Feud of the Heart

Chapter Three

West Virgina, 1883

William

Will stood in front of the third door on the left in the second story of the Main Street Saloon trying to ignore the bitter taste of betrayal that warred with need. 

It wasn’t that he had been betrayed, he felt that he was betraying her, Charlie.

The sting of too much perfume infiltrated his nostrils even through the closed door as if the wood absorbed it overtime. He took his flask from his coat pocket and took a generous drink before putting it back, calming his needless guilt before knocking on the door in three sharp raps.

The door opened in, revealing a pretty blonde with dark eyes ringed in too much eyeliner.

Her dress, scanty and hanging from one shoulder drooped generously to reveal a heavy breast and petal pink n****e.

“Hi Darlin’,”

She smiled lazily as she opened the door wider in welcome, he entered the cramped room with the worn double bed, a need in his bones and a heavy heart in his chest.

“The usual, baby?”

She asked,

“It’s been a while, I thought you forgot about me.”

She continued her voice was almost whiney, sickly sweet and disgusting to him.

“Yeah, the usual.”

He gruffed the words quickly, tired of her mouth moving already.

She grinned at him in a way that he knew was meant to seduce him as she brought her hand slowly up her body to pinch the apex of her breast.

A moan crawled from her throat to sour the air between them as he undressed and left his gun belt to hang on the poster at the foot of the bed.

“I’ve missed you.”

She mewled, a pathetic show in hopes for an extra dollar.

“I don’t pay you to talk, just blow out the damned lantern and get your ass on the bed.”

He said sternly, his eyes hard and leaving no room for argument.

She dropped the facade as quickly as she dropped her dress to reveal her supple body, her face in a mask of complacency.

Cap Hatfield was Elizabeth’s favorite and equally most hated customer. She hated how he could be cruel to her for nothing more than that she was the wrong woman, one that he was paying for. Elizabeth was not Charlotte and would never come close, not that she wanted to be.

She favored him because he preferred the dark partly because she didn’t need to see his mismatched eyes, one white as snow while the other an unnerving blue. Mostly she enjoyed his preference because she could use his body while imagining a better man, one that loved her, just as Cap Hatfield used her.

It was easy to imagine this room was in a home, that the man crawling on the bed and up between her spread legs was a man who loved her with how softly Cap was touching her skin.

His calloused hands seemingly cold and unforgiving became as soft and warm as velvet where his fingers dipped into the vertex between her thighs, stealing her breath.

His lips, so practiced in scowls and hard lines skimmed softly over the feminine swell of her abdomen in hot gentle kisses that sent shivers of delight to her core.

His tongue, so seasoned in forming sharp and hurtful words, swirled and teased the peaks of her breasts with such skill that her toes curled against the paper thin sheets.

Cap was Elizabeth’s only customer who pleased her, made love to her, sought her needs before his own.

He played her body with as much skill as his Uncle Jim played cards downstairs, winning every hand.

She was crying out his name on the crown of climax and he’d only used his mouth and his fingers to wring it out of her.

When he slid into her she was already on the ascent of another soul consuming wave of pleasure, his length speared her and his girth stretched and filled aching spaces so perfectly that she crested under him within moments.

He used her softly, roughly, thoroughly until her skin was slick with sweat and her body trembled leaving her listless and tangled in the sheets.

There wouldn’t be another customer of Elizabeth’s that night.

Will dressed quickly and tossed two dollars on the foot of the bed, not bothering to say goodbye to the languid woman before leaving the room quietly.

As soon as the door shut the feeling of guilt and revulsion bored down on him so hard that he fought for air.

His body was satiated but the act had left him hollow and sickened with himself.

He left the Saloon in the dead of night alone, leaving his family members still drinking and playing cards or buying a woman of their own. It wasn’t safe for a Hatfield alone after dark but the same could be said for a McCoy, and at that moment Will could care less if he lived to see the sun.

At least he would be with her, Charlie.

He chased the pain with a pull of whiskey, relishing the heat that bloomed in his empty stomach and focused on the gentle sway of his gelding Nickel’s gait beneath him.

At the fork in the road outside of town where right would lead him home, he pulled the reins of his horse toward the left.

The cemetery wasn’t far and even though she wasn’t in the ground there, he would still go and sit next to her empty grave after the nights he shared with Elizabeth.

Charlottes family plot wasn’t hard to find even in the dark.

Will had worn a prominent path that weaved between the other head stones and grave markers to get to hers. Her family plot had the best view of the valley which was ironic because the LeBlanc’s weren’t able to see it.

Will’s Uncle Jim had purchased the plot when Charlies mother met her sudden and unfortunate demise, an act of remorse on Uncle Jim’s part. He loved Charlies mother, Dahlia, in the most forbidden ways. Rumors had circulated even though the two, Will’s Uncle Jim and Charlie’s mother Dahlia, were irrelevant to the towns folk.

