Chapter Text
Shiny medals for this fic! Silver medal for 50k+ words and Personal Best medal for my longest Winterhawk fic!
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
May 1869
Clint ducks into the alley, the sharp edge of the brick snagging the fabric of his shirt as he turns the tight corner. There’s a narrow doorway and he wedges himself into it, his heart thundering, his breath rasping in his throat.
He had hoped against hope that the circus had moved on, but he’d barely been out of the lodging house for a few minutes before he saw Frank standing on a street corner, a wad of handbills in his meaty fist, his sharp eyes raking the street. It would be sheer luck if he hasn’t spotted Clint, and luck is something that hasn’t been on Clint’s side, not for years.
Clint stays squeezed into the doorway, muscles tense and side aching, for long minutes. A strong breeze whips through, sending some paper skittering down the alley.
Clint takes the risk, reaching his hand out, side screaming at him at the stretch, and plucks the handbill out of the air as it flutters by.
CARSON’S CARNIVAL OF TRAVELING WONDERS: EXTENDED FOUR MORE WEEKS!
Clint squeezes his eyes shut, his stomach turning over. Fuck.
He stays in the alley for hours, until the gnawing hunger in his stomach grows intolerable, his limbs shaking. He pulls the coins from his pocket, counting them carefully. If he keeps eating light it might last him another week, maybe two at the most. He’s got to find work before then, but the circus folk are everywhere he goes.
He had hoped to find work at the docks once the circus left — he’s strong, and used to hard labor.
He could try to find a ship that would take him on, or stow away, but …
He touches his scarred ears. The seasickness affected him much worse on the passage over from Europe than any of the other circus folk. Clint had retched and retched until he thought he was near to dying. A return to sea would likely kill him as surely as Trick would; the ship’s captain as likely to pitch him overboard for being useless as Trick was likely to shoot him on sight for his betrayal.
When he can’t stand it any longer he tentatively makes his way to the mouth of the alley and peers around the corner. Frank is gone, the street bustling with strangers. Clint stops at the first windowfront, back to the street, taking a closer look in the window’s reflection. No one he recognizes.
He’s about to move on when his eyes drift up to the lettering at the top of the window.
FREE PASSAGE TO THE WEST!
Clint knows that the circus folk mock him — call him too trusting, too soft-hearted — but even he knows nothing in this life comes free. The words puzzle him, and he reads them again carefully to make sure he hasn’t made a mistake.
There’s a series of notices posted underneath them, all starting with the same words. “Western Man Seeking a Wife —”
Oh. Clint has heard something about this, this idea of correspondence brides. Life in the circus has left Clint with a varied and colorful vocabulary, especially when it comes to curse words, but he never got much schooling. Still, he’s curious enough to skim the postings, eyes catching on words here and there that he recognizes, laboriously sounding out a few others.
… good cook …
… keep house …
… child-bearing …
… God-fearing …
Clint has the passing thought that even if he were female, he still wouldn’t meet the standards of even the most desperate Western man.
A tap on the glass sets Clint’s heart thumping again. There’s a woman on the other side of the window with bright eyes and brown hair in an elaborate braided updo topped with a giant bow. She gives him a cheerful wave and then taps the glass again, directing his attention to the lower right side of the window. There is a smaller section of postings there.
Clint tilts his head in confusion, but when she taps the glass again he ducks down to read one of those postings, and — oh.
“Western Man Seeking a Husband —”
This section is smaller, but seems to be just as exacting as the one above.
… good moral character …
… well-learned …
… skilled at farming ...
Shit. Poor hearing aside, it doesn’t sound like any of his circus skills have value out West either.
His eyes are drawn to one posting at the very bottom corner, different from the others. This one is sun-faded and starting to yellow, curling up at the corners.
Clint crouches down, brow furrowing and lips moving as he sounds out some of the unfamiliar words.
Western Man Seeking a Husband — I am a kind and unassuming man of good financial means seeking a helpmate and companion. I have lost my arm in the service of our Union, but am otherwise free from disease. I am not particular as to looks, but am seeking an individual of equal youth and vivacity with whom I can share my affection and devotion. I am a man of quiet habits, moderate temperament, and kind disposition and would seek the same in my husband. I am not overly fond of society and prefer to be at home, but I will make an effort to provide my husband with social engagements befitting his interest in such activities.
