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She’s the spitting image of her mother, that much Dutch will give Hosea.
Her face is round and her cheeks glow red in the dim sunlight lazily shining through the windows of the saloon. Her brown hair lays flat against her scalp, all tied up into a bun, loose strands swaying gently around her face with every bob of her head, and when she smiles, all toothy and sweet at something one of the other waitress’ says in passing, he swears it might just be her – they are too similar.
He holds back a snort, because this is, quite frankly, ridiculous.
He dismissed it the second Hosea brought it up, a quiet murmur passed from one man to another in front of his tent in the middle of the day while everyone was working and Dutch was planning their next move, still trying to deal with the anger and disappointment that had sizzled under his skin since he had realised John wasn’t coming back. Laugh – that was the only thing he could do in the moment because that, the mere idea of him having a child, a daughter at that, is laughable.
Hosea said he should see for himself, just to confirm that a waitress he had happened to see in a random saloon, in a random town, near the place they and their gang just so happened to be camping near did in fact share similarities to a woman Dutch had slept with a few times more than a decade ago, and Dutch agreed, simply to humour him.
So now he’s there, rolling his eyes. Of course, she isn’t his. She – he doesn’t remember her name, not after so many years – would have reached out to him, tried to find him if it was the case. But it isn’t.
He’s about to stand, looking down to straighten his vest where it’s become wrinkled from sitting down by the wooden table, when a hoarse voice, one that sounds like crinkles incarnate, reaches his ear on his right.
“Good afternoon, sir. Can I get you anything?”
Her eyes meet his, and all he can do is stare.
She has kind eyes. Kind, pretty, dark brown eyes, so different from her mother’s blue. And now that he’s looking, really looking, he sees the way her hair curls slightly at the tips. Her nose, too, has some likeness, the bridge a bit crooked and gnarled.
His mouth is dry, speechless for once in his life, until she smiles, patient – like her mother –, and he manages to clear his throat. “A whiskey, please.” And she nods and goes to turn, but Dutch, both to hers and his own surprise, grabs at her hand, an apology already rolling off of his tongue.
“I– I’m sorry, friend. I’m new to this town and I don’t want to come off as rude, but I feel like I’ve seen you before.”
Her eyes narrow, a quiet glare aimed at where his fingers are wrapped around her wrist, and he lets go, leaning back against his chair.
Her answer is cold in a way that implies she’s had plenty of men disturb her work like this. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think we have. I’m new here too. Moved down here from Maryland after my ma died.”
He clears his throat and says, “I am… truly sorry to hear that.”
And, surprisingly, he actually is. Not that there are any lingering feelings for the girl– or woman, he supposes; it was a short-lived affair the whole thing. Nothing more than a couple of nights spent in her warm bed as he told her tales of his life, some true, some less so, and she, in return, listened to him – hung onto every word with wide, beautiful eyes. She was a pretty girl and a kind woman. A bit naïve perhaps, but he’s always liked them like that.
“What about your daddy?” He tries to sound casual, and when her eyes don’t narrow further, he feels as though he’s yet to be found out.
She shrugs, the corners of her mouth curving down, and, yeah, that definitely looks like his frown.
“Couldn’t tell you. Never met him. My ma talked about him sometimes, but it never really mattered. He wasn’t there then and he ain’t here now. Ma said he was a kind man, but I’m not inclined to believe her. What kind of man leaves behind his child?”
He wants to protest, wants to interject and defend himself, to say that he didn’t even know she existed until a few days ago; wants to say that he never intended to have her. But that may just be the last thing she needs to hear, so he bites his tongue.
Instead, he smiles, charming warmth breaking forth on his features, and says, “Why, he’s no man at all. No man at all.” There’s a bitterness to the words, a bitterness he doesn’t intend for there to be, but it’s so subtle she doesn’t register it. Or at least she pretends not to.
“I agree.” She looks contemplative for a second, eyes raking over him, head inclining as if trying to tilt a thought out of her ear. On a whim, she’s snapped out of it, warm – fake, Dutch reminds himself – smile plastered on her visage. “I’ll go get you that whiskey.”
She’s gone before he can say anything else.
It’s probably for the better. What could he say?
He tries not to follow her with his eyes, distantly aware that she’s probably assuming him to be some kind of creep. But then he hears a laugh, slightly coarse in its loudness, and he sees her with her head tilted back, warm gaze and sweet smile aimed at that same waitress from before, and he can’t help but notice how healthy she looks. There’s so much warmth in her skin, baby fat still clinging to her face, and she does have a little bit of plumpness to her figure – so unlike the women at camp.
She looks happy.
A thought crosses his mind, worms its way into his head like an annoying itch, but he dismisses it before it can take root and fester. Head lowered, he stares at his hands on the table, palms open, every crevice and callous piece of skin exposed and on display.
He looks up and he finds her on her way towards him, a glass of whiskey in her hand, and as she sets it down in front of him, the truth is on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill, a question queued up behind it.
“Will there be anything else?” He can’t look back, not with everything in front of him. At least that’s what he tells himself. “Sir?”
“No. Thank you, my dear.”
She leaves him. He sits there for a few minutes, motionless, something heavy in his shoulders, until he finally gets up, throwing a few coins onto the table, more than he should. Then he leaves, a final glance over his shoulder at the girl who has already forgotten him, his untouched whiskey the only thing divulging what has taken place.
When he returns to camp, he’s greeted by Hosea, a knowing look in his eyes as he asks how it went.
Dutch is silent for a few seconds, turning over the conversation they had in his head. It’s left him a bit hollow, something aching in his chest that has him feeling as though he should be gasping for air.
In the end, “Maybe John was right to leave,” is all he can say.
Hosea doesn’t respond, just frowns, brows furrowing and emphasising the crinkles around his eyes and on his forehead. Then he sighs.
“Maybe we were wrong not to.”
Dutch says nothing, the silence stretching between them.
He doesn’t want to think about that right now. So, he doesn’t.