ikissdhimbck | OOM: Rachel (Part 1) -- Galveston, 1888

"I wish he would make up his mind, ma, /
For I don’t care much longer to wait; /
I’m sure I have hinted quite strongly, /
That I thought about changing my state; /
For a sweetheart he’s really so backward, /
I can’t bring him out if I try; /
I own that he’s very good temper’d, /
But then he’s so dreadfully shy; /
I own that he’s very good temper’d, /
But then he’s so dreadfully shy!"

She snickers; it's astounding how such an innocent ballad can be so tawdry when joined by hoots and hollers and wolf-whistling, the shake of ruffled skirts and the flash of stockinged thighs.

The Strand, the magnificent Wall Street of the West, shares a corner with Postoffice Street, a district no less renowned, but for entirely different reasons. It's amusing to think just one street over is the infamous Tremont House, a grand four-storey hotel that's played host to dignitaries such as General Sam Houston, Ulysses S. Grant, Clara Barton, and Buffalo Bill, while she sits in a variety house at the very center of all Galveston's debauchery. It's a fitting juxtaposition, so close to finery and yet so far away. Kate's tastes often cross from what's fine to the local entertainment, and figures she'd sooner fit in catching a show in a less reputable establishment anyhow.

"Well, now. I'm a dollar a night, but for you I might just make a deal."

Kate turns her head away from the stage. She's been joined by a pretty redhead with devil's fire lips, full form pressing against a blue bustier. She leans against Kate's table and touches her bourbon, black lace fingertips slowly circling the rim. Kate blushes.

"Oh! Oh, ah. N–no, ma'am, I ain't — "

Her laugh is milk and honey compared to Kate's hemming and hawing.

"You only here for the show? Shame. We don't get too many fine ladies on the week-end; I had to fight a few of the other girls to come over first."

Kate's blush deepens, sending heat coursing through her chest. She flicks a glance out over the crowd in an attempt to spy these other ladies, but it's a sea of flashing white teeth and colorful skirts, and she finds her attention drifting back to the woman at hand. She's educated; it's easy to tell from the tone of her voice, all smooth and polished in earthy notes. The way she carries herself is finished and dignified. But she's painted in the bright colors of sin, unblemished skin hued blue and rose and trimmed with burnt cork, creamy flesh spilling out of lace and satin, a shock even through black silk stockings.

It's the 'but' that must shine through strongest in her expression, because the woman sighs, folding her arms on the table.

"Have I bruised your sensibilities, lamb?"

That heat bubbles up from her chest, into her throat. She casts her eyes down shyly.

"N—no, ma'am. I'm only surprised, s'all. I'm not a ... "

She's at a loss for words.

"Not a what?"

Her voice feels like a razor embedded in cotton.

"Only that I wouldn't want you t'think I've come 'round for that, ma'am. I've never done that sort'a thing."

For a moment, Kate thinks she might have lost interest, calling out to a man across the crowd for a brandy in the familiar bored tones of someone dismissing a tiresome conversation. It's only when she's through that she turns to Kate and laughs.

"Whyever would you care what I think, darlin'?"

She hasn't got a straight-away answer, and that's enough for the bawd to pull up a seat and carry on, voice laced with hard-earned amusement.

"Seein' a woman mosey up Postoffice Street in britches, I wouldn't think you'd have any business bein' so wrapped up in titles."

"I — I'm sorry?"

"When you look at me, you've got 'whore' painted all over your face. An' here we've only just met."

Kate shrinks under the weight of the words. It's worse yet that the saloon girl never raises her voice or tips in any direction away from friendly; worst she does is sound genuinely astounded, and in the face of that Kate honestly can't argue, or rightly explain why that should be the case.

"I beg your pardon, I meant no offense."

"Well, that is my point, lamb."

Amusement resettles on those full, red lips. A boy of about sixteen carries over a brandy and leaves it in her waiting hand, at which point she dispenses with it with one quick flick of her wrist, pausing only long enough to ask Kate's name.

"Miss Katherine James. An' you are?"

"Rachel."

No honorifics, no titles. She shoots another one of her disarming smiles.

"What were you expectin', 'Madam Lulu'? I had parents who loved the Good Book, myself. Though, I haven't any plans to mother a whole nation."

"Oh, no! I'm sorry, I must look like a frightful fool."

"Li'l bit."

Her candidness makes Kate laugh.

"Let me chew your ear for a spell, Mz. James. A woman who carries around a revolver on her hip has to be accustomed to the quick judgments of the masculine gender. However it is you make your coin, I reckon it was hard fought and still under suspicion of ever bein' won, because there are few occupations wherein a man will willingly share recognition with a woman. I would think, struttin' in wearin' boots and spurs, you couldn't give a hell what menfolk say about you. Unless you find you're welcomed in with open arms and patient interest in what sorta businesswoman you happen to be, never judged by your unorthodox cover?"

Miss Rachel is clearly not the sort to bandy words with a simpleton, or skirt around the politics of a matter. Kate's never found herself quite so speechless before. She'd never call herself a great orator, but she's accustomed to standing at the front of a room and addressing a crowd, always having an answer. She feels like a child in the powerful presence of this woman, dwarfed like a peasant before a queen. Her point is clear.

"No, of course not."

"Then I have to wonder again," Rachel says, flicking her gloved hand once more in that boy's direction; "why would you care what I'd think of you?"

The boy hurries up with a fresh brandy, and Kate chuckles lowly.

"Habit, I s'pose."

"Mmm. An' very fashionable, if we were in the Tremont. But you won't see me attendin' any balls, an' not simply for the reason I wouldn't be welcomed in. I'm a terrible dancer."

The dry wit is chased by a salute, and Rachel tips back the fresh brandy.

"My specialty lies in balls which are blue, anyhow. But that don't make up the sum of who I am. I love minuets, and the ocean, and fancy I have a skill with writing songs. I'm always composin' in my head. I find titles useless word whiskers, and wonder if you'd rather have me callin' you Miss, or askin' what brings you to Galveston, Kate?"

Kate spends a long moment looking at Rachel, but this time she's looking at her eyes. And she's got no strong pull to glance away.

"Cattle, Rachel. An' please, call me Kate."

Crimson lips hike into a crescent.

"Charmed."