Clint reads the posting through once, and then again, his eyes dragged back to the words “I have lost my arm …” He runs his fingers over his scarred ears. Surely someone like that would be a little more forgiving, a little more understanding of his disability?
He straightens up, looking through the glass again. The woman is behind a long wooden counter now but immediately meets his gaze with an encouraging smile.
He hesitates. He’s lingered here too long. He needs to find food and then hide himself again. Every moment he spends out in the open is another moment that Trick, Barney, or any of the circus gang could find him. And yet —
… Seeking a helpmate and companion …
… Share my affection and devotion ...
… Quiet habits, moderate temperament, and kind disposition …
That man — the injured soldier — he hadn’t said anything about wanting someone to cook, or clean for him. He hadn’t asked for someone with schooling, or experience farming, or any of the other things that Clint lacks.
And Clint is young, and healthy. He’s a hard worker. It must be difficult, having only one arm. Maybe the man just wants someone to do for him, help out with simple things he can no longer do on his own. And Clint has never thought about being someone’s husband, but …
He’s always had a soft heart. He’s spent his whole life loving people who don’t give a tinker’s damn about him. What would it be like to have someone to love who might actually love him back?
Clint pushes through the door before he can think about it any more, a jingling bell announcing his arrival.
“Thank goodness you came in!” the young woman exclaims. “It’s been dull as dishwater in here today. And I’m just sure you’ll make a lovely husband for one of our clients. As soon as I saw you I knew you were perfect matrimonial material. Why, I said to myself, ‘Darcy Lewis, that man is going to be one of our lucky husbands before the day is out.’”
Clint balks a little at the flood of rapid-fire speech, lingering in the doorway, but the woman advances at a fast clip, holding her hand out for a handshake.
“Darcy Lewis,” she says, shaking his hand firmly. “And you are?”
“Clint Barton,” Clint says automatically, and then flinches. Shit, he should have used a false name, probably.
“Mr. Barton!” She uses her clasp on Clint’s hand to pull him the final stumbling step into the shop. She holds surprising strength in her slight frame. “Now, which of our distinguished bachelors were you interested in contacting?”
She bustles back behind the counter again with a twitch of her skirt, pulling a wooden box from underneath and resting it on the countertop before looking at him expectantly.
“Um. Well.” Clint belatedly snatches his cap from his head, and clutches it protectively in front of him. “Is … is the passage to the West really free?”
“Yessir,” Miss Lewis says brightly. “We are the most reliable and reputable marriage bureau in the city of Philadelphia! All of our clients pay a substantial deposit to cover postage on letters between themselves and their betrothed, telegrams to coordinate arrival, and first-class passage to their destination by rail, steamer, or stagecoach!”
“Huh.” Clint draws closer, intrigued. “So how does it work?”
“Well, we supply you with pen and stationary right here,” Miss Lewis says, whipping them out from below the counter. “You write to whatever bachelor caught your eye, and we send out the correspondence.”
“Oh.” Clint is tempted to turn around and run at the thought of writing a whole letter, but Miss Lewis shoves the stack of paper a little closer to him, her eyes so bright and eager that Clint can’t help but take a sheet.
“I’ll leave you to it!” she chirps, shoving the pen towards him.
“Wait — where’s the ink?” Clint asks as Miss Lewis starts to turn away.
“It’s a fountain pen!” she explains, as she draws the pen across the paper in a loose scribble, completely ruining the sheet. It’s so wasteful it makes Clint cringe. She crumples up the paper and casts it aside, before pushing a new sheet in front of Clint and handing him the pen. “It’s the latest thing. The ink is already inside. You don’t have to dip it in an inkwell at all.”
“Gosh,” Clint says, turning the pen around in his fingers. His hand, so deft at plucking a bowstring, feels huge and awkward around the delicate pen. He sets the nib to the paper and it immediately makes a blotch.
