April 27th, 1859- Wednesday

My Dearest Xena,

The months have been good. I am happy to say that the Sioux have vanished from Oregon City as Winona promised and Standing Bear has fully recovered. Bess accompanied me on my subsequent visits to check on him, even though the ride required sleeping rough off the trail. She’s grown strong and confident and I am forever amazed at the change you can facilitate in a person by believing in them and loving them. As always my love, you are never far from my thoughts and present always in my heart, even when – especially when – I see changes in Bess that I’m sure you saw in me. I have come to take the view from this perspective in stride, but I do often think of you and smile.

Recently we were lying in bed; we’d been up all night because something about the sound of the rain caused a stirring in us we needed to satiate. I have no idea when the storm passed, but it did, and near afternoon we were still lying in bed and I thought of you. I feel the necessity to make myself clear in this instance, although I would hope you know me well enough not to require it of me. When I am with Bess, I am very much with her. I love her deeply and in our moments of connection, she is my entire universe as you were. I have learned all these many years that there are moments of singular focus, when you are with someone, be it a moment of passion or a moment of support, when that person needs the whole of who you are. But there are other moments, moments of selfishness I suppose, where I allow myself to just be me. To let my mind and thoughts wander where they might, which is often around the globe and the different lives I’ve led, trying to see how one fits into the other. I think this exercise, of allowing myself to encompass the whole of myself while maintaining the self-discipline necessary to focus on my present life, has kept me sane.

In this instance, with storm clouds passed, light was streaming in through the bedroom window curtains, bathing my naked skin in warm sunlight. I was lying on my stomach, my head cradled in my crossed arms. Bess was next to me, propped up on an elbow, lightly tracing the outline of my dragon tattoo with a gentle finger. It was bliss. We were both satisfied and drowsy, content to while away the day aimlessly. At least, as long as Sassy and Bourbon would let us. There was no intent to my wife’s touch, it was idle curiosity, a way to be connected, and she asked me again of the circumstance of me getting the tattoo and the process it entailed.

As I related the story, I couldn’t help but think of you. I still feel robbed that we didn’t have the luxury of time to while away a morning with you tracing the intricate shapes on my back with the pad of your elegant finger. I thought about how you might do it. I imagined you starting below my tailbone at the tip of the dragon’s tail, tracing upwards, lazily drawing your finger around the curves and sinew of the winged beast. Bringing a finger up to its body, across to one wing tip, across my shoulders to the tip of the other, back to the center, up to the dragon’s head, then back down again. Your touch would have been feather light and gentle, but Xena, I know you – in time, you would have shifted. The transition would have been so smooth as to be imperceptible. Your touch would have had intent, maybe a light scratch down the side of my rib cage, maybe several fingers in tandem across the dragon’s wing. With a simple touch, you would have my heart racing, and regardless of how much we’d just pleasured each other, I’d need to have you again. I’d need to feel your skin against mine, your fingers twined in my hair, fiercely claiming your mouth with my own. I know you Xena, when we’d finished yet again, you’d chuckle and feign ignorance that the whole of my back is sensitive to sexual stimulation. I ache Xena, ache with the knowledge of how much I would have loved that. How much I would have loved to have more time to be simply two women in love without needing to save some village or bring some villain to justice.

This is not to mean I regret the life that we shared; I regret nothing. Your life was one of redemption and I was grateful to live it with you for the short time that we had. I understood at the time, even as I understand it now, that to live with you was to live your life on your terms and make it our life. I do not begrudge you the necessity of your redemptive mission. Your dark and your light are what made you, you. And it was you, Xena of Amphipolis, that I have loved above all others. But as I accepted joining my life to yours and taking up your mantle as my own, you must also acknowledge the validity in my wistfulness. My disappointment in not having the time we deserved and earned to while away a morning touching each other, reveling in our bodies and the sunshine.

When I was in Egypt, I used to wonder, had you survived that battle in Japan, would it have been enough. If that final redemption would have made you realize a quiet life with me was your reward. Would anything have been enough? Would waking up with me in your arms or you in mine been enough temptation to give up the journeying and stand still for a spell? Sure, we’d talked about it at the Amazon village and I know you couldn’t do it then, and I don’t blame you. Amazons weren’t our people. But if we’d gone somewhere beyond Egypt, where no one would have heard of The Warrior Princess or her companion, could we have carved out a life for just the two of us?

I let Bess’ idle touching of my back lull me into slumber. I was vaguely aware that she slid out of bed to take care of the animals. She would have put on some trousers and a shirt and fed the horses, cows, and our companions who lived in the house. When she was finished, she stripped out of her clothing, joining me and snuggling close.

I wish nothing more Xena, than to have you someday experience this feeling. Knowing all in your world is being competently handled. Taking an idle day to enjoy the warmth of the sun, engage in lovemaking. Stepping aside from your concerns and responsibilities is nigh on magic. I can promise you this, warrior of my heart, if I am ever able to bring you back as Poseidon says; I will give you days like this. More days like this than you ever thought you’d see. My love, this is my solemn vow.

August 31st, 1859- Wednesday

My Dearest Xena,

Many years ago, when we traveled together, I was often struck by the carelessness of the Gods with respect to the human condition. As pawns and playthings, the inhabitants of Mt. Olympus seem, for the most part, unwilling or incapable of seeing us as creatures of our own worth. I make no blanket statements mind you  There were exceptions. Aphrodite above all was unlike any of her brethren in finding value in humanity. She absolutely had her moments, moments that drove us to distraction, but on balance, she seemed to possess a consideration that seemed close to respect for our kind. As love incarnate, I think she had a special insight into the depths of our soul and the potential of our passions. While quite capable of game playing and delighting in the drama of her own device, still she saw humanity and individual humans as worthy. She loved and valued us. Prometheus also showed us decency, and certainly, I owe my very existence all these centuries later to the sympathies of Poseidon. But the others, the scores of the others – Zeus, Hera, Athena, even Ares (although he was in love with you), these immortals treated humanity with the capricious discretions of an adolescent.

I mention this only because I feel now; at long last, understand what may be behind some facet of this cruelty. Death is hard and takes a toll on all who remain. Hades knew this more than anyone did, which is probably why we saw so little of him. When you repeatedly feel you have just begun to know a person when their life ends, you know that pain as well as I, you have just not endured the quantity of it I have. Time and again, when they leave you by nature or cause, the temptation is to harden your heart.

I cannot count for you the number of times when I feel like I’ve made a connection, only to have it severed. Friends, lovers, family, and friends, I know I will outlive them all, and it hurts every single time. Granted, in varying ways and degrees, but pain is pain. There is an adage that says there is nothing as powerful as a first of a thing, be it a first love or a first loss. I believe this. You were my first love and my first death, and then you died again, and then once again, each time to rending my soul in ways I didn’t think possible. Surely, the last had to be the worst, bad enough that I imagined your apparition at my side for a number of years after.

I have considered that were I to harden my soul, feel less about the individual human existence, I would feel less pain. While losing you repeatedly wrecked me, outliving my children and their children tore my heart as well. The natural order of things is that children continue on after their parents. You knew that devastating loss.

Mistos, the father of my children and my second husband (after Perdicus of course) died an old man in my arms. It hurt of course, but that was the way of it. We had a good life together, and he was ready, as was I. Holding my five children as they passed over one by one was another thing entirely. Watching life leave them as they journeyed to the firmament, in some cases with their spouse or whole family, or in one instance, alone with just me. Each one was a heartbreak. While I knew it was coming, I was not prepared. How do you prepare to outlive your own flesh and blood?

I was not present for the death of any of my adult grandchildren, needing to put some distance between the family and me by then. The exception was little Elpis. She was playing with her brothers on a rock wall when she took a fall, and hit her head. She was seven years old. I was summoned to see if any of my healing would help. Were it to happen now I still doubt I’d be able to save her. Back then, I certainly could not. Grandmotherly comfort I could provide, but little else. I was devastated.

My desire is to keep my heart open to all this agony because I firmly believe that if I close myself off to life’s pain, I will also close myself off to its joy. I think that is the truth that Aphrodite realizes that the other Gods do not. Have you ever known anyone as easily moved to smile or laughter? Certainly, our goddess is a hedonist and caused us any number of difficult situations, but at every turn, she unapologetically feels all of her feelings and because of that, she sees value where others do not.

I tell you all this because Bess and I have received a telegram from a Mr. Edmond Mercer from the New Mexico territory. Oregon City has had the telegram system since 1855 when the line was connected to Portland. It is an amazing thing to behold; a series of taps from a Morse Key transmitted hundreds of miles by wire to an operator at the other end. The sounds are decoded, and with an alacrity I would have never imagined, you have your message.

Delores had told me about Mr. Mercer from the time when we were seeing each other, although I never had occasion to meet him. He was Cyrill Bank’s business partner. I’d always suspected that there was more to Mr. Mercer and Mr. Banks relationship than strictly business, but it was not my place to ask and a confidence I am sure Delores would never breach. Still, I have a feeling it was the foundation of their unusual marital arrangement and I am grateful for it.

