Delilah's Flame

by Parnell, Andrea

  “Well, what about you pullin’ a gun on the lady?” He stood and tugged up the gunbelt that liked to slip under his potbelly. “Was she wrong about that too?”

  “Now, Walsh.” Tabor wanted to tell the marshal what a thick head he had, but couldn’t risk losing whatever advantage he had gained. “I don’t wear a gun when I visit a lady. You got my holster and guns out of my hotel room the same day you picked up my bedroll.” He made fists of the hands he longed to wrap around Delilah’s neck. “Hell! I don’t know. She was hysterical. Maybe she thought I had a gun.”

  “Yeah. That could be it.” Peregrine tossed the smoldering butt of his cigarette into a sand-filled bucket. “Trouble is, she ain’t comin’ back to say what she thought after she calmed down. And I still got a signed deposition says different.”

  Forgetting his caution, Tabor gripped the cell bars. “The judge won’t be here for another six weeks.”

  “So?”

  “So when he gets here, you’re going to have to tell him you locked me up because I pulled a gun that was in another room. What’s he going to think?”

  Peregrine rubbed his bristly chin. “You know, I been thinkin’, Stanton. You can’t always put store in what a woman says when she’s hysterical.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tabor mumbled, afraid to say anything that might sway the marshal another way. A few days ago Peregrine had mentioned an old quarrel with the judge. Tabor had stored the information away for later use, thinking it might come in handy.

  “I reckon two weeks is long enough to keep a man locked up for bein’ drunk and disorderly.”

  “Two weeks is about right,” Tabor agreed. His entire body tensed. He could see freedom almost at hand. All he could think about was what he was going to do when he found Delilah.

  Peregrine got up and scuffed across the office to his desk. “‘Course, I’m going to have to fine you. You bein’ a guest of the jail so long.”

  “How much, Marshal?” Tabor scowled as he watched Peregrine pull a ring of keys from his desk drawer. He could still have a problem. Delilah had emptied his pockets before carting him over to the jail. The only money he had was the twenty dollars he’d won from the marshal.

  Peregrine jangled the keys. His wide grin worried Tabor. “Say about as much as you won from me playin’ poker. Don’t forget, I staked you that first game.”

  “Marshal, I got to buy a horse to leave town.”

  Tabor’s crestfallen look must have stirred a little sympathy loose in Peregrine. “Yeah. I reckon you do,” he drawled. “Look, I’m sorry about you losin’ your horse. How was I to know I was dealin’ with a hysterical woman?”

  Tabor swallowed his anger. He didn’t expect to be without the Admiral for long. He smiled. “No hard feelings, Marshal. It’s not your fault. You did the only thing you could.”

  “Yeah. I reckon I did. I’ve always believed in givin’ a lady the benefit of the doubt.”

  Tabor gritted his teeth and nodded. The lady who had put him in this predicament was a scheming, man-hating, red-haired witch. She was going to wish she’d never heard of Tabor Stanton. Hell! Who was he kidding? By now she’d probably left another half-dozen witless victims in her wake. Most likely she didn’t even remember his name.

  “So you’re going to drop the fine?” Tabor asked hopefully.

  Peregrine started to agree, then thought of asking Martha for more spending money. “I’m droppin’ it to half,” he said.

  Tabor opened his mouth to argue, but quickly assessed the likelihood of doing more harm than good. He wouldn’t get much of a horse for ten bucks, but if he rubbed Peregrine the wrong way he wouldn’t need one.

  “That’s fair, Marshal,” he agreed.

  “That’s what I figured you’d say.” Peregrine’s grin widened as he slid the key in the lock.

  * * *

  “Curtis...” Tabor spoke to the livery owner he had left the Admiral with two weeks back. “You remember that black stallion I rode into town.”

  Curtis smiled. “The one Miss Delilah won from you in that poker game?” Curtis remembered. The stallion was one of the best-looking horses he’d ever seen. Temperamental, though. He hadn’t ventured into the stall with that one.

  “Right.” Tabor fumed. He supposed he had been the laughingstock of Yuba City since that night. Being reminded of it didn’t help his outlook any. “Who took him out of here?”

  “One of them dandies led him out. Couldn’t saddle him. Left your rig here. Reckon you’ll be wanting it.” Curtis disappeared into the tack room, returning shortly with the saddle. He dropped it at Tabor’s feet. “Got anything to go under it?”

  “No,” Tabor said, galled to have to ask for a horse and knowing he was going to be laughed at again when he told Curtis how much money he had. “I need a mount.”

  “No problem about that.” Curtis pointed to a gelding at one end of the barn and at a mare nearby. “Thirty dollars will git you either one of those.”

  “What’ve you got for ten?” Tabor mumbled.

  “Ten!” Curtis spat tobacco juice on the ground. “For ten I can git you a rocky horse.”

  Tabor, blood throbbing in his temples, knuckles stretched tight, looked at the ground, afraid that if he looked at Curtis he’d soon find himself back in Peregrine’s jail. The sight of his saddle gave him an idea.

  “All right,” he said slowly when Curtis showed no sign of letting up. “How about a trade? My saddle for a horse and an old saddle of yours.”

  Curtis glanced at Tabor’s saddle. “Well, I don’t know,” he said, poking his boot at the saddle. “It’s a good saddle, but it ain’t that good. Let’s say you throw in the ten bucks you got and it’s a deal. I’ll even hand you back enough for a little grub.”

  “It’s a deal,” Tabor agreed, kicking his saddle toward Curtis. A black look on his face, he dipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out the ten dollars he’d won from Peregrine. Curtis counted the money, then handed him back a few dollars. Under his breath Tabor mumbled the thoughts he couldn’t voice. He knew now how outlaws were made. A little more humiliation and he’d be ready to resort to holding up the Yuba City Bank. He could bear it only because he knew someday he’d get even with Delilah.

