Ruby Dorn

By Paul Wychor

Ruby Dorn is book 1 of an action adventure series set in 1875. 15 year old Ruby's heartfelt narration takes the reader on a harrowing journey as she fights to survive with her tough but exasperating older sister Morain, in the Dakota Territory wilderness. They finally reach a Black Hills mining town to learn the world of man is more dangerous by far. Sentenced to hang for defending herself, Ruby escapes only by the legendary heroics of her sister. They flee. Chance encounters with old newspapers claim that Ruby is dead and has somehow become an inspirational martyr to women nationwide, but an enemy to men who are dying nationwide at the hands of these women. Small, bookish Ruby runs from a never ending hunt punctuated by sudden, terrifying violence, all while trying to search for reasons as to how and why their lives have become a nightmare. Traveling by horse and train, the teenage sisters are forced to grow up fast, unable to trust anyone in a world where everything, even their identity, is a lie. In a desperate bid for answers, they finally arrive in Boston, seeking the advice of the wisest woman they can find, Winnifred Schoonover, essayist, senator's wife, who welcomes them with open arms, until catastrophe strikes.
Book 2 Ruby Dorn WANTED is due out in 2018.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998515434

Book preview

Eden

Just a year ago, our family washes filled two lines, but that was when there were four of us, with a fifth on the way. Now there is only me. I grab a damp sheet from the wicker basket and flip it over the hemp tether reaching from our rented house all the way out to the giant maple past the garden. I suppose there are other tasks I should be working on while the laundry flaps in the morning breeze, but I sit in the sun on the back steps and open my new volume of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, a present that arrived in the mail from Grandfather Warren for my fifteenth birthday, which I spent alone without a cake. Setting that lonely thought aside, I rejoin Captain Nemo as his underwater craft Nautilus enters the Red Sea.

"It was marvelous, a feast for the eyes, this complication of

coloured tints, a perfect kaleidoscope of green, yellow, orange,

violet, indigo, and blue; in one word, the whole palette of an

enthusiastic colourist!"

When next I raise my head the laundry is dry. Checking the sun, I see it is not even noon, and Father’s sentencing hearing is at three. How shall I kill that much time without losing my mind from worry?

I step inside for a sip of water to find my eyes settling upon Mother’s framed needlepoint of a cottage next to a creek in a mountain valley. Was that a memory from her youth in Appalachia? I shall never know. She died giving birth last spring. It should not be possible, but my life has since become even worse. Father began to drink more and more whiskey. When the bank repossessed our farm just a few weeks back he got a snoot full and burned the oats and barley, not that it was worth much in this market panic, but he could not stomach those greedy people getting a penny from his back-breaking labor. Well, I was not surprised to hear that father’s silly revenge fire took the house, barn and stable. Luckily, no one was hurt.

The next thing you know my honest, hard-working father is on the run from arson charges, hiding out down on the river flats. He might have gotten away, but Dickey Brule turned him in for the reward money put up by the bank. If that was not trouble enough, my older sister Morain then hunted Dickey down and kicked his teeth in, which resulted in a warrant for her arrest on assault charges. I have not seen her for over two weeks. For years, she has been talking about how much she loves the West. I hope she did not decide to go now. The rent is due next week. I do not want to end up living with Grandfather.

Pulling down the dry laundry, I toss it into the wicker basket, stashing it behind my bedroom door. This house is becoming a torment. Everywhere my eyes fall spurs another upsetting memory, Father’s old duck hunting shotgun above the fireplace, Morain’s bullwhip from Nebraska coiled above the door. However, the reminders of Mother are the worst, wrenching my heart every day: her tea set in the pantry, her photograph on the wall, the bed where she died holding my hand. Her death hurts as much now as ever. I gaze lovingly upon her needlework pillows each with a delicate flower: red columbine, blue aster, pink blazing star.

