Ingrid Baxter

Ingrid Baxter

Father was hungry.

He never was a good person but when he was hungry he was worse, much worse. Mother suffered the brunt of it. Perhaps she was protecting her children or perhaps she accepted it as her lot in life. She could never be described as loving but she was Ingrid’s mother. It was all Ingrid had ever known.

They needed to satisfy Father's hunger. Ingrid had to find a lone traveller. Someone no one would miss.  Someone on whom Father could feed. They never lasted. Father was crueller with his food than he was with his family. Their captives always died too soon leading to Father preying on his family again.

They had migrated to this part of America because it was still not fully tamed. People went missing. The Baxters merely added a few more. With the right victims, no one noticed.

Father’s hunger was foremost in Ingrid’s mind. Mother was weak. She needed time to rest and recuperate. If Father kept taking from her as he did, she would not be much longer for this world. The downside of living here was the relative scarcity of suitable victims.

Even when no one passed by, Ingrid enjoyed sitting down here at the border of their land. She was free from the privations of a violent father and her lustful brother.

It was getting late. Ingrid had to think about her need for food and of making tonight’s family meal. She was about to return to the house when she saw a lone rider cresting the hill. She climbed up and sat on the gate. She watched him approach. He was riding from the East, which meant he was coming from a long way away. He was ripe for the picking.

He increased his speed to a trot. Thankfully, he was alone. Father would eat well tonight.

“Good evening, stranger,” she said. “What do they call you?”

The man stopped by the gate. He looked tired but he was young and healthy. He did not answer straight away. “Bartram, ma’am,” he tugged on the brim of his bowler, “they call me Bartram, ma’am.”

“Bartram is it?” she said, feeling mischievous. “You are not sounding so sure.”

“Caught me unawares is all,” he replied, “don’t expect to see no comely lass out here.”

She laughed. This one was going to be too easy. “You look road-weary, Bartram. We take in strangers who need a hot meal and a warm bed.” She lifted her hat slightly to give Bartram a better view of her face.

“I could certainly use a hot meal and a warm bed. Sleeping on the ground ain’t no fun for nobody.”

“Well, you had better come in then.” She jumped down from the gate and opened it for him. “Follow me, our house is this way.”

Bartram said, “Say, ma’am. Mighty rude of me. Didn’t ask you your name.” He did not dismount.

She looked back at him, “Ingrid.”

“Ingrid,” he echoed.

“I’ll stable your horse round the back. Go in the front door. When you see my brother, Jasper, tell him I sent you.”

After they had got to the front of the Bartram dismounted and passed the reigns to Ingrid. She watched him go into the house before leading the horse around the back to the stable.

The horse went straight for the water trough. While it drank, Ingrid brushed it down. It was a fine animal. She saw signs of fatigue but nothing to worry about. It would fetch a handsome price. Ingrid thought about what she might buy with the money. She could use some new clothes.

When she was done assessing the horse, Ingrid went to her bed-bound Mother. “We have a customer,” she said in her native German.

“Is good,” whimpered Mother, managing a weak smile.

Ingrid leant over and kissed her mother’s forehead. “Stew tonight. I shall bring some later. Rest now.”

# # #

A care-worn curtain separated the kitchen from the public area of the Baxters’ home, Cherryvale Inn. Ingrid could hear Jasper Jnr talking to Bartram as she stirred the simmering stew. She popped her head around the curtain to check on the boys. “Who is hungry?”

“Oh yes,” they said in unison.

Ingrid returned to the kitchen and served up three bowls. She made sure to save some in the pot for Mother. With practised ease, she carried them through the curtain into the public area. “There is no good beer here...” she said as she lay the plates down.

“The beer in the saloon is terrible,” interrupted Jasper to her annoyance.

“…but we do have some sarsaparilla.” She had not quite mastered the word’s pronunciation. “We have a real drink after we have eaten.” She smiled at Bartram making eye to eye contact with him.

Bartram rubbed his hands together. “Sounds good to me!”

“Jasper,” said Ingrid, as she sat at the table, “you wanna get the drink?”

“What?” said Jasper. Had he forgotten the routine? Ingrid distracts the customer... “Oh yes. I know where it is.” He got up and disappeared behind the curtain.

Bartram said, “Jasper says you will be making up a bed for me?”

“Yes, we can put you up in here, or you can take one of our beds. I can sleep in the barn.” The hook was baited.

“In the barn?” Said Bartram. “It is not right a fine looking woman such as yourself should end up in a barn.”

