Dear Grace,

I know it has been many years since I last wrote. I hope, wherever you are, that Mother and Father will ensure this letter ends up in your hands. I cannot bear the thought of you not receiving it.

I spent many years on the range living a wild life. I have since left such things behind — now, I live in the town of Loveday. There is a chance you have heard of it. I would advise you not to listen to the rumors that call it Sodom or Gomorrah. It is nothing of the sort. It is the same as any other honest, Christian settlement.

I miss you dearly. It would be entirely understandable, should your anger be too great to pen a reply. But if it is not, I urge you to write back and tell me how you are. If I cannot see your face, even a few words from you would be enough to heal my aching heart. Please give your answer as soon as possible. Sincerely…

Ianthe paused in her dictation, and so the sheriff paused in her writing. The sheriff looked up, observing Master's face as it scrunched and pondered. "Sincerely…" Master repeated, "Jack…"

The sheriff said, very politely, "Master, if I may?"

"What?"

"She would not know me by that name.”

"Then what would she know?"

The sheriff told her, and Master laughed. "Cute. But I don't want you getting any ideas.”

A name was a great honor to bestow on a lowly slave. "Of course, Master."

Ianthe continued her pacing around the room. The sheriff waited to sign the letter, not a hint of impatience in her stoic form.

"Remember when you resisted me?" Now, Master circled the writing desk. She pushed the sheriff's letter away so that she might sit on the desk. She folded her legs at the ankles and tilted her head to look down at the sheriff.

"Hardly, Master."

"I do." Ianthe leaned in. "You were a difficult horse to break."

The sheriff was nailed beneath her master's gaze. "I was very foolish, then."

"Of course you were. They always are, to start." Ianthe paused. "And really, there's no fun when they already want it."

With every word the sheriff's legs drifted further apart. She sat beneath Ianthe with her whole body spread, like an animal under dissection. Her breathing grew short. Every heave of her chest was labored. It took only a moment under Master's undivided gaze for the sheriff — so strong, so controlled — to fall into such a desperate state.

It was an honor to be in Master's presence. It was an honor to be her right hand. It was an honor to lead yet more women into her clutches. When Master had expressed a desire to see the sheriff's pretty young sister, the sheriff was eager to lure her in.

“She was young when I left,” the sheriff said, staring down at the page. “Even now she’s no older than….” The sheriff paused. “What year is it?”

“Eighteen fifty…?” Master didn’t know. She had to make a mess of papers before she found a periodical, labeled: “1864.”

“She would be eighteen, then. Very shy, gentle. She would be very eager to see me, and even more eager to please me."

"Then it would only be a simple matter. Bend her to your will, and she will be bent to mine."

"Of course! I am your instrument." The sheriff quivered under the weight of her devotion. "I live to obey you, Master. I will do anything you command. My mind is yours. My body is yours."

Ianthe hummed in approval. That was enough to send a shudder running from the sheriff's cunt to her head. Ianthe extended her leg, ever so casually, and set her boot against the sheriff's crotch.

The sheriff had to suppress a moan. She waited, desperate arousal flooding her body. Had she served well? Please, please, let her service be appreciated, and let Master use her as reward — if she was worthy of any reward, which of course she wasn't, she was only serving her purpose, and —

"I think we ought to keep your send-off simple," Master said. "Simply write: 'Sincerely —'"

Your Sister.

Weeks passed, and the mountain grew cautiously warmer. Not enough to call it spring — but the days were lengthening, and the snow was thinner. The sheriff received no reply from Grace. Her duties continued regardless.

There was no crime, of course, unless Master was keen to get her hand upon the whip. But certain things still needed to be attended to. Loveday was a beautiful garden: Master had torn out the wild untamed forest and created something wholesome in its place. It was the sheriff's job to ensure that no weeds would grow.

She'd had a day of it already — she spoke to Annie Slosson, who struggled to take care of her little son all alone, and promised to find a young lady to pair her with. A freshly enslaved woman, who had never seen Master with her own eyes, desperately implored the sheriff to bring a pie up to the manor. And there was an encounter with Ira Bennett, who'd been overheard in the saloon complaining about the sheriff "blue-balling" her.

It was Bennett, lying bloody on the ground beneath the sheriff’s heel, who mentioned the new girl in the house at the edge of town. “She hasn’t had her introduction yet,” Bennett said, between blank murmurs of obedience.

The sheriff said, “I was just on my way.”