Miss Lewis busies herself at the other end of the counter, but Clint can feel by the way the hair on his neck prickles that she is still casting sidelong glances his way as he sweats, stumbles, and scratches his way through writing a few lines.
[My name is Clinton Barton and I was struck by your wish for a helpmate and companyun. I do not read and rite so good as you can probabully tell but I am accusto accostu used to hard work and I learn quick. I am young and strong and I wuld try my best to be a good husband if you want me to come to you.]
In the end the paper is damp in spots from the way his palm is sweating, and the writing looks like chicken-scratchings, the letters all uneven and smudged in places, but it’s the best Clint can do.
He hands the results of his labor to Miss Lewis, feeling his cheeks flush hot as she looks it over, but she blots it, blows on it, and seals it into an envelope without comment.
She flips the envelope over. “Which matrimonial advertisement is this going to?” she asks, opening the wooden box and leafing through a series of cards.
“Oh.” There had only been one posting in Clint’s mind; he had forgotten the others even existed. “The one at the bottom. About — he said ‘helpmate and companion’. And he didn’t say he needed anyone who knows how to cook, or clean, or any of that fancy stuff like the other ones did. And he —” Clint hesitates, and then takes the plunge. “He said he only has one arm, and I figured maybe that would be kinda nice, because I don’t hear so good sometimes and sometimes that makes people really mad at me, or they think I’m not smart. But he might understand a little what that’s like, I think.”
“Aw, honey,” Miss Lewis says, her eyes wide. “That’s — that’s a really good idea, I think. And that one — no one’s ever written to him before. He’s our longest-standing unmatched bachelor, and you picked him first. That’s got to mean something, right?”
“Yeah.” Clint can’t help but feel hope kindle in his chest a little at Miss Lewis’ enthusiasm. “Maybe it does.” Something occurs to him. “I forgot to say it in the letter, about my ears. Do you think that’s a problem?”
They both look down at the letter, already sealed in its envelope.
“I don’t think so,” Miss Lewis says, but her voice sounds a little uncertain. She brightens again. “But, you can come back and write more any time you want. And —” She hesitates, and then lifts her chin. “If it’s slow like this, if you tell me what you want to say, I can write it for you if you like. Just in case you want to write a little more, tell him more about yourself. But maybe you won’t even get the chance! He might even send for you by Western Union the moment he gets this one!”
Her enthusiasm is catching, and Clint imagines it for a moment. Someone opening his letter, and smiling. Being so anxious they cannot even wait to post a reply, but spending the money to answer by telegraph instead. Someone wanting Clint, instead of treating him like a burden. Suddenly, he can’t wait.
“When will it get there?” he asks, leaning in eagerly.
Miss Lewis flips through a few more cards and then pulls one out, waving it in triumph. “Here he is! James Buchanan Barnes. And — you’re in luck! He’s not far at all — Kansas, and the rail goes all the way to Abilene these days. Shouldn’t take more than a week for him to get it.”
“A week?” Clint’s stomach drops. A week for the letter to arrive, and then how often did the man pick up his post? At best, it would take a week for the letter to arrive to him, and a week for his reply to arrive, and Clint was likely to be either dead or gone by then.
“Maybe not?” Miss Lewis’ smiling mouth has dropped into a sympathetic pout at what must be Clint’s apparent distress. “I’ll make sure it goes out today. And it might — sometimes things get there sooner. You know these new Stark engines are getting faster every day.”
Clint suddenly feels defeated. His exhaustion and hunger hit him anew as he straightens up from where he was leaning against the counter, making him stumble a little. His side has started up a gentle throbbing, as if irritated that he had forgotten about it for so long.
“Well, I better go,” he says, his voice sounding weary even to his own ears. “Thank you very much, Miss Lewis.”
“You come back any time, you hear?” Miss Lewis straightens her skirt with a twitch of her petticoats and lifts her chin in determination. “We are going to win you that man, alright?”
Clint feels a genuine smile cross his face. At the very worst, for the amount of time he still has here, he has made a friend. “Alright. Thanks again, Miss. I’ll — I’ll stop in when I can.”
