Her father reminded her now and then that she was worthless. She’d questioned him once about her pay, and he’d bruised the entire left side of her face with one blow. Em stayed, never owning a new dress or even a ribbon for her hair. Six nights a week she cooked, then cleaned at the saloon after midnight.

On the seventh day the saloon was closed. While her parents went to church, Em went in early to clean the upstairs. Half of the rooms were for the doves and their hourly guests. The other half were rented out to travelers. Once a week the sheets were changed and the rooms swept out, no matter how many times the rooms were rented.

The barmaids were nice and often left a quarter on their beds. A traveler once left a dollar. Em kept whatever money was left in the rented rooms hidden away in a rusty tin in the kitchen. It was mostly only change, but someday she might need it.

Long after Trapper’s poker game was over and the saloon closed, she cleaned. In the silence she wished she could go on his journey. Even a dangerous adventure would be better than this. She’d grow old here, her days all the same.

When she finished cleaning, she heated one more pot of water and carried it upstairs to a back storage closet. At one time it had been a tiny room, but now the bed was broken, the windows boarded over to prevent a draft.

An old hip tub sat in one corner. Once a week, in the stillness before dawn, Em took a bath and pretended to be a lady. The drab, scratchy dress came off, as did the wrappings to make her look flat-chested. By candlelight she dreamed of more to her life than cooking and cleaning. If she just had a chance, she’d be brave, she told herself as she used the bits of lavender soap the girls tossed out.

In the silence, with warm water surrounding her, she relaxed and fell asleep. The tiny room’s door was locked. No one would look for her.

When a noise downstairs jerked her awake, sunlight was coming through the cracks in the boards.

Em jumped out of the tub so fast she splashed water on her wool dress. Panic gripped her. She’d freeze walking the mile home in wet clothes.

She wrapped herself in a towel one of the barmaids had given her when she left, headed back to New Orleans on one of the paddleboats.

The barmaid had whispered, “Get out of this place, honey. It will rot your soul.”