The house which held the new girl was old; a ramshackle thing, built long before Master's takeover, and left abandoned when its lonely owner died. The neighbors, good citizens of Loveday, had let the weary traveler to rest there when she arrived the night before. Word had been sent up to the house, and the sheriff had read the note without much interest. New girl, it said. Intends to stay.

The neighbors met the sheriff as she came up the lane. They were chattering excitedly, sly glances beneath their bonnets.

"She's very young," one said.

The other said, "And attractive."

"Blonde!"

There was no wagon in front of the house, nor a horse. The sheriff asked the slaves about it. "Oh no," the woman said. "She came on foot."

"She practically collapsed into Flora's arms. Poor thing…"

"We nursed her to health these past three days. We wanted her to stay with us, but she said she didn't like strangers. We told her about the empty house — and warned her that it was haunted — and she said she'd fix it up."

"I would've thought her rude." The other crossed her arms. "But she seemed more excited by the prospect of a free house!"

As the sheriff stood and listened to the account, a noise rose up beneath their voices. A loud hammering.

The sheriff said, "Did you say she could make changes to the place?"

The slaves shook their heads.

Now, the sheriff rounded the corner. A rickety ladder was leaned against the shack with a young woman upon it, attempting to tear off the shutter.

"Hold on," the sheriff said, as she let herself in through the gate.

The girl struggled to balance on the ladder. The sheriff steadied it and looked up. All she could see were the legs — pale, spindly, freckled — stockings rolling down bony ankles, and the underside of her cotton skirt.

“I— I—” A voice squeaked. “I’ve got it!”

The sheriff's eyes followed the bob of the hem. She hummed a quiet assent. The girl wore big white bloomers, which told the sheriff, more than anything, that she must've been new. The cold sun shone through the lacy edges, lighting up the soft curve of flesh on the inner thigh.

“I just gotta get! one—! more—!” The girl balanced on a single leg at the top of the ladder, pulling the shutter with her bare hands. She grunted and tugged. With an impressive display of strength — or weakness, on the house's part — the shutter came loose.

“Wah–!”

The young lady hadn't thought of what would come after.

She came sailing downwards. The sheriff had to rush, and dodge the ladder as it fell, to catch her.

The sheriff noticed many things in those scant few moments: the long, blonde hair, undone from a sloppy braid. The familiar gasp the girl let out as she landed. The dusty, soft cotton of her frock. She met the young lady’s gaze — and suppressed a cry.

But, the sheriff thought, you never replied!

For here, in her arms, was her long-lost sister. Come to Loveday with no word and no warning. The sheriff was so put off she forgot to breathe. She had to do something. She had to tell Master right away that —

Grace pushed herself out of the sheriff’s arms, like an angry horse bucking its rider. "I had it! You distracted me!"

“Apologies, miss, I—”

"Don't you 'miss' me! I'm a married woman, you know — or I was." Grace shook herself out. She looked remarkably similar to what the sheriff had known: her nose was small and pixie-like, freckles all over her ruddy cheeks. She had a crooked tooth sticking its way out of her lips. She was cute.

"Really, now?"

Grace went on as if the sheriff hadn't spoken. "That damn shutter was keeping me up all night long. I couldn't stand it anymore! Do you know how loud it had to be to keep me awake? After my long journey? Why, I should've been sleeping like the dead!"

"I'm very sorry to hear that, Grace."

"The sole of my boot came off while I was walking, and now my foot's bleeding. My arms are sore and my mouth’s all dry and now I need to treat this thing! You know where to find a doctor around here?"

"I do. I—"

"And how do you know my name? I didn't tell anyone that, you know. Were you creeping on me?"

"You might want to look at me closer, Grace."

Only now did Grace tear her face away from the house. Even so, it was not an instant thing. Her eyebrows furrowed, and her nose puckered up, and she let out a low, suspicious hmmmm.

"You’re…" She paused. She blinked. She stood there, among the shattered wood littering the dead garden, spitting hair from her mouth. Her hard expression grew slack, like a fist suddenly opened. “Jennie?”

The sheriff spoke without thinking. "It's Jack."

“You look like…” Grace trailed off, then shook her head. “Never mind me! You just look like somebody, that’s all.”

"I'm so glad you got my letter."

The sheriff spoke softly, almost a breath. She expected Grace to crumble into tears, to rush into a hug that would allow the sheriff to feel her body more closely.

Instead, Grace just smiled. "It was an awful rotten apology, you know."

"I wouldn't say it was an apology."

"Where'd you learn to write like that on the range?"