“Oh, I am used to it,” she replied. Time to reel him in. “This is only a small house and we must make do.” She leaned closer. “It is not all bad. Father cannot hear what goes on in there.” She winked. Ingrid had Bartram’s full attention.

Jasper returned with a chipped jug of sarsaparilla. He passed out a tin mug each to Bartram, Ingrid and finally himself. Ingrid served the drink. Jasper raised his and toasted, “Your good health!”

Bartram’s attention was fixed on Ingrid. She curled a strand of blonde hair with her left hand. She stared back at him as she put a spoonful of stew into her mouth. Got you! “You finish up your stew, Bartram,” she said, “here have some bread to mop it up. I bake it fresh.”

“I will go for the kirschwasser,” said Jasper, “you will like.”

Bartram took up a piece of bread to mop up the last of his stew. He rubbed his belly. "That hit the spot. You know, Ingrid, you should get a sign. More customers."

Ingrid glanced at Jasper Jnr as he stood and disappeared behind the curtain. She sat back. This was her favourite part.

There was no warning. Jasper hit Bartram over the back of the head from behind the curtain. He never saw it coming. Bartram tried to grasp the table but he fell to the floor. He reached up to his bleeding head.

Jasper re-appeared through the curtain, hammer in hand ready to deliver another blow, but there was no need. Bartram fell, out cold. Jasper put the hammer onto the table and grabbed Bartram under his arms. Ingrid followed as Jasper dragged his victim out of the front door and round the back to a small building they called “Father’s larder”. Ingrid shackled Bartram’s wrists. She always felt better once they were secured.

“You have done it again, sister,” said Jasper. He grabbed hold of Ingrid and pushed her up against the wall. She knew what was coming. It was better not to resist. He held her tight. He forced his tongue into her mouth. The first time he did this to her she felt sick. Now, she just felt numb.

When she could speak, she said, “I need to feed Mother.”

“My needs first,” replied Jasper, unfastening his belt.

# # #

Mother sat up and nibbled at her stew. Ingrid sat at the opposite end of the bed. Silently, she watched her mother eat. She had memories of Mother as a strong and vibrant woman who gave as good as she got. Those days were long gone. Years of abuse at the hands of Father had reduced her to a shadow of her former self.

The old woman picked out bits of meat or vegetable and popped them into her mouth. Ingrid watched this slow process with a heavy heart. Is this my fate, too? She wondered. The thought should have been depressing. There was nothing, just deeply-ingrained numbness. Had Mother and Father ever been happy? She had no memory of joy.

Ingrid thought about Bartram shackled in Father’s larder. She had seen the lust in his eyes. She recognised the look: she had seen it on Jasper often enough. Cherryvale Inn’s guests never made it to the barn. Jasper was the only man she had ever known. 

Mother was looking better after her meal but she had made a mess. The stew had dribbled down her nightgown, creating more stains. Ingrid continued to watch the dried-up, old hag of a woman. If Father turned Jasper Jnr, then this was what her brother would have in store for her. Thoughts of escape surfaced, as they often did. She could not run and abandon Mother. She could not do it. Ingrid asked herself if this was what love was. She had no way of knowing.

“Have you finished?” Ingrid asked in German. Mother could not speak English.

“Och, nearly,” barked Mother, “is good, yes?”

“Yes, Mother.”

Mother drank the last of the stew from the bowl, spilling more. 

"Here," said Ingrid, passing Mother a rag. “Get some rest. Father will not need you tonight.”

“That is good,” barked Mother. There was never a gentle word from her; she always sounded harsh.

Ingrid took away the empty bowl and left her Mother alone.

# # #

Jasper was in the dining room looking through Bartram’s things.

“You idiot, swine!” He spat, in German.

“What?” It was getting late and Ingrid could really do without Jasper's bad temper.

“Do you know what you have done?” Jasper had a short fuse but never got angry over nothing.

“No. What have I done?” she asked, also in German, as she sat down putting the dining table between her and her brother.

“What have you done? What have you done?” Jasper screamed the words at her.

“I do not know,” said Ingrid, bracing herself for whatever punishment Jasper was about to inflict.

“I’ll tell you what you have done, Ingrid. That young man in the larder is called Bartholomew Carlisle.”

“Carlisle?” Ingrid felt her stomach drop. “Shit.”

“Shit? Is that all you have to say after your mistake?”

“My mistake? You hit him. You.”

“You failed to inform me he is a Carlisle.”

“I did not know. Perhaps, he is not one of those Carlisles?” It was a desperate hope that his name was a coincidence and not related to the powerful landowners in the area.

“You think that is likely?”

Ingrid knew better not to answer.

