When I was little, Ma told me that Pa was a deputy U.S. Marshal, and that was why he was gone for so many months or even years at a time. She explained that his duty always took him far from home, and I understood that travelling on horseback wasn’t the same as riding a train. I was told that Jordan McKaine had a curious skin condition, which is why he avoided going out in bright sunlight, mostly sleeping through the day. Of course, a little girl of five or six completely trusts and believes her mother.

By the time I started school, I learned that Pa wasn’t really my father; and, though not exactly living a lie, Ma had been keeping secrets from me. The attitude of other kids opened me to that reality.

My first day at school was difficult, and a first step in my loss of innosence. Day after day, other girls avoided me. Boys cornered me in a wooded area off the school playground, kissing and trying to touch me in private parts until I screamed that my pa would shoot them. That had them running away in fright, but one yelled back, “yer’ mom’s a whore and he’s not yer’ pa!”

From that day on, I was never certain about Jordan McKaine being a federal marshal, or at least, if so, not all the time. From what I heard or read, men of that profession were never wealthy. That didn’t seem right, since pa never lacked for money and was always riding a fine horse. Of one thing I felt certain. He really loved us, enthusiastically hugging me, but only kissing my mother, and that with obvious adult relish. He always brought me interesting or strange presents after long stretches away from home.

Sometimes, when least expected, Jordan Mac would appear in the dark of the night. Sometimes he rode in just after sunset, or when sky’s were grey before the breaking of dawn. Sometimes he was only gone for a week or two, but more often for several months. He never appeared when Ma had one of her ‘special’ visitors. When those men came calling, I would retreat to my attic room or wander way out in the back yard. At the age of nine, I would sometimes pull a pillow over my head and try to ignore the strange sounds. That was another peculiarity of pa’s relationship with my mother.

Early on, I couldn’t help but notice. I wasn’t stupid, or lacking in awareness. Men came. Men left and suddenly, there was money. Sometimes, I was sent outside to play. Sometimes, when I was supposed to be in town at school, I returned home, lingering in the trees, watching as wealthy men rode in from town, stayed and left after an hour or two. I never told my mother I knew what was going on.

Eventually, there were ranching chores, so I learned to ride at an early age. By the time I was twelve, my body was lean, fit and strong. I was gentle-breaking mustangs, roping, branding and castrating calves, mending fences and wrangling steers. By the time I was fourteen, my skills were equal to the best of our hired cowhands. Winter or summer, when there was a need, I would spend three or four nights out in our line shacks, tending stock or riding fence. Sometimes, I shared the bunk with a randy cowboy, but never found them difficult to handle. Sure, they wanted inside my young, vital body, but I didn’t want that, and they knew better than to try and force me. I always had a couple of weapons, and knew how to use them. Fortunately, not one of the young bucks ever pushed me to that limit. Sometimes, if they were comely, bathed and kept their teeth clean, I indulged myself, letting them kiss me; and, occasionally fondle my developing bosom. Sometimes, after the kissing, again if they were reasonably clean, I used my hands, giving them relief from a painful arousal. That in itself convinced me that I was very much my mother’s daughter, if not an outright whore.

Regardless of guilt,, I enjoyed watching a young man, and sometimes, even a much older cowboy squirt milky spunk in a moment of delirious extasy. They were always thrilled that an attractive young girl wanted to pleasure them. Eventually, I even took to using my mouth, but only if the man was clean and free of the pox. After a prolonged session of kissing and petting, I enjoyed helping a young cowboy spill his load in my mouth, finding the taste and experience almost exciting enough to surrender what remained of virtue. I never did go that far, at least physically remaining a virgin. Something always kept me from taking our sparking that far.

By the age of fifteen, I knew that my knights away on the range were profitable for Ma, which in turn, provided a bonus for me. Partly because of the ranch and cattle, we lived in relative comfort and financial security. I knew that my mother use those nights when I was away to entertain men. When I was younger, They were Ma’s special friends, but really, they were just clients ... or customers. I gathered that Pa knew, and at first, it puzzled me that he wasn’t jealous, not minding that ma entertained other men.