Delores wrote to us after Mr. Banks died but did not tell us that she had contracted the illness that killed him. In the missive from Mr. Mercer, he relayed that he had moved south to assist in Mr. Banks’ care and stayed on after his passing to care for Mrs. Banks in her sickness. She’d made it clear that we were not to be notified of her infirmary until after her passing and internment. In addition, a final codicil to the Bank’s will had been finalized and Mr. Mercer informed my wife and me that we were the beneficiaries thereof. I was instructed to travel to Astoria and see Mr. Serling at the bank.

I confess I did not get through the letter before being overcome with grief. Bess heard me crying and ran into the parlor from the kitchen. I told her what had happened and she broke down as well. The two of us just held each other for long moments.

It is with intention and determination that I feel these losses so keenly. There have been periods in my life – years at a time, in fact – where I have closed myself off and Xena, I tell you it’s no good. I can’t know my own heart and mind if I am not all of who I am and that includes the painful and the ugly. If I am not of sound mind and vigorous spirit, I can’t pursue my mission to have you restored, so I do all I can to avoid succumbing to the ultimate selfishness of unfeeling as infrequently as possible, and to have a heart open to the full spectrum of all love entails. The bitter and the sweet of it.

I was prepared to journey to Astoria alone, not wishing the sad journey on Bess. She would hear none of it. She said we would celebrate life, both Delores’, and ours on the journey. This made me glad, and exactly what came to pass. Abagail moved from Ruby’s into our home to care for the cows and the chickens (the cats take care of themselves). I have given up my work for Mr. Wells and the Pinkerton outfit these last several years, so there was no one who would miss me professionally. My time these days is spent as a business man and I am my own boss. As to Bess’ business with Ruby, her understanding was as expected. Ruby was saddened to hear of Delores’ passing as well, and our friend was happy to keep things well in hand so we could take as long a trip as we needed.

Bess has asked me more than once what our lives were like when you and I traveled together. Now seemed like a good time to show her. The horses were packed with the essentials and we made our way west. I did not know that Bess had never seen the Pacific Ocean, so I am glad of the opportunity to show it to her. While the impetus of this trip is one of heartbreak and sadness, we added the days necessary to find the joy in discovery of things new.

We were on no time table as to when we should be expected in Astoria. Mr. Mercer’s letter said the funeral had already happened in the New Mexico territory, near Tucson where they lived. Delores would be buried next to her husband and I knew my former lover well enough to know this was not where she would want me to pay my respects. No, Delores would want me walking the streets that we walked, smelling the sea breeze, and fondly remembering her and the love we shared. As the pace was ours to set, Bess and I ambled along, talking, sharing stories, and enjoying each other’s company. On occasion, we’d venture off the trail to see what we could see. This led to an unfortunate incident with a reclusive fur trader, but also a rather pleasant afternoon elsewhere when we discovered a valley full of wildflowers.

Xena, do you remember the time, not far from Amphipolis, after the peace treaty had been negotiated between Messini, Skiros, and Parnassas? You’d had to compete in a beauty pageant that Salmoneus had devised. We’d left before sun up, as you were anxious to get away before Hercules’ friend devised some new scheme to ensnare you. By late-morning, we’d found that field of flowers. We had some food and enjoyed ourselves all afternoon in the shade of the trees, the sweetness of the blooms light in the air. At one point, you rolled over and sat on a bee, being stung in the rear end for your trouble. I still chuckle at your look of shock and anger, and how you grimaced from time to time in the saddle after that. That was before I rode a horse of my own and didn’t often ride Argo with you. It may be in poor taste of me to admit, but I stole some glances at you that day and found it funny that the great Warrior Princess had been bested by a bee. Oh, but you were miserable. I know we camped that night near a stream, a very cold one at that, and the look of relief on your face when you sat down in it. I still smile at the memory. Truly, I do believe that falling in love with you was the easiest thing I ever did.

Bess and I did mostly all the same things on the trail that you and I did in the early days, before we were lovers. We caught and cooked our food, relying on what we found to stretch the rations we brought with us. We counted the stars when the clouds allowed it, and clung to each other when it was cold. The night it rained, we were miserable and short with each other – just as you and I were on more than one occasion. We cared for our horses, dog, and coyote making the journey to Astoria none the worse for wear.

We checked into a hotel and spent some time cleaning our clothing and ourselves before venturing into town. I’d made Mr. Serling’s acquaintance once before when I was in Astoria, although I was dressed as a woman at the time. Delores and I happened to run into him when we were out about town. Mr. Mercer’s instructions said to stop by the post office before heading to the bank; he’d mailed a letter of introduction for Mr. Serling that I was to take with me to the bank. We decided to eat at the hotel, I offered the man seating us five dollars to ignore the two canines sleeping at our feet under the table, which he did. I will say that on occasion, Sassy gets strange looks from people familiar with coyotes, but otherwise folks think her a lanky, if shy, dog.

The next day, we went to the bank and things got interesting. I announced myself to the bank teller; he excused himself to get Mr. Serling from the back. As I’d feared, he took one look at me and did a double take.

“Do I know you, sir?” he asked, clearly confused.

“No sir,” I replied, albeit sheepishly. “I believe you met my sister, Francis, who was a friend of Mrs. Cyrill Banks.” I tipped my hat to him. “My sister and I favor our mother,” I explained. I nodded and introduced my wife.

“Ahhh, yes. Francis and Delores,” he said with a warm smile. “Like two peas in a pod, those two.” Bess chuckled. I frowned at her in spite of myself.

He opened the letter of introduction and read it, glancing at me a couple of times as his eyes skimmed the paper. The bank wasn’t terribly busy first thing in the morning, but we weren’t the only ones there. A couple of young bucks ambled in, still unsteady on their feet from what I assumed was a night of drinking and whoring.

“Well, Mr. Stafford,” the bank manager continued, “all seems to be in order here. Mr. Mercer speaks quite highly of you, as did the Banks.” As he spoke, he gestured, guiding us to a table off to the side to conduct our business, away from the teller window and the vicinity of customers there to deposit or withdraw funds.

At the mention of my name, one of the young men turned around to look at me. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“Did you say your name was Stafford?” the lankier of the two said with appreciation. “Like Dead Shot Shorty Stafford?”

His shorter companion seemed a little older, but definitely a lot less respectful. “No, can’t be. Maybe he’s a relation. Dead Shorty was a fearsome fellow, not this little nothing.”

I did my best to ignore them and turned back to Mr. Serling. “You were saying?” I prompted, hoping he’d ignore the duo as well.

“Sam,” Bess said, fear threading her voice. She’d seen me be shot before we were lovers, white-hot concern was radiating from her now. I didn’t want my wife frightened by a couple of lowlifes.

“Sam! Samuel Stafford!” The taller of the two boys exclaimed. “It IS Dead Shot Shorty!” He turned to address me. “Where’s your gun, mister?”

I turned and spoke to him, my voice calm, but firm. “No gunfighters here son. You’ve got me confused with someone else. Now, if you’d just let us be?”

The tall fellow seemed mollified by my response and turned to the bank teller to do his business. The manager apologized and continued as if that was the end of it.

“The Banks were good customers for many years, and built up a lot of…good will and loyalty in this town,” he began, scanning the documents I’d handed him once again. “Their longstanding relationship is why certain…eccentricities…were tolerated.”

“I don’t follow,” I admitted honestly.

“Mr. Banks insisted that his wife, Mrs. Banks be given the same accommodation when it came to opening or closing accounts. Her signature was as good as his as far as this bank is concerned and that was not our doing mind you, but Cyrill’s. When he took sick, Mrs. Banks wanted to get him to a warmer, dryer climate as quickly as possible to give him the best chance at recovery. That necessitated her remaining behind and putting his affairs in order.”

“My understanding is that when she followed him to the New Mexico territory his health had indeed improved and they were able to share some time together before his conditioned worsened.” I replied. “I maintained a correspondence with the Banks,” I added, not feeling the need to tell him to which Banks I was referring. “I think her alacrity was the right course of action. They were both pleased with the decision they’d made?”

Mr. Serling nodded indicating his agreement. “Yes, Cyrill wrote to me saying the same thing. What I mean, Mr. Stafford, is that Mrs. Banks left a box here with instructions that it be kept in our safe and that should word come from Mr. Mercer, I am to release the box to you. Given our understanding with the Banks, I did not question the request, but agreed that we would and we have. I can go get it if you’d like it now.”

Before he could stand, I heard the scrape of a boot heel on the floor behind me and knew that the two blokes had turned their attention back to me. I looked at Mr. Serling’s desk and didn’t find much to work with. He had a pen and a bottle of ink and a blotter on his desk, and some papers. Nothing much else. It would have to do.

No sooner had I taken inventory of the banker’s desk then a rough hand grabbed my shoulder, its owner exclaiming, “I’m sure you’re Dead Shot Shorty!”

I grabbed the pen and plunged it into the back of the hand on my shoulder. The shorter of the two men screamed in pain and surprise as I stood, my hand on his, holding his wrist at an excruciating angle. I drew the gun from his holster and pointed it in the face of his taller, lankier companion.