Gossip had spread like wild fire regardless, sightings of his horse hitched to the La Blanc fence, his dog Mr. Jingles posted up on the porch, all while Dermot was away drowning his sorrows in whiskey at the saloon.

Dermot finally sobered up enough to catch wind of these rumors, actually listen to the words being said regarding his beautiful wife and an iron ass of a man. He went straight home and strangled Dahlia to death right there on the hard packed floor of their home, right there in front of Charlie where she hid in the hutch.

Will sat next to Charlie’s cross, the cross he had carved out of strong madrone himself and pulled his near empty flask from his coat pocket.

He remembered the day she came to him, pale with fear, shaking in terror in nothing but her night shift at high noon.

Will had been playing cowboys and Indians with his older brother Johnse and his best friend Tom Wallace out in the fields behind the Hatfield home.

The boys, just eleven to thirteen years at that time, had been armed with sticks but in their imaginative minds they were pistols and tomahawks, the boy’s clothes weren’t cotton but leathers and feathers, wool breeches and canvas dusters. They were in a different time in their minds, their imaginations running wild with stampeding Buffalo and skirmishes the likes of any Penny Dreadful.

They had hunkered down in the grass awaiting an attack from Johnse as he was the great Chieftain of the Cheyenne when Will saw Charlie stumble through the tree line about one hundred yards off. Her hair was down, the long strands tangled around her waist and filled with woody debris.

Pale and seemingly unseeing, Charlie shuffled forward like a ghost, losing her footing to sprawl face first in the high grass. She got back up, unfazed by the mud and grass stains on her shift, unfazed that it was hanging off of her boney shoulder.

“Truce!”

Will called to Johnse who waited to ambush him and Tommy and stood revealing his hiding place.

“What the hell are you doin’?”

Tommy exclaimed in frustration.

“Charlie’s coming,”

Will said quickly and Tommy cursed, rolling his eyes on a heavy sigh.

“Tell her to go home.”

Tommy grumbled in irritation, not wanting the little girl to join in and ruin their fun.

“Yeah, tell that little nuisance to go back where she came from and leave us alone.”

Johnse groaned, exasperated with the idea of having a girl as a tag along.

“No.”

Will said firmly, even as the youngest in their little group he was the tallest and the strongest, always willing to prove it too.

“Come on, Cap!”

Tommy droned,

“She just follows us around like a flea ridden dog! Tell the b***h to go home.”

Tommy had barely gotten the words out before Will’s fist met his mouth with a hard punch, bloodying his lips and sending a loose tooth flying into the grass. Tommy fell to his back howling in pain as Will stood triumphantly over him.

“Don’t you ever talk about Charlie like that!”

Will spat before turning on his big brother who wore a stunned expression, surprised that Will would do such a thing to his best friend.

“You either, or you’ll be next.”

Will growled as he shoved past Johnse almost knocking him into the dirt beside Tommy.

He ran in Charlie’s direction dodging groundhog holes and jumping over fallen baby spruces to get to her.

“Charlie?”

He called when he got close and startled her as if she had no idea he had been running to her.

On closer examination, her dress held flecks of blood, her bare arms bruised in the shape of handprints from her father’s tight grip.

She shook as if she were standing outside in the snow instead of a hot summer day.

“Will-“

Her voice broke and her face crumpled in agony, tears falling down her cheeks as her knees gave way and she started to collapse.

He caught Charlie in her descent and lowered them both to the ground gently as she cried so hard that she couldn’t breathe.

“What is it, Charlie? Are you hurt?”

He asked anxiously, scared for Charlie because he had never seen her this way. He could feel her fragile body tremble as she sobbed and hiccuped for air. Her skin felt cold, clammy where it was exposed to his touch. Fear crashed through him for her, anger boiled deep in his gut at whatever the circumstance was that had her this way, this distraught.

“Johnse!”

He called to his brother who was already running his way at the sound of crying.

“Go get Momma!”

“No!”

Charlie screamed becoming hysterical and fighting against Will’s hold on her.

Johnse paused torn between running for the house or staying to watch the small and frantic girl.

“Okay, okay.”

Will calmed her, his voice reassuring, his hand soothing calming circles against her back and she quieted.

“Just go get a blanket!”

Will called to Johnse, who nodded and quickly tore off across the field, something in Will’s eyes told him that he better keep his mouth shut and just do as Will had told him.

Will turned his attention to the mess of a girl who was in his lap, she’d grown thinner, almost skeletal since the last he’d seen her three days before.

“Charlie, what happened?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, her breath came in sharp inhales and quick exhales and she fumbled over the words she was trying desperately to form.

“It’s okay, you’re safe here with me.”

He said over and over until her breathing came easier and her body grew listless in his arms, her head falling to his chest.

“What happened?”

He tried again and her shoulders shook with small sobs,

“My Momma.”

She cried, voice thick with tears.

“What happened to your Mom?”

She covered her eyes with quivering hands as if she could unsee,

“My Pa.”

Will spat on Dermot’s grave.

The only silver-lining in Will’s life was taking Dermot’s.