Clint balances the danger of patronizing businesses near his lodgings against the danger of being out in the streets for longer. He’s paid up through the week, and if he has to cut and run he won’t likely be able to afford board anywhere else. In the end, though, he’s tired and discouraged, and just wants to hole up, so he shoves his cap down over his distinctive straw-colored hair and buys some pepper pot soup and a couple of apples from nearby street hucksters, stowing the apples in his pocket for dinner.
He is allowed one bucket of water a day at his lodgings, and he pumps it from the well outside before carrying it up the narrow winding staircase. He drinks deeply, and then pours some in the washbasin, stripping off his shirt and smallclothes. He uses his smallclothes as a rag to wash himself before letting them and his shirt soak in the basin for a few minutes, and then wrings them and hangs them to dry.
The shirt still holds the shadow of bloodstains, as well as the jagged hole where the arrow had pierced both sides. Clint will have to steal a shirt off a line or find a kit for mending soon. The dark jacket he had stolen hides most of the damage, but it will not hold up to closer scrutiny.
He unwraps the bandage around his waist, peering at the wound where the arrow had gone through his side. It seems to be healing up alright in front, but something is wrong in the back. It’s still bleeding intermittently and seeping some kind of yellowish fluid, and seems to be hurting more over time rather than less. Clint tries to crane his head, but no matter how he twists and turns he can’t get a good look at it. He will need to get his hands on a looking glass somewhere if this keeps up.
He lies down on the rickety cot, suddenly exhausted. He’s used to scraping by, but it’s always been him and Barney, scraping by together. Even before the circus, when they were kids catching and eating rats to fill their bellies, they were in it together. Clint squeezes his eyes shut but the tears are already welling up.
He’s been trying not to think about it, trying to focus on just surviving, but at times like this, when he’s too tired to keep the thoughts at bay, they overwhelm him.
“You’re always draggin’ me down,” Barney had said just before he shot him. “I can’t do it no more. Things’ll be easier with you gone.”
He hadn’t even looked angry, is the thing. Just resigned, like Clint was a sick animal and it fell to Barney to put him down.
The tiny cot almost overturns as Clint curls onto his side, hunching down over the pain of the memory.
He tries to think of something good. He made a friend today. And, maybe it’s a longshot, but he thinks about the letter, already probably on its way.
James Buchanan Barnes, Miss Lewis had said.
Clint has never really thought much about getting married. There were a few married folks in the circus, some family acts even from time to time, but not many. Not like there would be in a legitimate circus. Carson’s is basically just a front for the gang of criminals led by Trick, and decent folk didn’t stay long.
Every once in a while, a canvasman or hustler or rigger would fall for a townie, and ditch the circus in the middle of the night to get hitched and live life on the up-and-up. Everyone would speak of them with contempt, spitting tobacco and calling them rubes and suckers, but Clint had always been a little puzzled by that. Who wouldn’t choose love if they found it?
He’d made the mistake of saying that to Barney once, and it had gotten him sucker-punched in the gut for being so soft.
Clint tries to imagine what it would be like, to be married. To live in a house, and wake up next to someone every day. Someone who might smile at him, and care about how he’s doing. Someone he can care for in return.
“I am a man of quiet habits, moderate temperament, and kind disposition,” the man — James Buchanan Barnes — had said in his advertisement. If there were men like that Clint didn’t know any, but he’d like to think that maybe they existed, in softer worlds than Clint has traveled.
James hadn’t said anything about the way he looked, except the implication that he was young. And he had said he was not particular as to looks, which probably means that he’s ugly. Clint thinks that’s alright. In his experience there’s a little bit of beauty in everyone, so long as they have kindness to go with it — even if it’s just the glow of a warm pair of eyes, or the curve of a plump thigh, or the allure of a crooked smile.
Clint feels a little better just thinking about it, some of the sick roil in his belly easing. He stretches out on his back again, letting his thoughts drift.
He imagines waking up next to someone. Maybe he’s stout, or balding, or has a goiter. No, he said he was free of disease, so no goiter at least. Possibly he has a weak chin. He must at least be homely, to have had to send for a husband by mail, and to have not said anything about his own appearance. Surely if he were handsome he would have mentioned it. But Clint wouldn’t mind.