“If you fellas don’t mind,” I said keeping my voice calm, “a family friend has passed, and my wife and I are here to see to some final requests. If I’m the gunfighter you think I am, then I don’t think anyone is going to try and stop me if I kill you two fuckers.” I looked around the bank with the two boys who followed suit. Everyone went back to their business, giving no indication of anyone having any interest in helping them. The boys had shed their earlier bravado and now looked scared. I decided to let them go before one of them pissed himself in the bank. I released the short one, yanking the pen out of his hand as I went. He yelped in pain but was more interested in leaving. His companion followed on his heels as quickly as he could. He even tipped his hat to me in apology. I handed the pen back to Mr. Serling with apologies of my own.

“Sorry about that,” I said, resuming my seat.

He took the pen and frowned at it, as the nib was now dripping with blood and ink. “Yes, well…” he said, putting the bloody pen in his desk drawer. “If you will excuse me, I’ll go get your box.” He stood, nodding politely to Bess as passed her.

Once we were alone, Bess chuckled. “You had to go and stab that poor fool.”

I grinned, defending my actions to her, “It was that or hit him in the head with the bottle of ink, which I thought would make more of a mess.”

“Maybe you should just travel with walking stick or a broom handle. Something that won’t kill folks, but teach them a lesson all the same.”

Xena, the grin I gave her was completely genuine. “I will take that under advisement, my love.”

Mr. Serling returned with the box under his arm. It was a strong box. Probably two feet by two feet, and perhaps six inches high. He took a key from his pocket and opened the lock holding it closed. Inside were three things: another, smaller box, a large leather folio, and a well-worn leather journal. “This box is for Mrs. Stafford,” Mr. Serling said, reading a note attached to the small box. I nodded to my wife; she picked it up and opened it. Inside was the diamond broach from Italy I’d given Delores. I blinked back tears, moved beyond measure that Delores wanted Bess to have it. “These are for you,” he said pushing the folio and journal in my direction. I looked at the journal first. Written in Cyrill’s neat script was a list of all of his business contacts, people from around the country and overseas – a treasure trove of people I could contact as an acquaintance of Cyrill Banks. In my worldwide search Xena, this was more valuable than a mining car full of gold. The leather folio contained a collection of the most beautiful maps I’d ever seen. Maps of the west, the southwest, the British territories, and colonies above America, the lands of South American and beyond. I recognized many places I’ve traveled to, but there were many places I have not visited. Again, this was of value beyond measure. She knew, somehow Delores knew that what I needed was a way to search the globe and here she’d handed me two incredibly helpful tools.

Mr. Serling watched me as I examined my inheritance. He was curious, nothing more. Bess was weeping, both at the loss of her friend and her generosity. Comfortingly, I reached out and held her hand.

Coming to a decision, I released Bess’ hand and reached into my coat for some paperwork of my own that I’d brought with me. I handed him the sheaf of documents, which entailed some of my business holdings and assets.

“Mr. Serling, I like you. You seem a decent fellow and if you had the trust of Mr. and Mrs. Banks, well that goes a long way with me. I would like to open an account in your bank. I’d like to get to a place where I’m afforded the same tolerance for eccentricities as you afforded my friends. I think you’ll find I’m a profitable man to be in business with, and I value honesty and loyalty above all things.”

He looked over the papers, his eyes unable to mask how impressed he was. He knew he wasn’t hiding his obvious interest. He was a businessman, a banker; he’d be a fool to turn down a client such as myself. He chuckled to himself and said, “I’d be an idiot to say ‘no’ to Dead Shot Shorty, now wouldn’t I?”

I laughed along with him, and then we spent the next hour or so hammering out arrangements. Bess was patient and quiet through it all; even as I made it clear, I required she be afforded the same accommodation as Delores. Mr. Serling didn’t understand it of course, but as he was in no position to argue, he didn’t.

When we left the bank, we stayed in town for several days. First, it was to show Bess the haunts where Delores and I would spend our time – the shops, restaurants, and the hotel. Mind you, I don’t think it in poor taste; rather, it was a way for my wife to feel closer to both of us, to have insight to a relationship that had been kept from her. After that, we explored on our own, made new memories, even went to the beach so she could put her feet in the ocean, cold as it was. Xena, this was something you would have appreciated. It was like your look of boundless joy when you’d fly a kite. She shrieked with joy when an unexpected wave soaked the bottom of her dress. I let the image of her imprint on my mind and I intend to do a rendering of it sometime when I have the proper drawing tools.

I do believe there are perfect moments in life. Not many of them, mind you, but they happen. This trip for us, for all that was happy and for all that was sad, was one of life’s perfect moments.

January 10th, 1860- Tuesday

My Dearest Xena,

This winter has been cold. I have been very glad that my work of late is something I can do next to a warm fire. I have been going through Mr. Banks’ journal, reading his notes about his various business contacts and authoring letters of introduction. Where appropriate, I send letters or employ the telegraph system. For Christmas, Bess bestowed a beautiful magnifying glass upon me, flawless in its lens and quite powerful. It has been most helpful in studying the minute details of the different maps in the collection. My heart races as I see new opportunities and strategies, matching the various contacts to their locations on the different maps. If it is of any interest to you, for Christmas I gifted my wife with a collection of volumes from authors such as Charles Dickens, Jules Verne, Elizabeth Gaskell, and Charlotte Bronte. I will confess I also gave her a book of cookery from France, as she is interested in the history of the art, not that she needs it.

Christmas was a subdued affair. With Hoss and his family in San Francisco, it was different. A house is eerily quiet without children underfoot. We still had Christmas feast with Ruby, Scarlett, and Abagail; the ham and trimmings were delicious. We enjoyed ourselves. I felt a little left out, needing to hold closer to my role as a man and husband with Scarlett and Abagail in the house. They chatted about business over cards as I retired to the parlor to read. I tell you, their confectionary company has blossomed tremendously. I still felt left out though.

I don’t know if it was the season, or if it was something else, but not long after Christmas, Bess and I had quite the disagreement. As you know, I can be stubborn. So can my wife. Surprisingly though, I see her stubbornness as an achievement. When we first met, courted, and married, she was demure. Even though she knew I was a woman, be it how I dressed or the role I play, she treated me very much as a man in deferring to me in all things. On occasion, she spoke up for herself, but if there were difference of opinion, she would always defer to me. When we became lovers, she continued to grow in confidence and as she did, the willingness to relent when she thought she was right subsided. I’m sure you would agree that was a good thing.

I’d surmise that she and I fight the same as any other married couple, same as you and I. Well, no one has been drug behind a horse or thrown off a cliff, so maybe not to the level as us. In any event, we have our spats and in time either I will apologize, or she will, or we end up meeting in the middle.

On this particular occasion, Bess and I were over at Ruby’s home. We visit quite often, not just socially but also because of the business. Scarlett and Abagail had gone into town to take delivery of some citrus fruit, oranges, and lemons from California. They were working on a large order of chocolate morsels with a soft citrus center. Bess and Ruby were going over the books and talking about the business. I suggested that a change in the sourcing of their ingredients and a modification to their production process would yield more profit. Bess was only half listening to me. I could tell because she didn’t even look up at me when she said, “Sam, we ladies have this well in hand. You need not concern yourself with the goings on of the kitchen.”

It stung. Upon reflection, I suppose it stung because living as a man is really beginning to chafe me. No, it hasn’t been as bad as it was in the beginning, I realize I do have an oasis of a home where I can, for the most part, relax, but still… At any rate, I have digressed. I replied, when holding my tongue would have been the wiser course.

“My dear, I am ever much a woman as everyone else in your company, not to mention the person supplying the financial stake.”

It was a mistake. I knew it as soon as I said it. Bess put the pencil down and her brown eyes bore into mine. “If you would be so good as to review our books, you will see that not only have we repaid the seed money you fronted us, but we have returned a twenty percent profit on your investment.

“Furthermore, Samantha, you do not get it both ways, other than in the bedroom of course. You do not get to be a man when it suits you and a woman when it otherwise suits you. You go vote, buy property and businesses, and travel in relative safety. You walk into town and enjoy instant freedom and respect afforded one of your assumed station and sex. You are not entitled to all of that, while simultaneously being one of us as well. I am grateful that you leave that pot on the mantle full of money for my use, but don’t kid yourself that it is for my convenience – it is because I don’t have a bank account of my own to utilize, or any access to a myriad of things I can’t do without your permission – legally!”

“But,” I protested.

“I’m not finished, husband,” she continued, standing up which afforded her the ability to look down at me, even in my boots. I looked to Ruby for help. She arched an eyebrow in my direction, daring me to interrupt my wife a second time. I kept my mouth shut. “I don’t deny that the role you’ve chosen to play has cost you. It isn’t the clothes, but the fraud that chafes you like an ill-fitting saddle. But Samantha, that is the choice you have made. You were successful at your charade because you can pull it off. Not all of us can. For those of us who are none but what our femininity allows us to be, you will find no sympathy here at you bemoaning your inability to be able to dip in and out of this pool at your pleasure or advantage.”

