jeremy Riordan. We decided that he can choose if he wants to change his name to ‘Kincade’ at some point down the road,” Azalea summed up. “What about you? What made you keep Scottie?”
Etta was slow to answer, but at length she said, “I love him more than I hate him. Though I doubt that I will ever not see him as a reminder of that awful night, I love him too much to let him go. How is William?”
June 1872
Dear Mother,
No, I have not found myself yet. I have begun to make peace finally, so there is some progress there, but I have not yet discovered who I am. I do not plan to return to civilization any time soon. I also have found that I like it here…I like being alone.
For personal reasons, I will not be leaving my land, but I am open to visitors. Tell whomever you would like; you are the only person I keep in contact with anyway.
You asked if I was looking for someone to marry, and that you were “patiently” waiting for grandchildren. There has never entered a woman into my life whom I genuinely love. Sure, I have seen pretty girls, but looks aren’t everything. I have given up on love, and I don’t plan to marry. I am sorry if that disappoints you; I just do not feel the need to marry in this life.
I have made progress. I know that I have been gone for nigh two years, but progress is better than nothing. I hope to see you soon, Mother, whether it is because I have recovered or because you have come to visit.
Your loving son,
Samuel Kincade
Written By: CalebPinnow