Jasper got up and paced back and forth. He had so far not shown any sign of violence.

“He must die.”

“No,” said Ingrid, thinking of Mother, “Brimstone is a day’s ride away. He won’t be missed for at least a day. It will be another day before anyone comes looking.”

“And what if he is already late?”

“He is not. He was not rushing. He was relaxed about staying here and never said anything about being late.”

“He never mentioned he is a Carlisle, either.” Jasper slammed his fists onto the table. "No doubt thinking about getting into your cunt, whore."

“Like you brother, I don’t think he was expecting to pay for my cunt.”

Jasper moved fast. There was a blur of movement and then Ingrid was sprawled on the floor. She had not had time to react and was unsure where the punch had connected.

“Show some respect!”

Whore, her rapist had called her a whore. It was almost funny. It was not as if he paid her. As she lay there wanting to sob but finding no tears, she thought about the women at Delilah’s. Ten dollars a night they earned. They did not have to suffer at the hands of men either. She had heard stories about one of the women, Bonnie. She could knock a man out with one punch. No one ever caused trouble at Delilah’s, at least not twice. Life upstairs in a saloon did not seem so bad.

He picked her up and sat in her a chair. “Look what you made me do.” He gently caressed her cheek. It could almost be loving. “Why do you do these things to make me angry? You know it hurts me as much as you.”

Scratching his eyes out would have been her preferred answer. Instead, she just stared at him. She lacked the strength to be angry.

“Look,” he said, “we can talk to the Carlisle swine. Make him tell us.”

“Good idea,” replied Ingrid. Perhaps Jasper would vent his anger on Bartholomew and she could get on with trying to cry herself to sleep.

# # #

Ingrid unlocked the door to Father’s larder. She waited outside while Jasper stormed in to confront Bartram.

“Why didn’t you tell us you are a Carlisle, you stupid ass?” He kicked Bartram.

“What?” Whimpered Bartram, his voice breaking.

“Bartholomew goddamned Carlisle!” Jasper shot the words out like bullets.

“Never asked.” croaked Bartram.

Jasper kicked him again. “Who knows you are coming? Who is expecting you?”  

“Water.”

Bartram’s plea earned him another kick. Ingrid saw him reach out to her. “Help.”

Ingrid said to Jasper in German, “I’ll get some water.”

“He does not deserve water,” replied Jasper in the same language through gritted teeth.

“Yes, but he can hardly speak. You want him to talk, no? I’ll get some from the horse trough.”

Jasper grunted his approval.  

She fetched the water and tipped some into Bartram’s mouth. He spluttered and choked spitting water everywhere.

“Better tell Jasper what he wants to know,” said Ingrid. She tipped a little more water into his mouth.

“Enough!” Barked Jasper, knocking Ingrid out of the way spilling water all over the floor. “Are you expected? Who will come looking for you?”

“Yes,” said Bartram, “Expected.”

Jasper kicked him again. “Who will come looking for you?”

“Everyone,” said Bartram, trying to sound defiant. “Carlisles look after their own.”

Jasper threw some more German words at him. “Swine! Stupid idiot! Shit! Swine!”

“If you let me go and leave now. Go to Canada. You could get away.” The feeble attempt at defiance had made way for desperation.

Jasper kicked him again. “We… could… get… away?” He followed it up with another kick.

Ingrid picked herself up. She said to Jasper, in German, “Leaving might be a good idea.”

“And go where?” Replied Jasper. “We have a good thing going here. Do you want to start again? You know how much Father hates to travel.”

“Bury him deep,” said Ingrid, “very deep.”

“Oh I will,” said Jasper, “and you can help dig it. This is your fault.” 

“Please, don’t kill me. Kill me, Carlisles never stop hunting you.”

“Quiet,” ordered Jasper.

“Father has fed today,” said Ingrid, still in German, “we keep him alive until tomorrow night.”

“For once, you are right,” replied Jasper. “We can dig his grave tomorrow and Father can feed tomorrow night. Problem solved.”

“You will have to burn his possessions.”

Ingrid crouched down in front of Bartram and looked him straight in the eye. “You not tell us your full name. We might have given you lodgings, is all. All this is your fault. You could have avoided this. Father will feed again. You will die. Jasper is burning everything that could identify you. We sell your horse. We leave no trace. You were never here.”

In a burst of anger, Bartholomew Carlisle tried to lunge at Ingrid but the restraints held fast.

Ingrid got to her feet and left. Jasper had already gone. She shut the door and locked it behind her.

