Katherine "Kissin' Kate" Barlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ikissdhimbck) wrote2009-02-07 01:30 am
ikissdhimbck) wrote2009-02-07 01:30 am
Entry tags:
VII. To plant the seeds of justice in our bones...
[I've been down on bended knee...]
The town wouldn't see hide nor hair of Katherine Barlow for three days following Sam's death.
They would slow down as they walked by her house. Looking in windows. Watching for movement. Shaking their heads — Oh, how sad — clucking their tongues. But she never stepped outside, or lingered long in front of her windows.
Millicent Hawthorn visited the afternoon following the tragic events of that day that had left the town's only schoolhouse in ashes, and the town's only schoolteacher in her hermitage. She knocked, though the door would no longer latch, thanks to Trout's visit the previous night. No one answered.
She eventually found Katherine in the closet.
"Sweetheart, how long have you been holed up in here?" she murmured, setting her basket of provisions on the floor when she crouched in front of the weary-looking girl.
There were dark circles under Katherine's eyes, which looked only all the more sharp in contrast to her red, swollen face.
"I don't know," she whispered.
Mrs. Hawthorn pursed her lips together, and reached out to touch Katherine's face. "Won't you come out and eat somethin'? I brought you chicken, and biscuits—"
Her voice stopped working the moment she saw that small gun in Katherine's grip.
"I'm not very hungry," came the answering whisper.
Worry shone in Millicent's older, gray eyes. A second hand joined the first, cupping Katherine's face.
"Katherine, darlin'. Why don't you come'n stay with us for a bit, hm? I know you're hurtin', sweetheart—" It nearly broke her heart to see Katherine start to cry. "—but, it'll pass. An' I'd feel oh-so-much better if'n you would—"
"No."
Katherine shook her head slowly, blinking the stickiness from her eyelashes as she focused on Millicent's face.
"I'm not runnin'."
"You're not—"
The older woman shook her head rapidly, shifted to her knees and reached for Katherine's hands. She clutched them tightly as she spoke, voice firm:
"You're not runnin', dear. But Doc an' I wanna protect you."
The name made Katherine start to cry again, though Millicent wouldn't know why.
"You can't stay in this house by your lonesome. Please, angel. Won't you let us help you?"
The gun sat heavy in Katherine's lap, and she stared at it, past their linked hands.
For a long time, she was quiet.
When she spoke, her voice was steady and steel-tipped.
"There is somethin' you could do for me," she said.
"What?"
She lifted her chin and gazed at Millicent's face, and the older woman would never forget the chill that raced down her spine when she locked onto those hard, cold eyes.
"Could you git Doc to saddle up Beaut, and bring her on by tomorrow night, after dark?"
_____________________________
The next day, Katherine wandered her house alone.
Little things inspired thought, brought back memories, made her pause.
She ran her fingers over the old, black hickory secretary that used to sit in her daddy's study back home. It had been her momma's, and, unable to part with it when she died, it had become Samuel's. Now, it was Katherine's. There were nicks along the flat floating panel, an imperfection in the glass of one small window pane inset in the above cabinet, initials carved on the bottom of one shelf.
'S.B.
..+
M.B.'
It almost made her smile.
The leathery spines of countless volumes of poetry and prose almost felt like sandpaper to her too-soft fingertips. He would sit in that old rocker on their front porch during lazy late afternoons, reading to her until the sun turned orange and hot like melting gold, pooling at the horizon.
She straightened the sepia portrait hanging to the right of her wood-burning stove. She had been eight months old when it was taken, balanced on her daddy's knee, her slight momma close to his side with her small hand on Katherine's chubby leg. Katherine stared at her mother's face so long she lost track of time, losing herself in the pull of the woman's bottomless eyes. Trying to remember what her touch felt like.
The violin in her room had broken a string last night, when Trout or the deputy one had knocked it over. She ran her hands over the lax, flaxen horsehair, listening to the quiet rush her fingers made against the instrument. She imagined her father in his study, tuning the instrument, rosining the strings with meticulous care — the sharp, bitter wails slowly calming into relaxed, sweet murmurings.
