The Four Winds

She forced her chin up. “I am going to the speakeasy tonight to listen to music.”

“You will not.” Papa rose. “I forbid it.”

Elsa ran to the door, afraid that if she slowed, she’d stop. She lurched outside and kept running, ignoring the voices that called for her. She didn’t stop until her ragged breathing forced it.

In town, the speakeasy was tucked in between an old livery station, now boarded up in this era of automobiles, and a bakery. Since the Eighteenth Amendment had been ratified and Prohibition had begun, she’d watched both women and men disappear behind the speakeasy’s wooden door. And, contrary to her mother’s opinion, many of the young women were dressed just as Elsa was.

She walked down the wooden steps to the closed door and knocked. A slit she hadn’t noticed slid open; a pair of squinty eyes appeared. A jazzy piano tune and cigar smoke wafted through the opening. “Password,” said a familiar voice.

“Password?”

“Miss Wolcott. You lost?”

“No, Frank. I’ve a hankering to hear some music,” she said, proud of herself for sounding so calm.

“Your old man’d whoop my hide if I let you in here. Go on home. No need for a girl like you to walk the streets dressed like that. Only trouble comes of it.”

The panel slid shut. She could still hear music behind the locked door. “Ain’t We Got Fun.” A whiff of cigar smoke lingered in the air.

Elsa stood there a moment, confused. She couldn’t even go in? Why not? Sure, Prohibition made drinking illegal, but everyone in town wet their whistles in places like this and the cops looked the other way.

She walked aimlessly up the street, toward the county courthouse.

That was when she saw a man headed her way.

Tall and lanky, he was, with thick black hair partially tamed by glistening pomade. He wore dusty black pants that clung to his narrow hips and a white shirt buttoned to his neck under a beige sweater, with only the knot showing of his plaid tie. A leather newsboy cap sat at a jaunty angle on his head.

As he walked toward her, she saw how young he was—not more than eighteen, probably, with sun-darkened skin and brown eyes. (Bedroom eyes, according to her romantic novels.)

“Hello, ma’am.” He stopped and smiled, took off his cap.

“Are you talking to m-me?”

“I don’t see anyone else around here. I’m Raffaello Martinelli. You live in Dalhart?”

Italian. Good Lord. Her father wouldn’t want her to look at this kid, let alone speak to him.

“I do.”

“Not me. I’m from the bustling metropolis of Lonesome Tree, up toward the Oklahoma border. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it. What’s your name?”

“Elsa Wolcott,” she said.

“Like the tractor supply? Hey, I know your dad.” He smiled. “What are you doing out here all by your lonesome in that pretty dress, Elsa Wolcott?”

Be Fanny Hill. Be bold. This might be her only chance. When she got home, Papa was probably going to lock her up. “I’m … lonely, I guess.”

Raffaello’s dark eyes widened. His Adam’s apple slid up and down in a quick swallow.

Eternity passed while she waited for him to speak.

“I’m lonely, too.”

He reached for her hand.

Elsa almost pulled away; that was how stunned she was.

When had she last been touched?