The three of us were silent for a bit after that. I looked from Bess to Ruby. They were united and I couldn’t help but see it from their perspective. I didn’t like it, but they were right. There was a camaraderie and fellowship to their world that I would never fully be a part, and I missed that. The world that I inhabit often feels dull and uninteresting to me but Bess was right, I made that choice in order to have certain rights, freedoms, and respect from the dominant culture in this part of the world.

“May I see the books, please?” I asked as I moved over to the table in Ruby’s dining room. I remained standing rather than taking a seat at the table.

Ruby beckoned me over and Bess said to her, “Ruby, this is why you want a man who isn’t one by birth. They have the ability to listen, hear, and then step aside when someone else is right. Especially when that someone else is a woman.” I leaned over the table as my wife turned the ledger to face me. Her face was calm and relaxed, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Her anger had passed like a storm and evaporated.

I grinned at them sheepishly and quickly perused the numbers. They were impressive. Yes, they spent dearly on ingredients, but they were sourcing only the finest. There were inventories for any number of exotic spices and agents – all in my wife’s meticulous hand. They could be charging more, I was sure of it, but I also had to admit they were keeping an eye to their customers, which were the women who did the shopping and could justify small luxuries, but might balk at something pricier.

Coming to a decision, I stood and looked at the two of them. “I’m going to town and setting up an account at the bank for each of you. You will have full control to use the cash flow as you see fit. Shall I include Scarlett and Abagail as well?” There is no denying the surprise and delight in the two faces looking at me. Bess and Ruby made eye contact with each other before looking at me. It was as if they were conversing silently in a language I could not discern. Finally, my wife turned to me and spoke.

“It would be nice if we had an account for the business, something Ruby and I have equal access to. But I agree it would be nice if the girls each had their own account, to save money and do with what they will, but that need not be part of our company’s investment.”

Bess and Ruby were grateful. They each hugged me before I left. I rode Whiskey into town and made my way to the bank. Xena, I’ve done well for myself, I don’t deny it. I’ve worked hard and smart, and I’ve learned after all of these years how to read people. I rarely am taken advantage of, and I’ve prospered by working with solid folks. As such, when I walk into the bank, I’m greeted quickly by the bank manager and offered a seat in his office to discuss whatever I’ve a mind to discuss. No one objects to a coyote and, occasionally, a dog following me around, or gives me guff about nearly anything. I suppose being a retired gunfighter on that score helps as well.

At any rate, I daresay that this negotiation was the most difficult I’ve ever attempted. Satchel Givens, the manager, fought me on every point. He protested that women did not possess the facility to handle money. That they didn’t have the fortitude to resist being taken advantage of or swindled. That they preferred their men to do the money management for them so they could focus on child rearing. He had a litany of reasons he could not accommodate my request. In no way, in good conscience, could he put women in charge of their own accounts.

One of the nice things about 1860 is that there is more than one bank in a town the size of Oregon City. Granted, the newer one is an upstart, just getting started. I tipped my hat to Mr. Givens and rode to the other end of town. On my way, I happened to see one of Mr. Well’s stage coaches unloading at the jail. I rode over to say “hello” to Texas Jack, who was driving that trip. It was a simple delivery, so it was just Texas driving the team, and another fellow I’d not met, Jude Morgan, as lookout. I asked how long they’d be in town; they were leaving the next morning. I asked if I could hire them for an extra day off the books and they agreed. Had I not ridden with Texas Jack previously, and gotten him out of a scrape or two, I doubt he would have acquiesced but he said they’d have some work done on the wagon so it’d all be above board with Mr. Wells.

I continued on to the bank and met with Mr. John Simply, this bank’s manager. Young fellow who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two years. The bank was a small concern, but the vault was impressive and they seemed an outfit that was eager to move with the times. There was an assaying office inside, it was well kept with several fellows on hand who were armed and looked sharp. I didn’t need to introduce myself, everyone in there knew the shortest man in town. I asked if he’d mind if I drew on his men, to test them, and the fellows nodded. Mr. Simply looked puzzled, I wasn’t wearing a gun, but I tell you that I had my derringer out of my boot after those boys drew on me. They were good.

I told Mr. Simply of the troubles I experienced with the other bank. Namely, my desire to set up accounts for my wife’s company with her business partner and their two employees. I made it clear my displeasure with his competitor and their reluctance to acquiesce to my requests had vexed me enough to move all of my accounts to an establishment that could better meet my needs. Well, that was all it took. This man may have thought me crazy, or feeble-minded, or whatever, but I was the customer, and as I wasn’t asking for anything illegal, as unusual as it may have been, I was within my rights to throw my money wherever I might.

I made it clear to all of the bank staff who the four women were, what level of respect they were to receive, and that they could expect me to come to the women’s defense, should anyone hassle them in the bank. Paperwork signed, Mr. Simply and I shook hands, and I said I’d bring the ladies around tomorrow to sign the requisite papers.

The only thing that delights me more than the look on the faces of that quartet as they stroll into the bank tomorrow is the stop we will make beforehand in the reinforced stagecoach to withdraw all of my money from Mr. Given’s bank and then ride to the other side of town. When my family walks in with the chests in tow, they are going to look and feel as if they own the world. While it might be if only for a moment, I’m glad they’ll have it.

October 18th, 1860- Tuesday

My Dearest Xena,

A long time ago, you impressed upon me that you deal with the problem at hand. You keep your eyes open for what might be coming down the river, but the task at hand is the thing you focus on. I’ve kept that in mind all these many centuries; it has served me well, I must say. There are occasions however, when I allow myself the space and luxury to ponder my place in the universe and what the centuries to come might bring.

Sometimes it happens in my sleep, I will dream of a far-off land or life – from the small villages in distant Africa, to the grandiose courts of England, France, Italy, or Spain. I might wake up craving the delicate balance of spices of a chai from India, or wish a particular dish I’d enjoyed in Egypt was something I could enjoy at present.

I’ve wondered why the ambrosia affected me so much differently than Velasca or Callisto and can only surmise it was in the quantity consumed. My eyes have remained the same blue-green they have always been, I heal quickly, my memory has improved, and (within a pound or two) my weight and muscle tone has remained such as it ever was. My hair and nails grow at the normal rate. Truly, my ability to heal from even the most grievous of wounds quickly is really the only outward manifestation of my immortality.

I suppose this has been on my mind of late because of some aromatic infusions Bess recently concocted. One was spicy; a piquant that reminded me most vividly of Spain. The other combination was more of a chai, clove balance. The third was a light floral flavor with hints of lavender, which Bess achieved by infusing warm milk with lavender from our garden. We have an herb garden now, which is the envy of Oregon City. Our bounty is such that the girls have devised a means to let women in town who struggle to make a go of it sell bundles of herbs and keep the proceeds. There is plenty for the business, the inventory of which now includes all manner of breads, pastries, rolls, biscuits, and tarts…I could go on endlessly. I am grateful that my taste-testing does not show up on my waistline.

The days have been good. I am happy. There is much that is looking promising of late. A fellow named Abraham Lincoln has been nominated for President of the United States, the most impressive one of the four men vying for the job. I have read his speeches, and I am taken with his keen intellect and compassion. He is a lawyer from the states of Kentucky and Illinois. The rivalry between him and a rival politician named Stephen Douglass is well known, not unlike that of you and Callisto. Except in this case, neither adversary is certifiably insane.

Bess and I spend our days largely side-by-side, working either around the house, garden, barn, or at our respective tasks at the dining table. In her meticulous hand, she writes down recipes and flavor combinations she thinks will be suitable for all manner of baking creations. To a large extent, production is mainly handled by Ruby, Scarlett, and Abagail at this juncture of their enterprise. With dominion over their finances, they made the decision to invest in a new oven and cookware, installed in Ruby’s kitchen. I stay out of it, offering my opinion only when asked.

I maintain my correspondences with the contacts I’ve cultivated, both professional and personal. Hoss’ letters I enjoy the most. He writes to me often, as do the children, filling me in on their antics and adventures. He is a good man, a wonderful father, and I do wish I could see him more than the once or twice a year when I make the trip south. However, it is better to keep him at arm’s length at this point. It’s been nearly fifteen years I’ve been in America, and people will start noticing do not appear to be aging. I’m not as worried about Bess; when people know I’m a woman, they just assume I’ve taken care of myself well. As a man, not needing to shave my beard is a bit more noticeable after they have known me for more than a few years.

Recently, Hoss was uncommonly frank in his missive. He has family down south, a cousin in the cotton business. The slave-owning cotton business. He’s torn between his familial obligation, and what he knows to be morally right. I know how he feels. I myself was similarly torn between whom I love and what is right when I made my first trip to China, and it resulted in your imprisonment. I suspect Hoss will land on the side of right, family be damned, and I feel for his pain. From many of my contacts, the story is the same.

I have expanded my search to every Olympian we’ve ever met. People mention the unusual and remarkable in the course of their travels; I press them for details, vague and guarded, of course, but no one as yet has provided the sort of information that might stir my interest. Needless to say, I daily spend hours reading from a great many sources. Were it not for the hope of reviving you and moving ever closer to that, I would be envious of Bess’ task. There is naught in her work that causes grievance, whereas some of the news I read is decidedly not good.