I determine to go outside again with the book, the only thing I can think of to keep my mind occupied. If not for my reading these times would indeed be difficult to endure. Turning back into my bedroom for stockings, I catch my reflection in the mirror above the chest of drawers, and frown. My friend Twyla insists I am pretty, and Mother told me so as well, but who can believe their mother on such matters? I think I look like a rodent. Grabbing a brush, I try to tease the snarls from my shoulder length hair. Mother had lovely auburn curls. Morain has long, wavy blond locks. I was cursed with this straight, thin, drab hair the color of nothing, except maybe dishwater.

As I slip on my last clean pair of stockings, I notice the filth on my bare feet and remind myself to wash up before Father’s hearing. I tightly tie on Morain’s old shoes, which are two sizes too big, but the new pair I received for Christmas is too fine for where I am going.

eat

Mother’s voice echoes between my ears. I never feel particularly hungry, but she always reminded me. I reach far back into the lower pantry finding a pint jar of current preserves. The wax seal is dusty, but when I pop it open, the contents taste good enough. I grab the last stale biscuit from the bread box and eat it fast while forcing myself to spoon down half the jar of preserves. I know better than to bolt my food, but no one is here, and I am in a hurry. Tying my bonnet while leaping from the porch I run down the hill on a deer path through the scrubby woods, Jules Verne under one arm. I cut through Juetner’s back yard and then out onto Washington Street, the small business district of my hometown, Repute, Minnesota, a few hundred people surrounded by farms on the edge of the great prairie.

Across the street, three carpenters hammer away on the roof of the new bank addition.

they told us they were going bankrupt

My jaunt continues uninterrupted through town until my ears are suddenly afflicted.

Ruby.

I tried so hard to forget that voice

Soren emerges from the trees next to Ackerman’s house. My heart leaps into my throat. After sixteen days, I have finally been able to go a night without thinking about him and now here he is again to rekindle my heartache. What do you want? I ask. My voice is ice, but still, it cracks. I turn away, walking west again.

Wait, he says, jogging up behind me, putting a hand on my shoulder. I swing my hardbound book fast with both hands. Thump. It hits his wrist.

Ow! Soren complains.

I hope it hurts, I say. Do not touch me.

I have half a mind to hit him again, this time right in his deceitful mouth. What is wrong with this town? Can a girl not walk down the street without being accosted by faithless cads?

Ruby… I… Soren’s voice trails off, I know what you heard but-

But what? I snap, turning to sting him with my venomous glare. Will you now tell me it is all lies?

No, just stop, he begs.

I hear genuine concern in his tone. This surprises me. I abruptly quit walking and square off with him, my book squeezed tightly to my midsection, my eyes shooting daggers.

You know Corny, well… he… Soren stammers. Well, he…

My jaw clenches. Do not use the referent pronoun after a proper noun. You sound like a hayseed. His eyes desperately try to connect with mine. …he got a jug of his Pa’s rhubarb wine and…and some of us were drinking it behind Hertle’s barn…

Good for you, I fire back at him. I am very impressed. I walk away.

No wait…please.

I stop. He does sound so sincere. Gazing back I notice the brown curl that always hangs down between his wide dark eyes, making him look like a sad sheepdog. I used to twirl it on my finger when we talked. His lower lip is just beginning to turn down into a pout. Well, she kissed me. I didn’t kiss her,

But you liked it, I growl as if I am accusing him of murder.

I didn’t, Soren objects. I don’t like her. She smells of mothballs.

My friend Vivian Whitfield was there. She told me how Soren just stood there and let Darlina Hutz rub her lecherous body against his while she kissed him right on the lips. Vivian swears she even saw Darlina’s tongue! Darlina is the only girl in town my age that I know has committed the adult act. Everyone knows, but she does not seem to care. I believe she is proud of herself, as if it is some grand achievement to behave like a stray bitch in heat. Just the thought of her makes me want to spit.

Go back to Darlina, I say, resuming my stroll, determined not to stop again.

What? Soren sounds lost and forlorn. I didn’t do anything. She jumped on me.