She opened the cedar chest at the foot of her bed, and stared for a long time at the white wedding dress, folded and carefully tucked away with other precious linens and expensive heirlooms. A small box contained her mother's wedding ring. Her fingers had been small, but Katherine's were smaller — the best she could manage was to fit it around her middle finger. It gleamed resplendently from her hand.
She knew that when she left, she would have to leave most of these things behind. She wasn't only saying goodbye to her life in Green Lake, to her sweet little home...
...She was severing the last strings that still tied her to her father.
After dusk fell, and the town followed into a sullen, bruised night, the Hawthorn's came to call.
Katherine stepped outside her door, hugging her arms around her middle for warmth. For the first time in more than two days, a small, soft smile graced her lips as she made her way down the front walk, to the gate where Beaut was tied.
"Hello, Beauty."
The horse snorted softly as Katherine ran her hands over her sleek brown coat, gently reacquainting herself with the animal. It was a quiet, wordless sort of exchange, between two old friends who needed no more than the solidity of the other to know all that couldn't be said.
It's you and me, now.
_____________________________
On the third day, she made up her bed.
She dressed in a fine red dress with black lace trim. It fit her snug, complementing her curves.
She carefully applied her make-up; powder and rouge, mascara and bright red lipstick. It was a matching brass set, with her initials carved into it. It was one of the last gifts her daddy ever gave her.
She did up her hair carefully, expertly, letting it curl around her shoulders.
She slipped on a matching red bonnet, tying the gold ribbon into a loose bow that hung at her chest.
And then she stared at her reflection in the mirror for a very long time.
The make-up kit was slipped into a small satchel of clothes and effects, and carried out to Beaut. She had packed the saddlebags last night with all the items she'd need, and the small things she couldn't bear to let go of. Her father's '73 Winchester was strapped to the saddle, laying light across Beaut's right side. Katherine's right side. A few volumes of poetry found a place in her light bags, along with that portrait of her daddy and momma. The little leather journal Doc had given her, with the Polaroid picture and the brown eagle feather. A few letters, bound with twine. Things she managed to salvage from the schoolhouse.
Everything else, she left behind.
She sat in the saddle for a long time, staring at her small garden, her broken door, her squat home... Everything had been signed over to the Hawthorn's, as of last night. They would take care of things, just as they had done before, when Katherine was left to settle her father's estate.
She took her time riding into town. Some of her students were out playing hopscotch in the dirt lane outside of their large, Victorian house. They stopped when Katherine drew near enough to recognize, before their mother hissed to them to hurry on inside. Katherine watched the front door slam behind them.
She imagined herself crying, but she didn't shed a tear. She didn't feel anything but cold—the coldest she'd ever been in her life. It was all that came through in her icy eyes as she passed, ignoring the faces in the window.
She carefully tied Beaut to a post outside the sheriff's office, straightened her skirts and bonnet, and drew in a deep, shaky breath. Her heels echoed on the boardwalk as she stepped inside.
The sheriff's head was down, eyes to his desk. There was a half-empty bottle of whiskey nearby, but he was nursing a hot coffee. She waited until she was nearly halfway across the room before she spoke.
"Mornin', sheriff."
Her voice was soft and sweet, like warm honey on fresh bread, and the sheriff lifted his head. Steel-green eyes watched her approach from under a washboard brow.
When she made it all the way to his desk, she stopped and smirked, playing with the ribbon of her bonnet.
"Do you still want that kiss?"
She carefully drew the hat from her head with her left hand, and bit her lip.
He leered at her.
And it was in that moment that she drew the Colt from her skirts with her right hand, and pointed it straight at his heart.
There was a heartbeat of hesitation, just long enough for the sheriff to look startled—
Little red spots appeared in her vision as smoke curled from the barrel of her weapon, her hands shaking and her lungs starved for air. She breathed in, ice-colored irises boring into dead, warm flesh.
He sat, slumped limp across the back of his chair, eyes open and directed heavenward.
She calmly gathered her skirts and walked around his desk, eyes never leaving his face. When she was stationed next to him, she allowed her trembling hand to relinquish its death-grip on her small weapon, putting it away so she could retrieve her lipstick tube.