I tell you Xena, this young nation is headed for war. I have no way to know if Ares survived the blast, Poseidon has not committed either way. I think he honestly doesn’t know for sure. Still, there is much in the world (and has always been) that has the mark of the God of War. The Crusades, Spanish Inquisition, countless other wars of conquest and revolution. Even as Americans are preparing to fight Americans, they are treating the native stewards of this land in a most heinous fashion. While generally my mood is light, this sort of news I hear from a myriad of sources does mar my disposition on occasion.

Bess can tell when I am feeling bleak. She is not happy about the situation any more than I am and contends with an even greater sense of helplessness. The men making these foul decisions are just that – men. Every war fought by this nation has been at the discretion and direction of men. That isn’t to say women can’t be formidable fighters, gods know I need not tell you that. And I have met Queen Elizabeth of England; as fearsome a general as there ever was. But by and large, I cannot help but wonder if we’d lived under the rule of Amazons, would the world be more peaceful? Again my love, I digress.

There is a remarkable correlation between my feeling defeated and Bess suggesting that we go to town, or go to Ruby’s, or I need try some new creation of hers in the kitchen. She has a knack for distracting me away from my own dire thoughts. She reminds me that financially, we support a number of abolitionist organizations, and so for the moment, that will have to suffice. Oregon only became a state in February of last year, so it is doubtful that we will have much say in the upcoming conflict. I do hope Mr. Lincoln has the stamina to see this thing through.

When I’m not writing or working around the property, I spend a fair amount of time at the bank. It is strange how my days of riding the trail and chasing after brigands of every sort, or providing security for a stage coach seem so far away. But this business at the bank is an adventure, and if I’ve learned nothing in all my years, it’s not to discount any opportunity once recognized as such.

Mr. Simply and I get on quite well. He’s a young fellow, quick, sharp, with a healthy sense of humor and a love of stories. He and I go for a drink from time to time to socialize. He is a solid individual, and I have designs on engaging him in more my business affairs as my work dictates. I am also on very good terms with a Barnett Hutchisson, Oregon City’s postmaster.

I met Hutch (as he is known by his friends) at a poker game. He was about to conclude a side deal with Able Fellows, a grifter that descends on Oregon City from time to time. If he isn’t selling some kind of snake oil or another, he has mining deeds, land grants, interests in all manner of imports. He can talk his way out of nearly anything and has no sense of decency. I asked a few pointed questions over a hand or two of cards and caught him flat-footed. Hutch changed his mind about the deal and we’ve been on excellent terms ever since. With the amount of time I spend at the post office, shipping packages or correspondence, having an inside man to look after my interests is helpful indeed.

Oh Xena, I do miss you so. There is no other word for it. I miss our life. Like the tides, the depth of my ache wanes and waxes. There is not a day, minute, or second that I don’t miss you, but at times it is of a measure that nearly drowns me.

I miss you when I’m lonely of course, when the world looks dark and I feel cold and bereft, but I also miss you when I’m happy and content. This may at first blush seem nonsensical, but I think you would understand my meaning. I should be spending my moments of bliss, of joy, humor, rejuvenation – all of these – with you. I long for nothing more than to spend the spectrum of life’s moments, from the ordinary to the sublime. In time, I can only hope that if I continue to search the world over, cultivate more eyes to stumble unwittingly upon clues – I must stay hopeful. If I am not, I fear for the bleakness to take hold that would indeed sap the world of every bit of its color and light from my eyes and heart.

January 24th, 1861- Thursday

My Dearest Xena,

How often it seems I grapple with heartbreak. The intellectual knowing that I will survive, and that my heart will mend (as does every other part of me) gives me no solace. In fact, I suspect that my heart now is nothing more than stitched together tatters, given the quantity of loss I have suffered these twenty centuries. Scarlett Fever has swept through Oregon City, and I fear that my dear Bess will be one of its victims.

As was with the other folks in town so afflicted, it began as a sore throat, intensely red in the esophagus with white spots of infection. Winter has been unusually cold and wet, the snowfall more than most can recall. I had hoped a simple sore throat was all it was. I brewed tea and made soup, hoping to fortify her and provide relief for her throat. She grumbled about my disrupting her kitchen but was content to stay in bed. That was how I knew it was serious. While I will say that my cooking is much better than during our time together, I am still not half the cook my wife is. When the rash that is the illness’ hallmark appeared and the fever intensified, I knew the outcome looked bleak. I have tended to her with my Chinese needles, pressure points, herbal medicines, all that my travels and time studying medicine have taught me. Still, while I feel that I am giving her comfort, some vigor, and hopefully more time, I do not feel like I am changing the course of the illness.

Everyone dies; it is simply a question of when, and under what circumstances. Yet, there is pattern and flow to it, and you can feel when a life is winding down, even if it is earlier than expected. Even with little Emily, I felt that she was finished, she had come to Earth and seen all she needed to and was ready for the next adventure. With Bess, I feel her fighting, Xena, she is not finished, she is not ready, and that is what breaks my heart.

In my life I have seen amazing amounts of knowledge and understanding be accumulated, and then lost, then accumulated again. I have seen all manner of breath-taking discovery and advancement. I can imagine a world one hundred, two hundred, three hundred years from now, with the kind of devices that Jules Verne writes about and all manner of medicine to cure all that sickens those I love. But today, in the here and now, there is little I can do. I can keep her comfortable and content, but I cannot turn the tide on this. Moreover, I know that Doc Weatherby cannot change the outcome, or I’d have that fool over here in a heartbeat.

I recall one evening in Italy, Galileo and I had finished a lovely dinner. He showed me a microscope that he’d recently made. He was an old man at the time, his eyes watery but still full of light and mischief. I disguised myself to look older than when he’d met me and I knew this would be one of our last meetings. We chatted about all that we had discovered in our lives and what things might come for future generations. A microscope is like a telescope to see far distant planets and bring them close. The difference is where you point it. A microscope is directed terrestrially to look more closely at everything from skin, to blood, to the small animals in a drop of water that would otherwise be invisible to the human eye. This was in the mid-1600s when the idea was new and exciting. It seemed plausible to us that if we could see small creatures in the water, there might be small creatures in us as well causing all manner of discord. This is of little comfort to me now of course, because even if it is small maleficent creatures draining the life from my wife, I have no weapon to fight them.

Bess is practical and resolute, and when she has the energy for it, very angry at this turn of events. She knows what Scarlett Fever is, and too often, its outcome. I’ve spent the better part of past two days writing down recipes she wants Ruby to have, as well as transcribing letters to all three women. Given the contagious nature of this illness, I will not let Ruby, Abagail, or Scarlett visit Bess in our bedroom. However, I have set up a bench under the awning outside our bedroom window. Not quite a tipi, but still a shelter of sorts, to protect them from the elements, with a fire to keep them warm, should they want to chat with her through our bedroom window. They know Bess can speak but in pained whispers, so they do the talking, telling stories and chatting together the way they always do.

In the evening, it’s my turn. Here again Xena, is another example of my personal evolution. I remember vividly, not long before you and I met, a particularly gifted bard came through Potidaea. Oh, but this man could paint with words. Seeming effortlessly, he transported me to another place and time, I felt as though I could smell the flowers blooming on Mt. Olympus. He was recounting a tale of intrigue about the gods, the birth of Athena as I recall. What I took away from that performance was a desire to be that good. To be able to tell a tale, to bend space and time with my words. I thought of it as a craft, a technical thing I could hone the way you sharpened your sword. I recall bristling from time to time, when in various villages people would say I had a “gift,” but I saw it as no gift. Prophecy is perhaps a gift, but being a bard is hard work, requiring study and practice. You know better than most of my experiments with pacing and tempo, deciding what voice suited a particular story best, or my agony seeking the exact word I needed to compete a picture.

As I have grown, I have reassessed my original position on the issue. Being a bard is indeed a gift; it is a gift of my own making that I share as an act of love. To be able to transport someone from their reality, if only for a little while. If I can make them feel less alone, less frightened, more hopeful, or laugh, or encourage a much-needed cry, then it is indeed a gift. I know I will never be the best story teller, I’ve met so many who are so much more skilled than I. William Shakespeare would be the first to tell you that – but I do know that I am the best at saying what I want to say with my own voice. Knowing I have provided comfort and distraction to my dying wife, this is indeed a gift I am blessed to have provided.

February 12th, 1861- Tuesday

My Dearest Xena,

The days have been agonizing. Granted, it isn’t anything I’ve not endured more times than I can count, but it doesn’t get any easier. In the first days after you died, I felt this sadness and ache calcify around my heart. It was as if I would never feel joy or happiness again. I’d wake up from a dead sleep sobbing. I felt unmoored and adrift in feelings of bereavement that the whole of me could in no way contain. That is why I believe I began to hallucinate, imagining your apparition at my side, talking to me, guiding me, keeping me from being alone. It is a traumatic thing to have the other half of your soul cleaved from you, and while it was not my first experience with that agony with you, it was still unbearable.