I ignore him. He will have to do better than that. He was the one who tricked me into liking him after Mother’s death when I was at my most vulnerable and now he has kissed that mutt Darlina exactly as many times as he has kissed me. When Vivian told me what happened I cried for two days. Not only did Soren abuse my misguided affections, he humiliated me before the whole town. I can just imagine how the other girls must be laughing behind my back.

I love you.

My body keeps walking but my soul freezes, stuck in an echoing canyon with those words.

I love you

The voice was so faint behind me. I must admit, I muddled that jarring notion around in my head once or twice, but I never thought he…I come to a halt and begin to turn around, but my mind rebels.

do not believe him

My heart tangles tighter and tighter in barbed wire. I force myself to keep walking refusing to wipe the tears from my cheeks until I know that I am well out of his sight.

stop crying he is not worth the trouble

Focus, one foot in front of the other, stay on the cart path. Every few breaths, a slight whimper escapes my throat. Only two farms to pass and I shall enter the still unsettled grassland where Washington Street disappears into the West becoming nothing more than overgrown ruts in infinite turf.

but Soren said

shush not now

I sniff the warm wind pressing upon me more strongly than in town, buffeting Soren’s voice away. Lines of salt dry from my eyes down to my jaw. The world flattens as the buildings, hills, and trees recede behind me, replaced by the prairie horizon. I feel a marvelous sensation of expanding, of floating in every direction at once, like dandelion seeds blown into the air. My stomach grumbles as a burning grows in my throat.

I hope those currant preserves were not bad

I should have been smart enough to bring a jar of water to quench my thirst. I push myself onward toward the quarry less than a mile out of town which might as well be a hundred miles for how alone I feel, and I want to feel alone, alone with my new book. My stroll continues until a yawning shadow opens from the earth. Deep and wide enough to hold many barns, no one has worked this quarry property since I was little. Better limestone was found in several places around the region after the big war. Now it is a magnet, especially at night, for young people to sneak away and hide in the many dark recesses to smoke cigarettes, drink stolen liquor, and kiss.

I heard about what happens in the quarry at night from Morain. She gets around, especially since we lost Mother. She started hunting with father when she was eleven but takes it more seriously now to supplement our diet, not that we are starving, but free fresh game replaces the farm meats we were accustomed to before the bank called in our loans. Morain always loved the outdoors more than the rest of the family, which is good experience, since Judge Gession put out a warrant for her arrest and now my big sister cannot show her face around town. Who could blame her if she never comes back? What future does she have here?

I walk around to the far side of the chasm and descend an overgrown path to my favorite place on Earth, a table-sized slab of limestone jutting from the south quarry wall. Sheered flat and smooth as an iron, this ledge is the ideal place to fall in love with a story while connected to the clean bone of the planet, free from Repute’s manure and gossip, blowhards and bullies. I call it Eden. Morain first showed me this secret spot ten years ago and I have returned with hundreds of books. Even in winter, I sometimes sit wearing several layers of wool and leather, reading in the soothing snow.

But this September noon is luscious, warm perfection. Emerald dragonflies, purple martins, and Jules Verne are my only companions on this airy perch thrusting down and up into earth and sky. I spread my shawl, enraptured by the fluttering breeze dancing under a blue and white dome so brilliant I almost fear to draw breath lest I dissolve into the grasping beauty. With reverential hands, I open my book. The story holds me spellbound…

I am not what you call a civilized man! I have done with society, for reasons which I alone have the right of appreciating. I do not, therefore, obey its laws.

I hear footsteps.

Miss Ruby Dorn?