She carefully applied a fresh coat of red lipstick, taking her time in doing so.
And then gave him the kiss he had asked for.
.
The town wouldn't see hide nor hair of Katherine Barlow for three days following Sam's death.
They would slow down as they walked by her house. Looking in windows. Watching for movement. Shaking their heads — Oh, how sad — clucking their tongues. But she never stepped outside, or lingered long in front of her windows.
Millicent Hawthorn visited the afternoon following the tragic events of that day that had left the town's only schoolhouse in ashes, and the town's only schoolteacher in her hermitage. She knocked, though the door would no longer latch, thanks to Trout's visit the previous night. No one answered.
She eventually found Katherine in the closet.
"Sweetheart, how long have you been holed up in here?" she murmured, setting her basket of provisions on the floor when she crouched in front of the weary-looking girl.
There were dark circles under Katherine's eyes, which looked only all the more sharp in contrast to her red, swollen face.
"I don't know," she whispered.
Mrs. Hawthorn pursed her lips together, and reached out to touch Katherine's face. "Won't you come out and eat somethin'? I brought you chicken, and biscuits—"
Her voice stopped working the moment she saw that small gun in Katherine's grip.
"I'm not very hungry," came the answering whisper.
Worry shone in Millicent's older, gray eyes. A second hand joined the first, cupping Katherine's face.
"Katherine, darlin'. Why don't you come'n stay with us for a bit, hm? I know you're hurtin', sweetheart—" It nearly broke her heart to see Katherine start to cry. "—but, it'll pass. An' I'd feel oh-so-much better if'n you would—"
"No."
Katherine shook her head slowly, blinking the stickiness from her eyelashes as she focused on Millicent's face.
"I'm not runnin'."
"You're not—"
The older woman shook her head rapidly, shifted to her knees and reached for Katherine's hands. She clutched them tightly as she spoke, voice firm:
"You're not runnin', dear. But Doc an' I wanna protect you."
The name made Katherine start to cry again, though Millicent wouldn't know why.
"You can't stay in this house by your lonesome. Please, angel. Won't you let us help you?"
The gun sat heavy in Katherine's lap, and she stared at it, past their linked hands.
For a long time, she was quiet.
When she spoke, her voice was steady and steel-tipped.
"There is somethin' you could do for me," she said.
"What?"
She lifted her chin and gazed at Millicent's face, and the older woman would never forget the chill that raced down her spine when she locked onto those hard, cold eyes.
"Could you git Doc to saddle up Beaut, and bring her on by tomorrow night, after dark?"
The next day, Katherine wandered her house alone.
Little things inspired thought, brought back memories, made her pause.
She ran her fingers over the old, black hickory secretary that used to sit in her daddy's study back home. It had been her momma's, and, unable to part with it when she died, it had become Samuel's. Now, it was Katherine's. There were nicks along the flat floating panel, an imperfection in the glass of one small window pane inset in the above cabinet, initials carved on the bottom of one shelf.
'S.B.
..+
M.B.'
It almost made her smile.
The leathery spines of countless volumes of poetry and prose almost felt like sandpaper to her too-soft fingertips. He would sit in that old rocker on their front porch during lazy late afternoons, reading to her until the sun turned orange and hot like melting gold, pooling at the horizon.
She straightened the sepia portrait hanging to the right of her wood-burning stove. She had been eight months old when it was taken, balanced on her daddy's knee, her slight momma close to his side with her small hand on Katherine's chubby leg. Katherine stared at her mother's face so long she lost track of time, losing herself in the pull of the woman's bottomless eyes. Trying to remember what her touch felt like.
The violin in her room had broken a string last night, when Trout or the deputy one had knocked it over. She ran her hands over the lax, flaxen horsehair, listening to the quiet rush her fingers made against the instrument. She imagined her father in his study, tuning the instrument, rosining the strings with meticulous care — the sharp, bitter wails slowly calming into relaxed, sweet murmurings.
She opened the cedar chest at the foot of her bed, and stared for a long time at the white wedding dress, folded and carefully tucked away with other precious linens and expensive heirlooms. A small box contained her mother's wedding ring. Her fingers had been small, but Katherine's were smaller — the best she could manage was to fit it around her middle finger. It gleamed resplendently from her hand.