Will’s first kill, his first taste of blood and he felt triumph instead of remorse.

He’d only been seventeen when Dermot came back to town looking no better off than when he had left. He was an ugly man, inside and out, Charlotte had bore little to none of his resemblance.

His clothes were tattered as if the demons he courted were tearing at the threads, his skin yellowed with years of the drink and his teeth had long left his mouth.

The only thing Charlotte carried of her Father was his eyes, only in his sockets the brown resembled the color of the mud stuck to the bottom of Will’s boots.

Dermot had sauntered into the saloon on Main Street begging for a drink, crying over his tragic family story as if he hadn’t massacred his Wife and Daughter himself.

“I’ll buy you a drink.”

Will said as he bellied up to the bar next to him making sure he was one his right side so Dermot wouldn’t see his fogged eye, resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose at Dermot’s stale scent.

“Thank you, kind sir!”

Dermot had exclaimed, grinning at the young man who had purchased his fix.

Will signaled to the barkeep and he brought over two shot glasses and filled them with amber liquid.

“Where you from?”

Will asked conversationally, though he already knew.

“Here, actually.”

Dermot threw back his shot and boldly signaled the barkeep for another.

“You don’t say?”

Will prompted and Dermot nodded enthusiastically,

“Got me a nice spread not too far out.”

Will nodded, taking his shot and signaling for the barkeep to fill both glasses. He would pay an arm and a leg if that’s what it took to put Dermot in the ground.

“That’s swell, real swell…”

Will mused,

“Say, I got some fine whiskey in a wagon out back, made it m’self. I’d be mighty obliged if you’d take some home to try.”

Dermot took his second shot and his hands still shook with need,

“Sir, I couldn’t…”

He hedged, trying to seem polite.

“Of course you can, call it a welcome home gift.”

Will offered and patted the rank man on the back,

“Follow me.”

Will lead Dermot to the alley behind the saloon where the only one’s who might be were high on the second floor and stuffed with crusty c***s.

“Thank you, Sir. You’re most generous…”

Dermot prattled on like a loose church bell behind Will, willing to follow the drink wherever it might be.

Will turned on him abruptly, showing Dermot all of his face and Dermot stumbled back at the sight of Will’s fogged eye.

Dermot immediately straightened, the poor man with the tragic past gone as his face soured in recognition.

“You’ve grown some.”

Dermot said, taking in the boy who was now a man and towering above him.

“Grown a lot since I seen you last.”

Will’s voice was steady, cold, unforgiving. Seeing Dermot now solidified what he already knew in his heart. Charlotte was gone.

“Where is she?”

Will cut the bullshit, getting straight to the point.

“You haven’t found her yet?”

Dermot Laughed, a hideous sound as it wheezed out of his throat as he eyed the young man who showed no reaction.

“I practically left her on your doorstep where a Hatfield w***e belongs.”

Dermot cackled again, the stench of his rotting gums wafting in Will’s direction.

“She was just like her mother, panting after you Hatfields. Can’t imagine it was you in particular with your fog eye and all.”

Dermot said disparagingly, eyeing the guns at Will’s hips,

“She was prolly’ f*****g all you’s boys, ‘least that’s what it looked like when she came home. Road her rough did ya?”

He concluded, confident in his impudence and the blood in Will’s veins began to boil, though he would never show it.

“Her Mother wasn’t like that, neither was Charlie.”

Will’s Uncle Jim had stepped out of the back door to the saloon with murder in his eye and his hand on his pistol in warning.

“Don’t speak about my Dahlia in that way.”

Uncle Jim warned in regards to Dermot’s late wife- Uncle Jim’s late lover; his eyes more frigid than Will had ever seen.

Dermot turned in surprise, the shock diminishing into acceptance as he realized his visit home would be short lived.

“I should have known-“

Dermot started, but Uncle Jim interrupted,

“Should’ve but you never had a lick of sense in you-”

Uncle Jim sauntered closer and for one second Will thought his Uncle Jim was going to kill Dermot just as he himself had intended.

“-That’s why you couldn’t keep your wife. That’s why you’re gonna die now…no sense.”

Uncle Jim took a step back, looking to his favorite nephew and nodding, his hand dropping away from the pistol, a signal to finish the poor excuse for a man.

“Is she dead Dermot?”

Will asked although any hope he had once had vanished upon Dermot’s arrival.

“Should be, I stabbed her good enough. Bled her like a pig-“

An earsplitting shot rang out and smoke filled the air.

When Dermot hit his knees so did Will, one heart was giving up while the other was giving out and neither would truly be living after that moment.

Will finished his flask as the sun rose in the east giving rise to tall shadows casted by the grave markers around him. He stood, shaking off the stiffness of sitting for so long and put the flask back in his coat pocket. 

He placed a hand on the cross of Charlotte’s grave and gave it a gentle squeeze,

“I’ll bring you home one day, baby. You and me, forever.”

He whispered before turning to leave.