Startled, I look up to see Ben Gession, a boy from town about Morain’s age, the son of our corrupt magistrate Gideon ‘Guts’ Gession, purported war hero. He knows my name? This cannot be good. I would not have guessed that our local aristocrat would deign to recognize a commoner. Trouble starts every summer in Repute when Ben comes home from military school. Boys are bullied and beaten by him and his ring-kissing friends. Everyone I know calls them the maggots. Girls are taunted and even touched in the most vulgar manner. No property is safe, outhouses burn, windows crash, livestock dies, but being the eldest son of the Judge, Ben never pays for his offenses. The Judge has proven so spiteful that no one yet has successfully contested him, undoubtedly because of his ever-growing wealth, mostly in vast land holdings. They say he is worth four Reputes.

The way people talk, you would think we are his vassals. Folks still whisper about the time back in sixty-nine when poor Oscar Olson was sentenced to hang by the Judge for a murder everyone knows he could not possibly have committed. Most people around here are convinced the Judge knew that Oscar was innocent, but condemned the man to death to cover up the murder that the Judge himself arranged. He sure showed us who is boss…king…god.

Ben takes a step toward me, blocking the only exit with his long frame, a foot taller than me. Good morning to you, and a glorious one at that, is it not? He sounds as if he thinks he might be a prince. He smiles. Or is that a sneer? When I do not reply immediately he says, "Oh, I see you are reading Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, a fascinating jaunt. Do you enjoy Verne? Have you read The Mysterious Island?" This time, he waits for me to answer wearing a kindly, warm expression that a girl might consider charming if she did not know better.

No, I say.

You must borrow mine. I collect everything Verne writes.

I have never spoken to him before, but I am quite certain this is not how he normally speaks. This foppish character cannot be the Ben we all know from town. Yet it is. Something about his oily voice causes a twinge of pain in my stomach as I anticipate some mean prank ending with me humiliated while his hyena friends yip with glee. I will not deny that the young man has a silver tongue, which only makes his malice all the more treacherous. Maybe if I humor him by playing along he will remain polite.

maybe not

I lay my book on the stone and stand up. Pardon, I say with all of the proper deportment I can muster, but, do I have your acquaintance?

He stiffens, stepping back with narrowing eyes. Does he think I am mocking him?

should have kept my mouth shut

My tension mounts causing a fire to reach up my throat burping rancid-tasting currant into the back of my mouth.

he heard that

He smiles, bowing stiffly. Apologies, Benjamin Gession at your service. I do have the happy acquaintance of your father Kale and your sister Morain.

I squirm to keep from blurting out the truth.

they both think you are a righteous ass

Ruby Dorn, I say, and bow.

what are you doing? girls curtsy

Why am I even trying to play along with this dastard? To my surprise, his eyes widen in apparent admiration. Well, now, aren’t you a peach? Cultured, literate, and here I only thought of you as the prettiest girl in town.

That catches me off-guard. Is he courting me? My mind screams in alarm as I try to conceal my bewilderment.

he cannot be serious

Why, with you on my arm, Ben says, in a fancy new dress, we would stroll down Washington Street and all of Repute would say, ‘There goes the handsomest couple in Burwine County.

no they would say there goes that whore sponging off that rich asshole

I would like you to wear this, he says, producing a delicate gold chain from his vest pocket. He holds it out for me. A red teardrop pendant rolls from his palm, transforming the sunlight into gaudy crimson blaze.

a ruby

I have never seen one in real life. The mysterious stone radiates wine, dusk, desire, blood. It is stunningly beautiful. I banish the awe from my face. This is no chance encounter after all. He planned to catch me alone out here.

he wants me

I am a lamb selected by a wolf. No, I say, affecting a meek little shrug, I could not…

Don’t you like it? Ben asks. It’s a Ruby, just like your name.

Oh, the effort I must now put forth to somehow stop my eyes from rolling. Yes… it is nice, I say with a smile feeble as flea lint.

His lips stretch into a sneer. Just try it on.

I waver. No…I…but… thank you for the thought. This is just a bit sudden, you understand? Perhaps if I may think on it?

He steps forward, extending his long arm to grab my shoulder, pushing me violently toward the precipice before hauling me back from the edge. I am a rag doll in his grip. His hard fingers hurt, but I refuse to cry out even if death waits below.