She knew that when she left, she would have to leave most of these things behind. She wasn't only saying goodbye to her life in Green Lake, to her sweet little home...
...She was severing the last strings that still tied her to her father.
After dusk fell, and the town followed into a sullen, bruised night, the Hawthorn's came to call.
Katherine stepped outside her door, hugging her arms around her middle for warmth. For the first time in more than two days, a small, soft smile graced her lips as she made her way down the front walk, to the gate where Beaut was tied.
"Hello, Beauty."
The horse snorted softly as Katherine ran her hands over her sleek brown coat, gently reacquainting herself with the animal. It was a quiet, wordless sort of exchange, between two old friends who needed no more than the solidity of the other to know all that couldn't be said.
It's you and me, now.
On the third day, she made up her bed.
She dressed in a fine red dress with black lace trim. It fit her snug, complementing her curves.
She carefully applied her make-up; powder and rouge, mascara and bright red lipstick. It was a matching brass set, with her initials carved into it. It was one of the last gifts her daddy ever gave her.
She did up her hair carefully, expertly, letting it curl around her shoulders.
She slipped on a matching red bonnet, tying the gold ribbon into a loose bow that hung at her chest.
And then she stared at her reflection in the mirror for a very long time.
The make-up kit was slipped into a small satchel of clothes and effects, and carried out to Beaut. She had packed the saddlebags last night with all the items she'd need, and the small things she couldn't bear to let go of. Her father's '73 Winchester was strapped to the saddle, laying light across Beaut's right side. Katherine's right side. A few volumes of poetry found a place in her light bags, along with that portrait of her daddy and momma. The little leather journal Doc had given her, with the Polaroid picture and the brown eagle feather. A few letters, bound with twine. Things she managed to salvage from the schoolhouse.
Everything else, she left behind.
She sat in the saddle for a long time, staring at her small garden, her broken door, her squat home... Everything had been signed over to the Hawthorn's, as of last night. They would take care of things, just as they had done before, when Katherine was left to settle her father's estate.
She took her time riding into town. Some of her students were out playing hopscotch in the dirt lane outside of their large, Victorian house. They stopped when Katherine drew near enough to recognize, before their mother hissed to them to hurry on inside. Katherine watched the front door slam behind them.
She imagined herself crying, but she didn't shed a tear. She didn't feel anything but cold—the coldest she'd ever been in her life. It was all that came through in her icy eyes as she passed, ignoring the faces in the window.
She carefully tied Beaut to a post outside the sheriff's office, straightened her skirts and bonnet, and drew in a deep, shaky breath. Her heels echoed on the boardwalk as she stepped inside.
The sheriff's head was down, eyes to his desk. There was a half-empty bottle of whiskey nearby, but he was nursing a hot coffee. She waited until she was nearly halfway across the room before she spoke.
"Mornin', sheriff."
Her voice was soft and sweet, like warm honey on fresh bread, and the sheriff lifted his head. Steel-green eyes watched her approach from under a washboard brow.
When she made it all the way to his desk, she stopped and smirked, playing with the ribbon of her bonnet.
"Do you still want that kiss?"
She carefully drew the hat from her head with her left hand, and bit her lip.
He leered at her.
And it was in that moment that she drew the Colt from her skirts with her right hand, and pointed it straight at his heart.
There was a heartbeat of hesitation, just long enough for the sheriff to look startled—
Bang.
Little red spots appeared in her vision as smoke curled from the barrel of her weapon, her hands shaking and her lungs starved for air. She breathed in, ice-colored irises boring into dead, warm flesh.
He sat, slumped limp across the back of his chair, eyes open and directed heavenward.
'God will punish you!'
She calmly gathered her skirts and walked around his desk, eyes never leaving his face. When she was stationed next to him, she allowed her trembling hand to relinquish its death-grip on her small weapon, putting it away so she could retrieve her lipstick tube.
She carefully applied a fresh coat of red lipstick, taking her time in doing so.
And then gave him the kiss he had asked for.
.