He imagines this homely, stout, balding man smiling at him in the morning. Clint would help him dress — that must be difficult with one arm. They would eat their meals together, and then share the chores. The man must have a home, to send away for a spouse. Clint doesn’t know what ‘good financial means’ signifies exactly, but he’s probably not a transient cowpoke or lodger if he spent all that money on a deposit at the marriage bureau, just laying fallow there all these months waiting for someone to be interested in his advertisement.
Clint never really had a home to call his own. Even when he was young, when his parents were still alive, his father’s vile temper and bad habits often forced them from place to place, from sharecropper’s farms to lodging houses to tenements.
Through long habit, Clint forcefully wrenches his thoughts away from that time in his life. He focuses instead on the imaginary place that he would be going to — the place where he and James would live. Maybe it’s just a one-room cabin in the woods, or a small shack in the middle of a prairie. Clint has plenty of experience with carpentry with the circus, though, so even if it’s no more than a lean-to Clint could help build it up. He would do his best to make it a home.
What kind of land is Kansas? Clint doesn’t even know if it’s a territory or a state. Things have changed so much in the six years that the circus traveled exclusively in Europe, avoiding all the turmoil and scarcity that the war had wrought in the United States.
Wherever it is, Clint thinks that he could do his share. He wasn’t lying about learning quick — you had to in the circus — and he may not know anything about housekeeping but he can hunt, and fish, and do the mending, and haul stuff. He’ll find ways to make himself useful.
And he’s got a lot of love in him, he knows it.
It’s still early afternoon but he’s got nowhere to go, so he closes his eyes and lets himself dream.
“Do you want to say anything about your family?” Miss Lewis asks.
Clint has stopped by the marriage bureau almost every day, even though it’s too soon to get a response to his letter. It’s nice to see a friendly face, and Miss Lewis seems just as happy to see him.
Today they have decided to send another letter, and Clint is grateful that Miss Lewis has agreed to write it for him, because not only is she doing the writing in her graceful hand, but she is also helping him with the phrasing.
“I … I don’t really got anyone who would claim me,” Clint finally says. “It’s been just me an’ my brother since we were kids, and he —” Clint bites his lip, but Miss Lewis’ eyes are warm and understanding, and he feels as though he can confide in her. “He tried to kill me little more’n a week ago, so I ran.”
“Oh!” Miss Lewis’ eyes widen, but then she recovers, tongue pressing against her top teeth as she thinks it over. “How about this? ‘My brother and I had a falling out and therefore I am unencumbered as to familial affiliations’?”
“Gosh,” Clint says wonderingly. “That sounds fancy.” He practices saying it under his breath a time or two, so that he’ll remember it for later.
“I should probably say something about the circus, huh?”
Miss Lewis hums thoughtfully. “How about, ‘I have traveled extensively, of late with a troupe of entertainers.’?”
“That’s — you’re real good at this, Miss Lewis!”
Miss Lewis nods. “I’m going to be a novelist someday.”
Clint grins. “Well, I’ll have to practice on my reading so that I’m ready when the time comes!”
The smile fades from his face as he considers, touching his scarred ears, a habit he has developed when he’s worried that he can’t seem to stop himself from doing, no matter how hard he tries. “Do you think I should mention my poor hearing?”
Miss Lewis purses her lips, considering. “I haven’t noticed it at all!”
“Well, it’s always real quiet in here. I don’t come in if you have other customers, I just walk by and come back later. Plus, I’m pretty good at reading lips so long as I can see them.”
She taps the end of the fountain pen against her chin a few times. “Perhaps — perhaps that’s something you could save for when you meet in person. Just in case,” she finally decides.
“Oh. Yeah, of course.” Just in case it makes him not want you, is what she means, and she’s probably right.
Together they come up with enough information to fill two and a half pages, front and back. And maybe a lot of that was Clint talking about archery, but he couldn’t help himself. Clint can’t decipher the loopy, elegant handwriting, but when she hands the letter to him he takes a moment to marvel at it before handing it back.
She folds the pages and opens the envelope, and then hesitates.
“Perhaps,” she says thoughtfully. “If you don’t object, perhaps I could add a bit at the end, written from me? An outsider’s perspective?”