# # #

Ingrid tossed and turned. Sleep eluded her. She sat up and rubbed her face. Her thoughts were a conflicted mess. She thought about Mother, sleeping soundly, oblivious to Father murdering another innocent soul. She even thought about taking Bartram to the barn. Having a man inside of her was always something forced upon her, it had never been her choice.

She grabbed a gown and wandered into the kitchen. The kirschwasser was in its usual place and she took a long gulp straight from the bottle. The heat of the liquor was soothing. She took another swig and thought about Bartram. Had Father killed him yet? It was not in Father's nature to make the kill quick and merciless. It would be long and drawn out so that he could extract every ounce of pleasure from it.

A wide yawn meant she was tired, but there was no drowsiness. She pushed her way past the curtain and sat in the chair where Jasper had attacked Bartram. Ingrid just sat there, staring into the darkness. There was no emotion. There was only emptiness.

# # #

“Wake up, lazy bones!”

Ingrid rubbed her eyes. Her brother came into focus.

"Father has finished," said Jasper, "we have a grave to dig."

"What? Oh yes," said Ingrid, still not fully awake. She felt stiff after sleeping slumped over on the table. She stretched and yawned.

"Come on," barked Jasper, "breakfast."

"I need coffee," said Ingrid, stifling a yawn, "want some while I cook breakfast?"

Jasper sat opposite Ingrid as she got up to go into the kitchen. The stove needed cleaning out, but that would have to wait. She lit the stove. While that was warming up, she fetched some water from the well.

"We are running low on coffee," she shouted, "we need to go to Brimstone soon to stock up."

Jasper shouted back, "I will sell the horse tomorrow. We can travel to Brimstone the day after."

Ingrid looked around for something to cook for breakfast. All of yesterday's stew was gone. There was still some mutton and bread left. That would have to do.

They ate their morning meal in silence. Ingrid preferred it this way.

Jasper pushed away his empty plate and belched before polishing off his coffee. "Time to get to it," he said. "I’ll get the body. You start digging a hole. Find a good spot at the back of the orchard."

Ingrid finished her coffee. She would have to clear away the plates and feed Mother later.

# # #

The following morning, Father was well-fed and Mother looked better, though far from well. The large bruise on the left side of Ingrid’s face would heal. This counted as a good day for the Baxters.

After breakfast, Ingrid returned to the gate. She could forget about Bartram now he was safely buried in the cherry orchard. As usual, no one passed by but Ingrid did not mind. She even enjoyed the rain shower. It was refreshing.

It was well into the afternoon when she saw two riders approaching from the West, the direction of Brimstone. It was ranger Valdez with a deputy, Injun Jane.

She rushed up the path back to the house. She saw Jasper walking Bartram’s horse. “Visitors,” she hissed, in German, “we have visitors. Stable the horse.”

“Who is it?” Asked Jasper.

“The Mexican Ranger, Valdez and Injun Jane.”

Jasper led the horse back into the stable and shut the door. “Play it clever, Ingrid,” he ordered. “I shall wait for them in the house, You go and greet them.”

She rushed back down to the gate. Stood there, she saw a dismounted Valdez. He was about to open the gate.

“Good afternoon, Ranger Valdez,” she said. She acknowledged his companion, “Injun Jane.”

“Good afternoon Ingrid,” replied Valdez.

“What happened to your face?” asked Injun Jane.

“What? Oh that,” said Ingrid, she had forgotten about the bruise, “I fell and hurt myself. Can you believe how clumsy I am?” She was not sure that Injun Jane was convinced but Valdez showed no interest. “Come on in,” she continued, “it is not often we have visitors.”

They walked up the path, the other two leading their horses. Ingrid suppressed panic. She had told Jasper to stable Bartram’s horse. Here she was escorting two guests with their horses onto her property. Think Ingrid, think! She had no idea what to do. “What brings you way out here?”

Valdez said, “Missing person.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Missing person, you say?”

“Do you know Charlotte?” Asked Injun Jane. “One of Delilah’s girls.”

“Charlotte?” Said Ingrid, hoping she did not sound relieved.

“Yeah, Charlotte,” said Valdez. “Delilah’s most popular whore. The whole of Brimstone is out looking for her.” He pronounced the word "whore" like it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Let me take your horses. I can brush them down and water them while you go in to see Jasper.”

“Right you are,” said Valdez. He and Injun Jane handed their reins over to Ingrid.

She watched the two of them go into the house before leading the two horses round the back. The horses needed no persuasion to go to the water trough. She found a brush and got to work on Valdez' horse. She was about to start on Injun Jane’s horse when Jasper came out of the back of the house followed by their two guests.