With Bess, there have been more similarities than I had expected. Over the years, I have lost so many loved ones, but I suppose it is in part the similarity and the reversal of our roles in our relationship that causes this loss to affect me as it does. So often, I think of you, or feel that I am seeing the situation from your perspective. I can’t help but imagine that this is where you would have found yourself, had I died. I do not feel lost; no, I feel as if I have an undiluted view of the loneliness that stretches out in front of me. Quite selfishly, I see empty days and lonely nights. I see the architecture of a house that was once a home, made so by a soft voice and charming spirit. I have lived enough to know exactly how rare it is to find someone that you can love and respect. Someone whose company you genuinely enjoy, whose presence grounds you. Having made the choice to keep my heart open, to feel all the joys that life can bring, means I must endure its sadness as well. The thought of happiness or the possibility of finding another love in the years ahead means nothing to me now. I hurt, and I don’t want to consider the next minutes, much less the years.

In Bess’ final weeks, I spent most of the day stretched out alongside her in bed holding her. She was comfortable, moving in and out of consciousness. My work with the needles had helped but not enough. I knew her time had wound down to perhaps a day or two. She was worried about me catching her illness of course, I assured her I harbored no such concerns. The wind was fierce, howling with cold force as if nature itself were mourning the inevitable. At one point, she rolled her head onto my shoulder and whispered to me, “Sam I am not afraid. I am not afraid to die. That is not why this infirmity vexes me so.”

“Then why, love? Why are you fighting with all the tenacity of Hercules at his labors? Besides knowing I will be lost without you, of course.” I was holding her hand, careful of her skin, which was now peeling off, gently stroking the healthy portion of her palm.

She chuckled, coughed at the effort, and then answered my question with a question. “Sam, if I’d met you before I’d been sent off to Caleb; do you think there would have been a chance, for us?”

I shifted to put my arm around her and hold her close. I needed to decide; I could be honest, or I could fill her head with all the things I knew she wanted to hear. Unbidden, your words from so long ago came back to me. When I held you before we were crucified, you’d said to me, “I wish I would have read your scrolls just once.” In that moment, your confession, while painful on the surface, in fact filled me with joy. It did not occur to you to lie to me even then, to be anything but honest. I will tell you that I don’t know if I ever felt closer to you than in that moment. I was reminded powerfully that I held the other half of my soul, my being once again rejoined.

I stroked her hair, damp from the fever, as I replied. “Love, I don’t know that I would have been brazen enough to court you. And I assure you, the loss would have been very much mine.”

“Ever the diplomat,” she murmured. “My gunfighter, fearful of a brunette.” I almost thought she’d drifted off again, as she spent much of her last days in and out of consciousness. It was rare I’d get much in the way of liquids down her and I could feel her strength seeping away as her body wound down. “Do you think you will marry Ruby?” she asked.

The question surprised me, as did my emotional response. “Bess, I’ve no desire to marry again – Ruby or anyone else. Love, do you not feel the honestly of my love for you?”

She smiled, her eyes misting over a bit. “I have never been loved so completely by another soul, nor experienced the tenderness and devotion you have showed me, Samantha Stafford. I had never known such yearning in my own soul until you rewarded it. But I have no desire for you to be alone, to stay solitary in your secret, even as it gnaws at you. I do not want to leave you for my own selfish reasons my husband, but neither do I want to leave you for yours.”

I blinked back tears. Her words hit home. I was going to be very lonely for a long time. “Always looking out for me,” I murmured. “I suppose I will have to move on, go somewhere and perhaps and live as a woman, but not in a regular town, maybe explore…”

“I would ask that you take Tequila with you. He’s attached to Sassy and Whiskey, and he would miss Bourbon. I know it will slow you down but…”

“I will do as you ask love, but please rest. Can you take a sip of tea?” I moved to get up and she weakly pushed me back. She was comfortable, and I wasn’t going to make her otherwise.

“I also want you to take some cookware, my knives, and the quilt I made to the Crow. Leave the rest of it to Ruby and the girls.” I winced at her pragmatism, but could see she was weeping too. Despite her statements to the contrary, she was frightened, and tired. She spoke again though, exerting effort to make sure I could hear her. “Samantha, have you ever felt a love so deep and wide that all the pain you suffered to get there was completely worth it? That one lifetime simply could not contain it?”

I did not hesitate in my response. “Yes, Bess, I have known that kind of love.”

“Then you know that I go to meet my maker having felt that for you. That you have been my salvation. This is a debt I can never repay. That is why I fight for each day, Sam. An extra day to search for the words that always do your bidding. I want to let you know what you have meant to my life. Being Elizabeth Stafford has brought me more joy and contentment that I ever thought existed in the world. I hope if there is another life beyond this that I find you sooner next time. Since that day you lost your bowler hat in the gunfight…” she paused to catch her breath, “I felt drawn to you then, but I didn’t have the understanding to know what it meant. I took some of Caleb’s hidden money to buy you that black short-crown hat, and then left it outside your door. I didn’t know why I did it Samantha. Even then, you drew me in as a siren’s song does the sailor. You are my true north.”

I felt her smile Xena, and knew she could feel my tears splash lightly on her forehead. “My wife,” I whispered trying to keep the break from my voice. “Once again, you have rendered me speechless.”

I helped her shift back into a comfortable position once the coughing brought on by her laughter abated. “Tell me a story Sam; I want to drift off to the sound of your voice and the feel of your breath on my skin. I need not worry about heaven Sam, I am already there.”

I could feel her relax and let go and as I told my story, the last of mine that she would ever hear. I spoke through the night as I felt her slip into deeper levels of unconsciousness. Shortly before the sun came up, she was gone. I suppose it was fitting that the wind stopped, as if her departing spirit quelled nature itself.

I would like to say that at this point, there was not much crying left in me, but it would be a lie. Yes, I was relieved that her suffering was over and her last moments were peaceful. Instead, I wept for myself, what I had lost, and my loneliness. For a long time I held her, cursing myself for not being a better husband or letting her know more fully how she had brightened my life. Time and again, I let the people I love slip away with the feeling that I never adequately convey to them the depths of my heart. I sobbed and held onto her until I was ready to let go, kissing her one last time and saying my final goodbye. It was only then I made to the business of everything that comes after.

First, I stopped the pendulum on the tall case clock in the parlor. It will not move again until Bess is laid to rest. I stay current where ever I am with the accepted rites and rituals of the day, and funeral pyres are not the way of farewell in this culture. I bathed, donned a fresh clothing, and made for Ruby’s to tell the girls that Bess had gone.

My friend took one look at me, wrapped her arms around me, and cried. It was most inappropriate, but I didn’t care. Neither did Scarlett and Abagail, who hugged me and cried too, none of them mentioning my swollen, red eyes, and tear stained cheeks. They were expecting her death of course, it but sad nonetheless. As in our time, death is an accepted part of life, with different roles played by men and women. A bit uncommon perhaps, but I insisted on preparing Bess for burial myself. That is something usually attended to by women and while Ruby took it in stride, she needed to make my case to Scarlett and Abagail. In part as a distraction, they were tasked with writing the invitations for the funeral and notifying Jackson Stall, the undertaker.

Having lived through numerous epidemics of every manner of ailment, I am well versed in how to make a home safe from a contagion. I bathed Bess, dressed her in her favorite dress, and styled her hair in a manner she fancied. I wept as I worked until I felt that the last of my tears had been painfully wrung from me. I laid her out in the parlor. As cold as it’s been, I didn’t worry as I might in the middle of summer. There would be time for the customary viewing and internment in the town cemetery.

I composed myself before going to town to buy black crepe that I will use to cover the mirror and appropriately dress the house. Fully back in my role as a man, I was quieter than usual and didn’t have to break the news to anyone. No one had to tell them, my emergence from the house was the signal everyone understood after having been ensconced in our home for the duration. The greetings were sympathetic and heartfelt, and Jackson insisted that I accept the gift of a beautiful mahogany casket for Bess, something far beyond anything she would have expected. I accepted his kindness, as I did the kindness of the town; in the spirit of which it were offered.

Sheriff Northingham in particular seemed moved. He always had a soft spot for my wife. Bess was much loved. Not just the baking and the confections that seemed to brighten a person’s day, I think everyone noticed and were glad of her evolution. She had gone from being a person people pitied, or just didn’t notice, to someone who they respected and admired. She never felt sorry for herself or her circumstance, took every opportunity to better herself, and did her best to help anyone that needed it. She was a fixture at Whiskey Pete’s, taking a basket of loaves daily, wanting both patrons and providers to have something to soak up the alcohol in their bellies. These weren’t loaves deemed imperfect, or something that they couldn’t sell. No, these were the same as the others; she simply wanted something warm and fresh to brighten a place that too often seemed dark and dank. She also helped children in town learn to read, knowing all too well the doors to imagination such a skill could open.