The sheriff shook her head. "Not there.”

"Well, come inside. I've got a lot of questions for you." Grace put her hands on her hips. "I almost didn't recognize you. Why are you dressed like a boy?"

"I would be honored," the sheriff said, and did not answer the second question.

“Don’t talk like that!” Grace’s face was red as she led the sheriff inside. “You sound all fancy.” She paused. “You dress all fancy.”

The sheriff shrugged. “Perk of the job.”

“Which is…?”

“Sheriff.”

“What?!”

Grace had come into Loveday with a carpet bag, the contents of which were now scattered over the small foyer. Grace tripped over a loose pair of stockings, crumbled into a ball, on her way into the kitchen. "I'll treat you to breakfast. I'm a real good cook, you know. Mama always said so."

At Jack’s inquiry, Grace then explained her perilous journey.

“You left me—” said Grace, so matter-of-factly, “so I took all your lessons and learned to fend for myself. I got good at shooting and never took no nonsense from anyone. But Mama got me in a pinch, with the finances and all, so I was still married off to Nathaniel Thatcher so that we could pool our farms. I didn’t take any bullshit from him, no siree, and he knew better than to try — his nose was still crooked from when I was thirteen, and he tried to trip me into the creek.”

The sheriff sat listening in Grace's kitchen chair.

Grace banged around the pot as she struggled to hang it over the hearth. “It was alright, bein’ married. Didn’t hate it. Only, then he put his hands on me, and I knew I had to go.”

"That is very unfortunate."

“I wanted to make an investment, see?” Grace knelt, hem dancing in the soot, and struck at the flint over and over. “Some fellows came by, offerin’ to buy up our land. I wanted to do it, go further west. My useless husband didn’t think so. What was I to do? I wasn’t going to rot away on that dinky little farm. I wanted fine dresses, to see new horizons, understand? So, maybe I borrowed the deed and spoke to the investors myself—” She inclined her head. “And maybe he wasn’t too happy about it. But that doesn’t give him any right to grab hold of me when I’m tryin’ta leave! He knew the terms, he knew what I was worth.

"That was when I got your letter. And I'd heard some ladies at church talking about the town before — calling it a bad thing, like you mentioned. Saying that loose ladies would run off there to get away from the law."

"There is an awful lot of slander that goes around."

"Don't tell me it ain't true! What am I now, if not a loose lady?" Grace poured beans into the pot, swore — she’d forgotten water — and insisted that the sheriff wait a minute while she ran to fetch a bucket from the well.

"You know where it is?" the sheriff asked.

"I'll find it!"

And for all that time that Grace was gone, the sheriff sat. Worry — a rare, unexpected emotion — came over her. She found her hands twitching. Who was that girl, loud, unrestrained? That was not the Grace that the sheriff had known growing up. That was not the easy Grace that the sheriff had promised her master.

Grace came back and continued her story. She told a sorry tale with all the weight of a Punch and Judy show: hitching a ride with unsavory strangers, struggling to forage her food, sleeping in barns and wagons and the tents of fellow travelers. By the time she got to Loveday, her goose was cooked and the spirit not so willing. She'd lost her mule partway up the mountain. It was only through the kindness of those ladies, when Grace came up through the back of town (she'd gotten lost) that she was even still standing.

"Course, it's not the best house. I would rather one of those big ones, up on the main street," Grace said, bobbing her head up and down as she stirred. Her back was to the sheriff, and so she could not see the sheriff's intense eyes, following Grace's every gesture. "But I'm not complaining, no, course not. I'm grateful.”

"I'm sure you are."

"Who lives in that big house up on the hill?" Grace glanced over her shoulder.

"My boss," the sheriff said. "And so do I."

"What? Jennie —"

The sheriff cleared her throat, but Grace was too excited to correct herself.

"— you have to let me visit. It's the most gorgeous building I've ever seen."

It was then that the sheriff leaned forward, very intently, and let her voice lower some. "What did you think, when you first read my letter?"

Grace turned. She answered with a question of her own. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"You said it was a shit apology, and yet you came," the sheriff said. Then, "Because everyone's free to do as they like in Loveday."

"You used to be so pretty… Jennie…"

“The beans?”

Grace whirled around and wilted. “It burned…”

“I’ll speak to Ianthe. I’m sure she’d be glad to meet you.” The sheriff stood.

“The person in the big house?” Grace scraped the pot with a wooden spoon; the charred scent flooded the little kitchen.

“Yes. We call her Master — it’s a joke.”