“Sure,” he agrees easily. He trusts her.
“‘Dear Mr. Barnes,’” she reads aloud as she writes. “‘This is Miss Lewis, an associate of the Philadelphia Correspondence Marriage Bureau, in whom Mr. Barton has entrusted the transcription of this letter. I am writing to assure you that I have met Mr. Barton on several occasions, and have discovered him to be kind, well-mannered, and amiable —”
“What’s ‘amiable’ mean?” Clint interjects.
“It means … well, kind, but a different way of saying it. Good-natured.”
“Oh.” Clint thinks of what James had said.
I am a man of quiet habits, moderate temperament, and kind disposition and would seek the same in my husband.
“A kind disposition,” Clint says, and Miss Lewis nods her vigorous agreement. “Thanks, Miss Lewis,” Clint says.
“It’s all truth, Mr. Barton,” she replies spiritedly, and Clint feels his cheeks start to grow warm. “Should I describe your appearance?” she adds.
“Not sure there’s much to say about that.” Clint figures he looks about the same as any man his age.
“Don’t be ridiculous! Let’s see now, ‘Mr. Barton is also handsome in addition to being healthy and strong, with a tall, well-formed frame and a full head of light-colored hair, as well as eyes of a beautiful clear cerulean blue.’”
“Gosh!” Clint is sure his face is red as an apple by now. “I don’t want him to be disappointed when he meets me!”
“Well … perhaps I did get a bit — poetic — but … you are too severe in your own self-opinion, Mr. Barton,” Miss Lewis finishes sternly, and Clint’s not sure if he understood all of that but he doesn’t want her to be mad at him, so he nods.
“Plus, you want him to be able to recognize you, if you two are to meet,” Miss Lewis says optimistically, and Clint can’t help but grin in return at her confidence that such an occasion will come to pass.
Miss Lewis scrawls a final sentence, rapidly, but she doesn’t read this one out loud. She’s blushing a bit, though, as she blots and blows on the ink to dry it and folds the letter up.
“Well, that’s done,” she says brightly, “and I’ll eat my hat if this letter doesn’t have him sending for you first thing.”
“You’re not wearing a hat,” Clint observes wryly, eyeing the bow on her head, which seems to be even bigger than the prior ones.
“Then I’ll eat yours.”
Clint got careless, and he got stupid.
He stayed too long in one place, getting comfortable despite his dwindling funds.
He made a friend, and was loath to leave her, and so when his week was up at the lodgings he scraped together the last of his coins and paid for another week. One place was just as risky as another, wasn’t it?
He knew better. Half of the circus’ survival depended on their ability to pull up stakes and run at a moment’s notice, staying one step ahead of the consequences of their actions. Clint had learned those lessons early and often, and yet the moment he’s on his own he goes and forgets them.
He lets his guard down so much, in fact, that it’s simple luck that saves him. He’s headed back to his lodgings, but he glances into the window of the marriage bureau, giving Miss Lewis a wave. He’s already stopped by once today and he knows he’s received no reply to his letters, but she waves back, and just before he turns he catches a glimpse in the window’s reflection, and —
He scuttles through the door of the marriage bureau, ignoring Miss Lewis’ cheerful greeting as he dives behind the counter.
“Mr. Barton! You’re not allowed back here!”
Clint squeezes himself into a ball, closing his eyes tight as if that will help keep him invisible.
“Sorry. Sorry!” he breathes. “It’s just — they’ve found me! Did they see me come in here?”
And bless Miss Lewis and her quick wits, because she straightens up immediately, leaning on the counter and looking nonchalant.
“No one’s headed this way,” she mutters. “Which one is it?”
“Big guy, dark hair, standing at the door to the boarding house. That’s Frank. They must know I’ve been staying there.”
“I see him,” Miss Lewis murmurs. “He’s not looking over here, though. He must not have seen you.”
Clint breathes out in relief, but it’s short-lived.
“There’s two more men coming out. One of them’s older — has hair that’s black and grey, and a beard. The other one’s young, a redhead.”
“Trick,” Clint confirms. “And — and Barney, my brother.”