At the viewing in our parlor, the funeral, and thereafter in the gathering back at our home, people let me know how Bess had touched their life and the sadness they felt for me. I walked to the cemetery behind the wagon carrying my wife’s casket, Ruby, Abagail, and Scarlett – the women closest to us – at my side. They wore the garments of mourning; black dresses, replete with veils and gloves. For my part, I wore a black armband on my shirt. Despite the rain and the cold, scores of mourners followed the casket. They gathered in the cemetery to see her elegant mahogany coffin lowered into the ground. Her first husband is also here, off to the far side, in an area overgrown with weeds and visited by no one. Bess was given a place of honor, and I was amazed as to the gorgeous workmanship of her headstone. It is an amazing thing in life to leave it such that your presence is missed and people care, even the people (especially the people) that you didn’t realize noticed you.

The preacher spoke, folks prayed and sang hymns. Bess had requested The Ash Grove, a favorite of hers. I heard the melody and haunting lyrics, but I also heard your voice Xena, singing as you would when someone we loved died. The sound of your voice was so haunting and soothing on the night air as we stood watch over the people we love as they returned to the earth in the purifying fires of the funeral pyre. I don’t pray with the town’s folk, obviously; rather, I take those moments of quiet reflection to commit the details to memory; the sound of the wind in the trees, the cold air on my skin, the light trying to break through the clouds. I know this feeling of hurt is not sustainable, this emptiness and longing – in time it will fade and I will focus on the good memories and happy recollections when I think of my wife. Perhaps that is why I try to be fully present in the moment with my pain, to give it its due, knowing it will recede as does the tide.

 I am grateful anew that Bess and I do not have children. Were I a single father, the pressure to marry again quickly would be intense. Still, the assumption is that once a man has had a wife, he is no longer suited to fend for himself after her death and some social pressure comes to bear. In part because of this, I have made the decision to leave Oregon City, exactly where to I do not know.

I will confer with Ruby, decide how best how to put my affairs in order before I proceed. In the meantime, I will visit my Crow family to tell them of Bess’ passing. As far as town is concerned, I am off dealing with my grief on the trail that I rode for so many years, which I suppose isn’t too far astray of where I am.

I suspect Ruby will choose to move into our house, as it is closer to the tree line of the forest than is the King place. I know she sees Long Feather as often as they dare and the added privacy would make their rendezvous all the easier. We have had a frank discussion about the topic. She knows that in time it is likely she will become pregnant, she doesn’t want to leave the life she’s made for herself here, but knows her social position is tenuous at best. Long Feather will not be accepted into white society here, to the loss of white society, of course. And while I do believe the Crow would be welcoming to Ruby, she doesn’t want to leave Abagail and Scarlett or the work for which she’s found a passion. I’ve told her I will consider her predicament during my hours on the trail and see if I might come up with any advice. Ultimately, she knows her heart and the consequences.

March 22nd, 1861- Friday

My Dearest Xena,

With deliberation, I saddled Whiskey and loaded Tequila with the things I wanted to take to the Crow. Both the bequests from my wife and the things I wanted to pass on to my other family as well. I know it is time for me to move on and I suspect I will not have many more visits with my Crow family. I am also looking ahead to what I will keep with me as I make my way to my next incarnation. My basic traveling gear, revolver, rifle are the tools of survival on the trail. I will also keep the book of maps and the contacts left to me by Delores safe and close. On a sentimental note, I always keep your breast dagger with me, and I also have several daguerreotype prints. I have one of Bess, one of Bess and myself, another of Bess and her trio of Confectionary Comrades, and finally, one of Hoss’ family. These have been slipped into the collection of maps. I will keep them with me for the next decade or two until I am ready to part with them. The image of Bess I may keep longer. I am also carrying the magnifying glass Bess gave me one Christmas and the Italian broach Delores bequeathed to her. I wanted to take some things to the Crow that they may remember me by, or that can be of help to them. I have no doubt that I will feature in their storytelling for some time to come, as I’ve already heard wonderful renditions of the stories I’ve told on which they have embellished. I have several extra guns, bullet making tools, some blankets, and well-crafted tools. These things will be of value to them. With care, I packed up some candies and traveling bread made before Bess became ill. Again, centuries of knowledge and experience have taught me how to make sure that the things I bring bear no risk of illness to my Crow family.

There are other things I will send back to Italy to keep in one of my company warehouses, but that can wait. I’ve begun to pack several trunks and it just hurt too much so I’ve put them aside. This trip was about taking the gifts Bess had bequeathed to the only folk aside from myself that she saw as her kin.

The trail was cold, wet, and quiet, which matched my mood. Sarsaparilla and Bourbon spent most of the time on horseback. Sassy rode with me; Bourbon perched on Tequila in a spot between the traveling bags and cases where he could ride steady. I didn’t hurry. I was happy of the quiet and not having to speak about Bess’ passing. I rode until I felt the horses needed to stop. The parts of me that didn’t hurt from heartache were numb from grief so it didn’t much matter to me if I would have continued on or not, but you impressed upon me how important it is to respect your partner on the trail and the horses come first. My canine companions caught a rabbit on occasion and several nights I fished for the three of us.

When I finally crossed into Crow lands, I was greeted shortly thereafter. They all know me by sight and traveling alone with a laden-down horse tells a story that they understood without words. Standing Bear greeted me with sadness in his eyes. He looks much older now. While he recovered from his more serious injuries from the skirmish with the Sioux, the healing has taken a toll on him.

“Your sorrow stretches out, my sister- like the burning glow of a sunset,” he said in greeting, briefly touching his forehead to mine. “Our songbird has gone to walk with her ancestors?”

I shrugged. “She has left this world, my friend. Where she has traveled to I am not certain.”

He nodded understandingly. It was something that I didn’t have to articulate. My friend knew that while I lived among the society of European immigrants, the English the palefaces, he knew I was not exactly one of them. I suppose by his belief system, Bess was reunited with her ancestors and someday I will be reunited with mine, never to see each other again, as we come from different peoples. I suppose from my perspective, one just need go back far enough to find we are all eventually from one family.

Morning Rain took my hands, the pain in her eyes evident as well. “Where I come from we have a saying,” I said. “That when you think of the dead, the dead can hear your thoughts.”

She nodded in understanding, looking in my eyes with such empathy. “My sister, you will feel the sun on your face, a warmth on your skin that will be her thinking of you. There might be no sun in the sky, the clouds thick as the hide of a buffalo, but you will still feel it.”

The boys, Long Feather and Red Moon, unloaded the trunks and gear from Tequila. As they worked, we were joined by man I had not yet met. He was thin, with muscles that stood out in sharp relief, as if chiseled in stone. It took only a moment for me to see the family resemblance to Standing Bear, although this man looked as if he did very hard work and ate infrequently.

“This is my kin, Running Wolf,” Standing Bear said by way of introduction. “Back for a time from his quest to the north. He brings us news of his adventures.”

I smiled and grasped his arm in greeting. “My friend Standing Bear has spoken highly of his little brother,” I said, still speaking in our common language of French. “I am honored to meet another of this great family.”

“You are most kind,” he answered in English, surprising me. He chuckled, his eyes twinkling a bit mischievously. “Unlike my brother, I am not offended by the language of the white man. When trading, it is useful to know as many tongues as you can muster.”

I was invited to join in the celebratory supper, which began as a memorial for Bess. Morning Rain marveled at the quilt my wife had made, and everyone enjoyed the breads and sweets I’d brought. I was asked if there was a ritual or rite that could be observed in her honor, as they did not know the burial customs of the English. I suggested that a fond remembrance, if anyone was willing to share, would honor her memory. I was humbled at the outpouring of love and kindness as everyone who had met her wanted a moment to remember her and observe a custom that would bring her stature.

As the evening wore on, talk shifted to Running Wolf’s tales of the frigid north and the people he encountered there. They had many different tribes that lived in the harsh wilderness, many with different names, languages, and customs. He showed us trinkets he’d traded for that depicted spirits and animals so different in design from the Crow. He told us about the sea life, describing whales, otters, seals, eagles, and more; great beasts of the ocean with black and white bodies and sharp teeth. He had a beautifully woven basket with carved totems, a fired clay pot, a knife, and other ornaments.

Running Wolf was very different from his brother in one significant respect – the man was a born story teller, crafting his words to conjure vivid images in the mind. Standing Bear is a man of thought, not effusive or prone to exaggeration. Running Wolf, on the other hand, could talk Bacchus out of a bottle of wine.

I stayed for a couple of days, sleeping under the stars, warm under the furs of my Crow family. During the day, I went over some of my maps with Running Wolf trying to determine where he had traveled. It was just after mid-day of the second day when we were drawn from our conversation by a commotion at the edge of the encampment. I was summoned by a breathless Red Moon to join him. Several braves, who had been out hunting, had returned with an unconscious man wrapped in furs on a litter. I watched while Standing Bear examined the unconscious man. He then looked up to me and asked for my assessment.