“What’s so funny about it?” Grace frowned. "Hey, where are you going? I can save this, don't worry. Even when I burn food, it tastes good. Nathan loved my cooking!"

"You want me to stay?"

Grace plopped a blackened scoop into a wooden bowl. It unrolled like molasses. Her nose crinkled — cute. Knobbly hands held tight to the bowl. Cute. Her clothes clung to her in the hot room, sweat sticking the front of her bodice against her chest. She wasn’t wearing a corset.

The sheriff repeated herself. “I’ll stay if you want it.”

Now, Grace said, "I won't say nothing I don't fully mean."

"Ohhh, my goodness! Jen— Jack! You live here?”

Grace walked through the mansion, open-mouthed, like a kitten just learning to walk. She wore a yellow gingham dress that, as she had bashfully told the sheriff, was the nicest one she had (on account of being the cleanest). Her hair was a large braid wrapped around the crown of her head. Despite all the pins, it was already coming loose.

The sheriff trailed behind as the young woman pattered about the manor. She stared at the nape of Grace's neck, and thought, What am I going to do?

The sheriff had done what she'd been commanded, and yet, somehow, had still failed. The years had changed Grace into something the sheriff could hardly recognize, let alone control. What would Master think? The sheriff had promised an easy meal, a mouse led meekly into Master's outstretched hand. But instead —

"You put in a good word for me, right?" Grace tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her ears were big, pink at the edges. "I want to make a good impression! Isn't that the least you can do for me?"

"No need to threaten," the sheriff said. "Of course I did."

Grace gasped. She stopped in front of the large windows, which showed the garden outside. It was in the process of being planted for the season, gardeners puttering about. Even then, it made for a grand sight: the evergreens and hardy bushes arranged neatly, a statue of a blindfolded goddess in the center, the mountain peaks around it, the tops the same white as the statue’s marble breasts.

“Wow!” she said. “It’s beautiful out there! Can we go look?”

“I think we’re meant to visit the kitchen first.”

But Grace was already running towards the door. The sheriff, struggling not to let her evident panic show, followed after her.

"Really, Grace, there's no rush. Nothing’s going to be in bloom for another month —"

But Grace still went, shivering without the cloak, and pestered the slaves with questions. "Are you only growing flowers?"

"Of course. The farms are further down. These are just for Master's pleasure."

"If I had a big house like this," Grace murmured, "I would grow lots of food."

"Master has no need for that!" the slave said, taken aback.

The sheriff came and laid a hand on Grace's shoulder. "This is Grace Hawthorne," she said. "She's just arrived."

"Thatcher, actually." Grace looked up. "Or do you suppose my marriage was a sham?"

"Here, you’re my sister before you're some man's wife. Why should his name still brand you like property?"

Grace pondered this for a minute. "Well, I suppose that's true. This place is peculiar, isn't it?"

The sheriff agreed and, hand still firmly on Grace's shoulder, pushed her back inside.

Grace shook herself free and seemed keen to run wild again — until she got a whiff of their destination. The kitchen always smelled very, very nice.

The sheriff noted the subtle shake of Grace's pale hands and said, "Come along. We can warm you up."

"Sheriff!" Daphne greeted her warmly. "Oh, is this your sister? She looks just like you."

"I look just like me." Grace said, with not inconsiderable annoyance.

The kitchen was more than warm — it was sweltering. Grace went from shivering in the chill to wiping the sweat off her brow.

"Of course," Daphne said, with a practiced curtsy.

Grace, suddenly crimson, replied with a curtsy of her own (very poorly).

The sheriff said, "There is no need to bow to the help."

"How was I supposed to know that?!" Grace snapped her head towards Jack. "I don't live fancy like you do."

Daphne offered Grace a slice of pound cake. Grace paused for a moment, shifting from foot to foot, torn between politeness and something else — a deeper impulse. "Why, I'd like the whole cake!"

Daphne’s smile did not waver. "And you can have it."

What could the sheriff use to leverage Grace's obedience? What was there for the sheriff to pull at? Grace stood over the kitchen table, getting crumbs all over the plate, the table, the floor. The sheriff watched her. The sheriff was not like Master — she did not understand people, could not detect what made their hearts beat and their souls sing.

The sheriff itched to pull out her pocket watch and tear her sister down before Master came.

But the choice — where any choice existed — was made for her. Without performance or preamble, Master appeared.