Ha, ha, ha. The bared white teeth of his aggressive laughter reinforces my impression of a wolf. Careful now, you don’t want to take a misstep out here.

there is the Ben we all know and hate

His eyes flash with devilish delight, enjoying my fear. The necklace dangles, a cold flicker mocking my helplessness. That is my choice then, take the jewel or die. I lift the ruby pendant from his fingers. Why, such a thoughtful gift, I say, and given with such gentility.

Just put it on. His impatient tone is further warning.

I clasp it around my neck with jittery fingers. He grabs both of my biceps, twisting me back and forth, inspecting me like a cut of meat. No, that cotton collar cheapens it. He begins unbuttoning the front of my dress. My lungs become a bellows, my heart roars in my ears. I want to scream. He knows I want to scream. We both know I do not dare. At what point will I risk my life? He could push me now and nobody would ever know he was here. After five buttons, he opens my bodice wide and gently lays the ruby on my bare skin. Oh… that looks fine… see how your flesh ignites. His eyes glisten. I cover myself with my hands feeling my cheeks redden with shame.

Now you look like a woman, he proclaims, and then squeezes my jaw, tilting my face upward towards his, rubbing the tip of his nose against mine. You have the prettiest eyes…why Ruby, you’re trembling.

I smell alcohol on his breath and… onions? My stomach churns. A hundred times I have sat perched here in my Eden knowing only contentment, but now I dare not even look down. The sheer drop just a step away pulls at me. I am already falling. He draws me in against him, his arms constricting like iron bars. I smell the sourness of his armpit inches from my nose. You don’t have to be afraid any more. I know your sister is gone and you’re home alone. I am very sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your father is sentenced to fourteen months.

Oh, I cry. We knew Father was likely to get a year or more in prison but the fact of it hits like a hammer. This is one point on which Ben might be truthful; he is the Judge’s son.

I know you’ll be alone out on the street, he continues, when the rent comes due. I can take care of that. All you have to do is say you’ll be my gal. His connotation of that word is instantly apparent to me. Why does he not come right out and say what I shall become? I say nothing. He releases me, steps back, his eyes hot upon me. We stand silently for long, terrifying moments. When other girls are quiet, I know they are just brainless cows, Ben says. But you…I can see your wheels turning. You’re a sly little minx.

Does he enjoy hurting me with such a slur? Does he truly believe that money gives him the right to treat others as his whipped dogs? I wish father were here to teach him differently. That would be a hard lesson Ben would not soon forget, yet, I dare not speak my uppity mind now. With a flick of his wrist, I would be dashed upon the shards waiting below like giant teeth.

He suddenly covers his eyes with his hands, a curious gesture, causing me to think him all the more distressingly unpredictable, but now his hands drop, revealing what appears to be a mask of sincerity, or, for all I know, this might be how he looks before murdering people. Taking a deep breath, he slowly exhales fetid air into my face. I have insulted you, he whispers, and again, I wait in the fearsome silence. My apologies. His pained expression suggests he may begin to weep. I told myself that I would mind my manners, but I… He stares at his sleeve, fumbling with his cufflink, a golden flag, and then glances up to meet my eyes.

I just… get ahead of myself.

Does he truly expect me to understand how difficult it is for him to refrain from tormenting weaker, poorer people than himself? I know… Ben says, but then he hesitates, searching for words, …some people… hate the way I behave… but I do know better. I have been well-bred.

well-bred?

The term conjures aristocrats in knickers with white wigs lined up at the guillotine. Ben gently lifts my hand by my little finger. We have gotten off on the wrong footing. I should like us to start afresh. May we?

He just assaulted me, threatened my life, called me a whore, and now he wants to be friends? Is he mad or just eccentric? I have encountered moneyed, entitled characters in novels: exiled Childe Harold, scheming Lady Susan, cruel Heathcliff. I always thought those strange creatures were European fictions invented to sell books, but here stands our own budding Othello of the plains.

"How can I