Actually, my education on the matter started when I turned seven, after that incident at grade school in town. With the assault by those boys, my difficulties started and realization crystallized. Boys continued teasing me. Girls wouldn’t come near me, and they never included me in skipping games. Most wouldn’t even talk to me. They stuck there noses in the air and swished their skirts like I was unclean or carrying a foul disease. I heard their whispers, and I supposed that was intentional. A few called me a ‘bastard’, the daughter of a whore, and sometimes they said worse.

At first, the treatment was hurtful and embarrassing. More than a few times, I came home crying. Ma finally realized that it was foolish to keep pretending, and that I needed to understand. One quiet afternoon, she sat me on her lap and carefully, slowly explained the facts of life, and the difficulties of being an unmarried woman and single mother in a repressive, hypocritical society.

She explained about men and boys, about girls, their bodies and sex; and how the act could give exquisite pleasure. She also described rape and disease, giving me serious warnings. Though only seven, I was smart; but her words left me goggle-eyed. From that day on, I received intimate, detailed talks that none of the girls at school would ever hear from a pious, repressed parent, or that any of their churchy mothers could have imagined.

That day I also learned that Jordan McKain wasn’t my real father. Ma explained that she entertained men for pleasure, though the extra money was nice, helping keep our ranch profitable. Aside from that income, we had no lack of cash because Pa kept wiring her money, making certain our needs were met.

The more I learned about sex, the less I worried about girls at school, and easily deflected advances from slobbering, lusty boys. I knew I was loved, and that Ma only took very special clients to her bed, that purely for enjoyment.

Though I was astonished, I listened, absorbing more about the facts of life than any normal girl between the ages of seven and fourteen could ever comprehend.

Ma always said I was precocious, years ahead of other children my age. So I learned that some of the visitors came for a tumble and others just for drinks and lively, flirtatious conversation. Some of the men became regulars, and some never darkened our door a second time. Thanks to my mother’s frank discussions, I learned that some men had a deadly pox, and I knew the signs. I also learned about evil, dangerous men, and how to see in their eyes a concealed, violent and twisted nature. For them, she had a tiny, two-barreled forty-four derringer. If that didn’t send them on their way, we had a large kitchen garden way out back. Only once did I hear the derringer give a loud, sharp bark. The next morning, Ma was dressed in coveralls and work boots, digging a long, very deep hole in dark loam some distance past a stand of pines. That’s when I discovered there were three other grassy mounds near the spot.

Some of the men who became one-timers had terrible hygiene, couldn’t converse or play chess. Others couldn’t read a book if their life depended on it. Ma was literate, always big on books. She taught me to read before I was five. Ever sharing and teaching me, Ma explained that I was very pretty, and made certain I was aware of the dangers which would eventually confront me. Before I had a bosom or started monthly’s, I knew how babies were created, how they arrived, and how Ma prevented them, or used an herbal tea to get rid of an occasional accident. Each year after my eighth birthday, I received the lectures, and each time, Ma told me that I was her joy, very carefully insisting that I had not been a mistake, or a ‘bastard’ accident.

Over the next few years, Ma opened up about my birth. I had Ma’s big, bright green eyes and auburn curls, her long legs and slender figure. There wasn’t a hint of Jordan McKaine in my features or frame.

He was a big man, a lot taller than Ma, with narrow face, broad shoulders and narrow hips. His hair was an almost silvery blonde and his eyes silvery-grey. His lips were full and sensual, something that Ma often remarked on. To me, when I was fourteen, I often felt envious of pa’s long lashes and silver flecked eyes. Truth be told, I developed a powerful infatuation, nightly creating fantasy romances with the man I called Pa.

Town and country boys started giving me appreciative looks before I turned thirteen. At fourteen, they were acting silly, flirting, or outright asking me to dances. A few of the bolder ones tried courting, stealing kisses and telling me I was the most beautiful girl they’d ever seen. For that, more than a few of the girls in town looked like they wanted me dead, or might be capable of murder.

By the time I was fifteen and no longer bothering with school, it didn’t matter that ‘decent’ town women avoided me and girls my age ignored my greeting. Occasionally, I delighted in luring their beaus away, giving the more attractive young men the kisses they longed for, and sometimes, If they were particular nice, a lot more than even they expected.