Daphne leapt up. She curtsied, and babbled a bit, turning between Master and Grace like a broken automaton. What to do? Show master the proper greeting, or maintain the illusion for this naïve girl?

It did not matter. Master ignored her.

Grace looked up from her cake, eyes bulging, and looked about the room as the energy changed. But she did not know why, and so kept eating.

"Ianthe," the sheriff said, the name almost perverse on her tongue. "This is my sister. Grace."

Grace slapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh! This is your house."

Master was silent for a second. She paid a glance towards the sheriff, who resisted the urge to fall to her knees in shame.

"It is," Master said. "I'm so glad to finally meet you. Your sister has told me much about you. My, I did not expect you to look so lovely and grown—up."

"Hey! Don't let her fool you — she doesn't know shit. I’m all grown up, and I have been, even if she wasn’t around to see it!” She paused. “Er, sorry.”

The sheriff suppressed a wince.

Grace turned to the sheriff. "Don't take it personally. I made peace long ago. You had your reasons." She said it with a certain amount of derision. "And I don't know what you told the funny lady, but I can guarantee it's not right. You don't really know me. You only knew a stupid baby."

"I suppose then," the sheriff said, "you don't know me, either."

“Hmph!” Grace’s reply was lost in her stuffing her face with the last chunk of cake.

It was Master who next spoke. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you to hold your tongue, Miss?”

“Uh-nuh!” Grace shook her head.

“No one ever slapped that smart mouth right off your face?”

“Mama tried — only made me worse. They needed me to stay so they could marry me off for money. I had my run of the household before long. I think I did a better job, personally.”

“Mm.” Master’s eyes flicked up to the sheriff, back to Grace. A long, thin smile graced her lips. "Why don't we continue this conversation in my parlor?"

Grace, once the destination was indicated to her, took off running. She nearly tripped over her petticoat. The sheriff took the moment to lightly touch Ianthe's arm and lean in, whispering, "Master—"

A sudden iron grip — physically, yes, but stronger upon her mind — made her stop. Master pinned her to the wall. "Don't say anything."

So the sheriff said nothing, only suffered in her shame with her mouth tightly closed.

Master moved as if to strike her, but paused with her hand still in the air. It would make too much noise and leave a visible mark on the sheriff's cheek. She turned on her heel, with a huff, and snapped her fingers. They could not leave their guest waiting.

Grace was thoroughly impressed by the parlor. She sat with her hands between her knees, looking up, down, and around in wonder. Ianthe had her legs crossed, eyes pinned upon Grace like a hawk's on a rabbit.

Grace said, "You're a woman?"

Ianthe raised her eyebrows. "Why is that a question?"

"You're just like — well, my sister. And I thought that was queer enough."

"You've never heard of people like us?"

“I don’t get it at all!” Grace looked down, embarrassed for once. "Is it more comfortable? Do you not want to bother with all the layers — I understand, I don't do all that unless I must.”

"None of those are why. Try again."

"Well, I guess, if there's no men here — is that true? — you wouldn't want the fabric to go to waste…"

Master was picking at her teeth with a toothpick. "You guess? Shouldn't you be certain? You’re a smart girl.”

“That can’t be it — you could always just use the fabric to sew up a gown. So, if you’re doing it on purpose… if there’s no men…” Grace trailed off into silence. “So you can ride better? But you're not on a horse right now…”

Ianthe leaned across the couch.

Grace said, "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter. It's weird, but I don't mind that much. You can do whatever you want, when your house is this nice!" Grace paused. "How are you so rich?"

"I have a lot of money."

"Did you find gold?" Grace's eyes were wide.

"You ask an awful lot of rude questions." Ianthe touched Grace's cheek.

Grace slapped her away, laughing. "I ain't rude! I'm just honest." She turned to the sheriff. "Isn't that right?"

The sheriff said nothing.

But Grace didn't need an answer. When Ianthe moved to touch her again, she squirmed away. "What is it?"

Master was nonplussed. "You have something in your hair."

“Wah! Sis, why didn’t you tell me?!”

Grace sat still, and let Ianthe peck at her skull. As Ianthe did, Grace went on: "That was a beautiful garden I saw."

"Yes," Master said. "I take great pride in cultivating it."

"Was it hard?"

"Most of it wasn't difficult, per se. Merely a bit of… patience.”

“Oh!” Grace laughed. “Then, I could never do something like that!”

"Don't sell yourself short," Ianthe said.

"I ain't a patient person, Miss."

"With just a little bit of guidance…" Ianthe smiled. "Anyone can change."