Jasper said, “A whore is missing, presumed kidnapped. I don’t know who Charlotte is but we have not seen anyone for days, have we?”

“No,” replied Ingrid.

“We’ll get back,” said Valdez.

“I’ll walk you back to the trail,” said Ingrid. She was worried that Injun Jane might notice Bartram’s tracks. She hoped the rain had removed all traces of them.

# # #

Two days later, late in the afternoon, Jasper and Ingrid arrived in Brimstone. Jasper hated it here but Ingrid always enjoyed their rare trips into the fledgling town. They had some money from the sale of the horse, or rather Jasper did.

Ingrid's good looks attracted a lot of male attention. This aroused the disapproval of Jasper. “Don’t be getting no ideas about the menfolk giving you the eye,” said Jasper. “I’m going to the saloon. You go to the store and get what we need. I’ll join you later to pay for it.”

Glad to be rid of him for a while, she made her way to the store. The sign said “Star and Bullock” but she could never remember which was which. The one stood behind the counter greeted her, “Good afternoon, Miss Ingrid. Always a pleasure to see you.”

“Good afternoon,” replied Ingrid. “I have a list of provisions I need.” She passed it to him. “Jasper will be in shortly to pay.”

“Right you are, Miss.”

She waited patiently for her order to be put together. The bell above the door rang as another customer came in. Ingrid recognised he was a Carlisle but did not know his name.

He raised his bowler, “Good afternoon, Ingrid.”

“Good afternoon, Master Carlisle.”

“Jake,” he said, drinking her in with his eyes, “no need for formality here.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jake.” She was making polite conversation with a relative of the man she had not long ago buried. Did he suspect?

“You have that house about a day’s ride to the East? You ain’t seen a cousin of mine by any chance have you? Name of Bartholomew. Not as good lookin’ as me.” He winked.

“Should I have?”

“Comin’ here from back West. He might ride past your neck of the woods.”

“We’ll be sure to look out for him and… Bartholomew, you say his name was?”

“Aye. Comin’ out here to learn the family business. Old Cowhand is wondering what is keeping him.”

“He is probably delayed in a brothel.”

Jake Carlisle laughed. “Man needs to learn ranching not whoring. Still, can’t say I blame him. If you see him, tell him there are some fine whores right here in Brimstone if he needs to dip his wick. Overpriced, if you ask me but they get the job done.”

“Dip his wick?”

Jake pointed to his crotch and thrusted a couple of times.

“Oh, I see. An American expression.” Ingrid laughed.

“I, being a man of breeding and values, prefer my women unsullied. Perhaps, I can visit? Maybe on a Sunday after church when I ain’t training?”

He was all polite and charming but Ingrid could see how fake he was. It was possible he was not as bad as Jasper and Father but she could see he was cut from the same cloth. It might have been better if Jake were lying under the orchard rather than Bartholomew. “As much as I would like that, Jake, Father and my brother are over protective.”

“Protective from a... Carlisle?” She saw the charming mask slip and caught a glimpse of the monster hiding behind it.

“If you wish to court me,” continued Ingrid, “you will have to seek the permission of Father.”

“We’ll see about this.” He stormed out slamming the door behind him.

“Your order. Miss?”

She had forgotten about her provisions.

“When will your brother be here with the money?”

# # #

It was late when Ingrid and Jasper jnr got back home. They had both ridden back in silence. Ingrid had spent the time pondering how she would bring up the subject of a Carlisle wanting to court her.

Jasper took the provisions inside leaving Ingrid to stable the horses. She fed and watered them and then brushed them both down. Ordinarily, she would have not bothered but grooming delayed her having to go into the house.

Once she was inside, Jasper said, “What took you so long?”

“I was brushing down the horses.”

“What, tonight?” Jasper asked with suspicion in his voice.

“I needed to think.”

“You? Needed to think?” Jasper laughed.

“It is no laughing matter,” replied Ingrid, reverting to German.

“Oh?”

“I saw Jake in the store, Jake Carlisle, Bartram’s cousin, not Irish Jake from the Saloon.”

“What did you say him?” Jasper asked, also in German.

“Just that we would keep an eye out for Bartholomew.” She paused while she gathered her courage. “And that he should speak to Father if he wants to court me.”

Jasper was not pleased. “You were whoring yourself to a Carlisle?”

“Jake Carlisle is coming here to visit to see Father. He wants to come round every Sunday after church. Every Sunday. The Carlisles are coming.”

Other stories set in Brimstone: "Father Nathaniel Blackadder", "Jolene White", "Hubert Alderman", "Bonnie", "Charlotte" and "Bartholomew Carlisle".