While I consider the Crow my family, I also know I am a visitor in their house. As such, I try to comport myself as any guest would, and here, that means waiting for the chief to ask for your input before you offer it. I felt the man’s forehead, which was quite hot. I took his pulse, and I didn’t have to get very close before I detected the stench of infection. Not Scarlett Fever, mind you, or Small Pox, or other such ailment. No, this man smelled of untreated injury. His skin was dark, darker than Marcus was; from what I could see from a hasty peek under the furs, his shoulders, arms, and legs were scarred. I suspected him to be an escaped slave and said as much to my friends. They agreed, and he was taken to the tipi where the sick and infirm are treated. There is a place there for fire and medicinal herbs, the smoke of which would help stem the spread of infection.

The man drifted in and out of consciousness. He didn’t say anything coherent, although I did note mutterings in English, and a word or two of an African dialect with which I was familiar. While it was doubtful that this man came from the central coast of Africa, I believed that his forebears had. With the help of Standing Bear’s sons and Running Wolf, we stripped him of his filthy clothes.

As I feared, there was significant infection to injuries on his back. Strips of flesh had been torn by whip and were oozing and stagnant. I asked for some honey and maggots to put in the wounds before wrapping them. Washing his skin revealed more lacerations and bruising, fortunately there were no broken bones. His feet were blistered and bleeding, the soles barely protected by strips of hide lashed to his feet with leather strips.

I took the pulses of his feet, and then administered my Chinese needles to his legs and abdomen. My examination assured me that the state of the wound on his back comprised the primary obstacle facing this man, in addition to the obvious dehydration and malnutrition. I stayed up with him through the night, grateful that he seemed to sleep restfully and without worsening.

The next morning was another matter as he woke in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by people he’d clearly been instructed to fear. Before he could bolt upright, I jabbed at a couple of pressure points, rendering him immobile. “Please stay still,” I urged, after asking my Crow brethren to leave us for the time being. “We are trying to help you. You are grievously hurt. Your back is rife with infection; no one here is going to hurt you. What is your name, sir?” To further demonstrate my allegiance, I repeated what I’d said in various African languages. I felt comfortable doing this alone with him, not wanting to explain to the Crow how I had come to know nearly a dozen African tribal tongues.

When I hit upon the right one, his eyes lit up, indicating to me that I had found the correct region – the central African coast in this case. “My name is Samantha, you are safe.”

On my journey to the Crow, I had already made the decision that regardless of where I go, for the foreseeable future, I will live my next life as a woman. I was not ready to return to the Adele Sparrow persona, so Samantha Stafford could work for me for the time being. I released his paralysis and quietly, he answered me, “Moses, my name is Moses.” I smiled at him and urged him to drink some water before returning to sleep and that we would talk more when he was stronger.

He slept for a long time. I traded watch over him with Running Wolf in the event he woke up because Standing Bear’s brother also spoke English. Long Feather shook me awake when Moses woke. In moments, I was at his side. With assistance, he could stand, allowing Running Wolf to assist him in making his way to a place where he could relieve himself. I was grateful that his body was going about the business of healing. I asked his permission to check his wounds, which caused him to regard me strangely; apparently surprised a white person would ask his permission for anything. Realizing I was serious, he nodded. In unsure phrases, heavy with the accent and dialect of the southern states, he explained that he had indeed left the Bon Séjour sugar plantation, made his way across the Mississippi, then north and finally out west. The breadth of his journey was staggering, especially given the degree of infection he was suffering from. I was amazed that he’d not been caught and either returned to the plantation, or worse.

To my surprise and delight, Moses understands a bit of French. He speaks a language called Creole, which has its roots in French and West African languages, which is where his family was taken.

While not my original plan, I think I will stay on with the Crow to assist in Moses’ recovery. I want to make sure that everyone is safe. I am not worried about my friends hurting Moses, but I do worry that his fear may get the best of him. To escape where he was and to have survived as long as he has, I have no doubt that he is a man who is desperate to survive. Desperate men can act without thinking, seeing a threat where there is none.

June 17th, 1861- Monday

My Dearest Xena,

I am alone in my home now, wandering its rooms for the last time. I made my way back from the Crow when Moses was recovered enough for me to do so. After days of receiving nothing but care from his hosts, he came to realize that they were not going to harm him, nor were they going to sell him back into slavery. When it finally dawned on him that he was a free man, the expression on his face was not one I will ever forget.

My fears of for these United States have been realized in that on April 12th, the southern Confederate Army fired on Fort Sumter, near Charleston, South Carolina. States have seceded from the Union and President Lincoln is determined that the United States of America will be preserved in whole. The country is now engaged in civil war and I have no idea how long this will last. While Oregon is away from the fighting, tensions are raised and people are on edge, as everyone here has roots elsewhere, many people with extended family in harm’s way.

I have wrapped up this chapter of my life as best I can. Provisions have been made at the bank and post office for my “extended travels” (as people understand it), to venture north and speculate on business ventures. Much the same way I have established with my company in Italy, I have left letters of instruction with people I trust, replete with code words to determine if a missive is needed from me. The house, my local business, the business concern of Bess’, has all been transferred to Ruby. I’ve put some money in the bank for Scarlett and Abagail as well, and had my friends with Mr. Well’s company take a strong box to Hoss in San Francisco to leave to his children. I have also sent a letter to Hoss and Victor, his eldest. If Victor is interested in setting off on his own, and he is certainly by now old enough, he is welcome to venture to Italy as a courier to see my trunks safely delivered to my warehouse. I suspect Hoss will encourage him, knowing that I will have additional couriers on hand, and the trip would be a good experience for him. But it is not without risk, as none of life is without risk, so if he makes the journey or not, I will probably never know.

After much consultation with Standing Bear, I have decided that I will travel with his brother, Running Wolf when he returns to the Northwest Territories and help him with his trading for a few years before I set sail to meet Poseidon at our designated rendezvous. I hear that there is the prospect of gold mining up there, as well as trading, so we shall see. Moses has said he would like to come with us. He feels more comfortable around just one or two people, his life to this point clearly having traumatized him. When he is able to tell them, I look forward to his stories of the people and lands he’s been told about from his kin, as well as the imprisonment he suffered. I know that with patience and time, talking about the painful experiences can give us mastery over them. Certainly, you demonstrated this to be true when you told me about your own enslavement and experience the first time you were crucified.

I have made my way around town, today being the last day I will spend as Samuel Stafford. I’ve said my goodbyes to Sheriff Northingham and the others. I bought everyone a round at Whiskey Pete’s and at the Clementine, and even took flowers to Ethel, Frederick having passed on while I was with the Crow.

While not quite official, I have begun my good byes with Standing Bear, the man whose soul I feel closest to now, with Bess and Delores having left this world and Hoss in San Francisco. When I decided to join Running Wolf, my friend smiled at me sadly, but with understanding.

“I will miss our talks little sister, and I will miss your stories.” I nodded, unsure of what to say. He saw my hesitation and chuckled. “Gabrielle, even the blind would know that you are not entirely like us. I have grown old and weary as my years increase; you have aged not a day. Your voice is as gentle and sweet as the day we met, your skin and vigor belonging to a much younger person than your wisdom and all these years would allow. I do not fear you, although I suspect that is what you fear. You are entitled to your secrets my friend; I do not need to know. Just know that I will always be your friend for all of my days.”

I could feel my tears spilling down my cheeks and I didn’t try to stop them. “I was honest with you when I said my people were from a far-off place. It has made me…different. But in all my travels, you are a man whose kinship I value as if our blood came from the same mother.”

My words affected him because his eyes misted over. With some mischief, he continued, “It is too late in the season to make the journey up north – stay until spring, spend one more winter with us that we may have our days to say all that need be said; to learn of each other’s history.”

I can see the merit in his argument, although I will not tell him all of my history. Still, unlike me, Moses and Running Wolf can freeze to death, so starting out on our trek at the beginning of spring is the wisest course of action. I will spend my last months with the Crow before heading off to my next adventure.

That brings me to this, my dearest Xena. As my pages in this journal are scant, I will pack it away with my belongings for the trip to Italy. When next I speak to you my love, it will be from the pages of a brand-new volume that I have purchased for the trip. Never far from my thoughts and musings, hopefully I will be able to share with you all that I see and do on my journey.

While far-fetched I suppose, I hope that someday you get to read these pages. I hope that because it will mean that I was able to bring you back, making my life’s work a success – but also because I want so very much for you to know the depth and breadth of my love for you. That for century after century, in all that I’ve been, and all that I have yet to become, you continue to help me to be the best version of myself, as you once told me I did for you. From across the abyss of time and existence, I feel the pulse of your soul as it nurtures mine, building me up when I am down, and giving resilience to the joy I feel. Whether it was luck or the Fates, Aphrodite, or one of the others, I don’t think the world was prepared for the magic that happened that day outside Potidaea when you rescued me from Draco. For everything that came after, like the star Polaris, the good things you’ve brought to my world, and still bring, far outweigh the dark. Eventually, when the time comes for me to walk with my own ancestors, if I’m ever asked what was the singular thing that sparked all that I am, I will answer, “I was blessed with a love named Xena. Together, we forged a fire that burned brighter than the stars in the heavens.”

Until we speak in my next journal my love, keep that fire burning.

With all my love,

Gabrielle

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