By the year nineteen hundred five, our ranch home in the foothills had a telephone. Strange looking automobiles sometimes chugged through town, arriving via wagon and stage roads. Often, they were beaten to useless hulks by the rough country, spare tires flat, rims dented and bumping noisily. Much to the chagrin of some, our town didn’t have a gas station, so motorists had to wait for a delivery by train. Whenever one survived, people saw them roaring across the flats, frightening horses or cattle, spewing noxious fumes and huge clouds of dust.

Of course, there were still bad men. Newspapers told of an occasional bank or train robbery. Where there were still a few stage coach routes, there were hold-ups. Killings in some distant town were often sensationalized. Mostly though, as some of the old men would opine sadly, the country was “becoming too durn’ civilized and much too tame”.

I turned eighteen in nineteen hundred six, feeling vibrant, and much too saucy. That time, Pa had been away for nearly five years, sometimes sending telegrams or letters from distant countries. I didn’t understand why an American federal marshal would be in Chile or Cuba or even France, but that was nothing to concern a girl of sixteen.

That was the summer an annual shipment of new books was waiting at the train station. Ma received a telephone call and I took the buggy into town. That was also the year my life changed forever.

I was weeks past my sixteenth birthday, alone, easily riding our buggy along a familiar route, looking forward to collecting mail, loading a crate of books along with ma’s grocery order, her list given over a scratchy telephone connection.

I turned the buggy in at the depot, looping a rope, tying the horse. Girls who had attended school with me were now ‘decent’ ladies with husbands. They looked away or avoided me, but men tipped hats and usually offered help. I gave smile for smile, nod for nod and politeness for the same.

I learned that despite my mother’s profession, town men knew about the marshal, about his reputation, and his fast gun. They treated me with a modicum of respect. Storekeepers were deferential, even if their wives sometimes reacted by flouncing away from the till. Furtive glances let me know that most people feared Pa. Somehow, I felt that there was more than his reputation that instilled fear, keeping trouble at bay.

I was glad for that element of protection, but I had my own skills. Pa’s special gift to me on my thirteenth birthday lent a measure of confidence and security. Like Ma, I was in possession of a pearl-handled, two-barrel, forty-four calibre derringer. Always loaded, always with me, the small weapon was either in a dress pocket or tucked into the bodice of a corset. Ma had stitched special pouches into all of my corsets.

Well before my tenth birthday, Pa had been giving me lessons with a twenty-two revolver. By the time I turned eleven, I could easily shoot the head off a rattler with a new thirty calibre pistol, a lighter weapon of choice that I always packed when riding the range. Secretly, I laughed at cowboys with their heavy forty-five revolvers. Most couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn; and, I knew a small bullet in the eye was just as effective as a big hole in the belly.

Sun was shining, July was giving us lovely weather, and the day was hot. Long before returning home, I stopped the buggy by a creek ford to let the horse drink. There, parked in a patch of shade, I pulled a Bowie knife from under the buggy seat. Using the thick blade, I pried open the crate of books from New York. The very first book I noticed captivated me. I settled in a patch of dappled sunlight under some trees and started reading. In very short order, I was more than a little terrified. The novel was one of horror. A very fast reader, I skimmed through hundreds of pages in a novel published years earlier. The book was Dracula by Bram Stoker. Afternoon sun was angling beneath trees when I finally slammed the book shut and shook myself out of a daze. The lurid tale had me trembling.

With purpose, I hid the book by Stoker under the buggy seat. Next, I rearranged the packing material, even destroying the invoice sheet. Somehow, I knew Dracula wasn’t a tale that Ma, and especially pa would want to know I’d been reading. Using a rock, I hammered nails, sealing the crate lid. When the banging stopped, I looked up, experiencing a flutter of apprehension.

Except for the gurgling rush of water on rocks, the area had fallen silent. Grasshoppers were not singing. Birds no longer trilled. For an instant, I thought of Indians, then realized that was ridiculous. Neither Comanches or Apache’s had caused trouble in at least two decades. Any reserve natives I’d seen were generally shiftless, half-starved or drunk.