“The other two are leaving, but Frank is staying behind,” Miss Lewis says, her voice bleak. “Clint — Mr. Barton — what are you going to do?”
“I gotta run.” Clint licks his lips, his throat gone dry. “I gotta leave today — right now. I’m sorry, Miss Lewis. I never meant to bring you into this, an’ it’s been nice having a friend. But now — now I gotta go. Before they see me.”
“But Clint — where will you go?”
Clint swallows thickly. “Anywhere else. Tell Mr. — if Mr. Barnes ever answers — if he sends for me —” He feels a pang in his chest at the thought of Mr. Barnes waiting anxiously for him to arrive, and then getting the news that he never will. “Maybe I’ll get settled somewhere,” he adds hopefully. “Maybe I’ll be able to send you a forwarding address. But if not — tell him I’m sorry. I truly meant to keep our deal.”
He can see the door that must lead to the cellar. He pushes himself up into a crouch, ready to make a break for it.
“Wait!” Miss Lewis shoves down hard on Clint’s shoulder, tipping him back on his ass. “Just wait,” she snaps.
She bustles over to the lockbox, pulling a chain over her head. It has a key dangling from it. She opens the lockbox with the key, and pulls out some bills, pushing them under the counter to Clint.
“It’s been four months and you’re the first one to ever show any interest in that posting,” she says, her words spitting out at such a fast clip that Clint has to concentrate in order to follow them. “There’s a Pennsylvania Railroad train leaving at 3:25 this afternoon. That’ll take you through Baltimore, Washington, and Cincinnati, with a terminus at St. Louis, and then you can catch the — hold on —”
She’s pulling schedules out from under the counter at a frantic pace. She flattens one on the counter, following it along with her finger. “You’ll arrive in St. Louis tomorrow afternoon, and then the Kansas Pacific leaves —”
“Miss Lewis — what do you mean? I can’t go to Kansas — go to Mr. Barnes! He hasn’t sent for me yet. I don’t even know if he wants me.”
“Just —” Miss Lewis’ expression is determined. “If he complains, we’ll tell him it was a misunderstanding. A — a clerical error or something. And if I get fired, well then, that’s all the sooner that I’ll be finishing my novel!”
“Fired!” Clint’s stomach churns. “I can’t — it’s too risky.” He starts to push to his feet again, and she pushes him back down just as forcefully.
“Nonsense,” she snaps. “As soon as you’re gone, I’ll send a wire telling him which stage to expect you on. Now let me concentrate. I have to figure out when the Kansas Pacific arrives at Abilene, and you’ll have to go the rest of the way by coach —”
Clint gathers his energy to protest again, but she rests her hand on his shoulder once again, fingers tightening with tension.
“Please, Clint,” she says, and her usually-confident voice wavers a little. “Let me do this.” He suddenly feels all the fight drain out of him.
“Alright.” Clint clutches the bills in one sweaty hand. It’s more money than he’s ever seen in his life. “I — I promise, I’ll be the best husband anyone ever had. I won’t let him be mad at you for sending me.”
Miss Lewis stops her frantic planning to look down at him, her eyes bright once more. “He had better be the best husband to you, Mr. Barton, and if he tries to give you any guff, tell him that you’re the only one coming, and anyone not willing to make an honest man out of you is no longer welcome as a client of the Philadelphia Correspondence Marriage Bureau!” she says imperiously.
And there’s only one possible answer to that.
“Yes, ma’am,” Clint says, settling down behind the counter to let her plan.
She’s jotting down dates and times and cities he’s never heard of on a piece of paper, and he hopes to God that he can read well enough to follow her instructions.
“Miss Lewis,” he finally asks tentatively. “Where exactly in Kansas am I going?”
Miss Lewis consults the card with Mr. Barnes’ information on it again. “A town called Freedom’s Reach. That’s a lovely name, isn’t it?”
“Freedom’s Reach,” Clint repeats out loud.
It seems like more than a lovely name. It seems like a sign. If he can make it out of here to the railroad station — if he can make it onto that train, unseen and unharmed by Trick’s gang — then maybe his own freedom really is within reach.