  “You come back late this afternoon and I’ll have a horse ready,” Curtis told him.

  “Thanks. I’ll be back.” Saying thanks to Curtis put a sour taste in his mouth, but he didn’t figure he’d get a better deal anywhere else.

  “‘Bout forgot,” Curtis said. “Been a fella here askin’ for you. I told him you was in jail. Did he look you up?”

  “No.” Tabor scowled. “Was it Wilkins?”

  “Some other fella. Didn’t git his name.” Curtis picked up Tabor’s saddle with a lot more care than he’d shown in throwing it down. He laughed. “Reckon he don’t like the inside of a jail neither.”

  Tabor’s lips thinned with anger but he reminded himself he had no reason to blame Curtis for his predicament. That credit went to Delilah.

  Curtis laughed again. “And here,” he added, flipping Tabor another coin. “Git yourself a bath, on me. Don’t want the horse thinkin’ he’s carryin’ a polecat.”

  * * *

  The saddle rode like a fence rail, the horse had a gait that made Tabor suspect it had one short leg. At least he was clean, and his clothes were too. He had coffee, a little bacon, and some beans. He rode out of Yuba City with nothing more guiding him than a mention that Delilah’s coach had pulled out in the same direction.

  Fat Jack back in the saloon hadn’t been able to supply him with much more information than he already had about that devil-woman. Knowing Yuba City was the end of her tour wasn’t encouraging. She could be on a ship heading to Europe. Or on a train east. He figured his best chance of tracking her down was to follow her coach to the next stop. Somebody would know where she went from there. A woman like Delilah couldn’t pass through a town without being noticed.

  When he came to a fork in the road and had to decide on a direc
tion, he thought of flipping a coin. Since he didn’t have one, he let the horse, an old mare named Beetle, choose.

  His bad luck held. Inquiries in the next town assured him nobody had seen Delilah. Everybody had wanted to. Two more days of riding brought him no leads. Eventually he found himself backtracking. It was possible Delilah had done the same, circling around Yuba City and heading out in the opposite direction. Over a two-week period he rode back to the last three towns she’d performed in, finally getting a lead. The coach she used was hired and one of the men who had helped unload her trunk happened to know the company had offices in Sacramento.

  Encouraged, but low on grub and tired of eating jackrabbits, he sidled into a saloon and with some sharp talking found a man willing to stake him in a poker game. His winnings paid for grub enough to get him to Sacramento, with a few dollars left over.

  * * *

  Tired and dusty, Tabor entered the offices of the Logan Stage Lines in Sacramento. The young clerk looked up and asked if he could be of any assistance.

  “I’m trying to find an entertainer called Delilah.”

  The clerk nodded methodically. “You and a thousand other men.”

  Tabor shot him a withering look. “You mean other people have been here looking for her?”

  “I do,” the clerk said. “You aren’t the only one who figured out she rents a coach from us.” He closed the ticket drawer since it was obvious he wouldn’t be making a sale. “Thing is, Logan Stage Lines can’t help you. One of her agents makes the arrangements. All we know is somebody picks up the coach, somebody brings it back. Nobody here has ever seen Delilah.”

  “You don’t keep records or have an address even on the agent? Isn’t that risky?”

  “Not when the customer pays double rate like Delilah does.” The young man pulled a pencil from behind his ear. “If that’s all, I’ve got work to do.”

  Disappointed but still determined, Tabor left. Sacramento might be another dead end, but a hunch told him it wasn’t. He decided to check the hotels in town. Following another hunch, he decided not to ask for Delilah by name.

  “I’m looking for lady who might have stayed here recently,” he said to a maid at the Sacramento Hotel, figuring she might know more than the desk clerk about who occupied the rooms. “A pretty woman, fire-red hair, fancy clothes.”

  “Your sweetheart or your sister?” Maggie asked.

  “My...ah...sweetheart,” Tabor said. “You see, I upset her and she ran out on me. Now I want to tell her I’m sorry and I can’t find her. I was hoping you might have seen her.”

  “Does your sweetheart have a name?”

  “Rose,” he said. “Her name is Rose Smith.”

  Maggie’s eyes showed her disappointment as she shook her head. She fancied the idea of reuniting a pair of broken hearts. “There hasn’t been a Rose Smith here.”

  Tabor frowned. “I have reason to think she might use another name. Has anyone been here who fits Rose’s description?”

  “No,” Maggie said. “I don’t remember anybody with fire-red hair.”

  Tabor swore silently. She could have told him that to begin with. He was about to thank her and leave when she volunteered something else.

  “I don’t suppose you could mean Miss Alden.”

  “Miss Alden?”

  “Miss Alden and her sister stay here sometimes, but neither one is redheaded.”

  “Tell me about these Alden sisters.”

  Gossip being Maggie’s favorite pastime, she needed only that encouragement to tell all she knew. “Now, there’s a pair. Miss Alden keeps a suite here permanent. Just uses it when her and her sister want to get away from all those brothers—eight brothers. To begin with, I thought you might be one of the brothers checking up on them.”

  Tabor wasn’t sure just why, but what he was hearing about the Alden sisters made him want to hear more. “When were they here last?”

  “Must have been three weeks back.”

  Tabor smiled. The timing was right.

  Maggie guessed his next questions. “They left by train. I don’t know where.”

  “Thanks,” Tabor said, hurrying out of the hotel.

  “Good luck,” Maggie called after him.

  The stationmaster remembered the Alden sisters and their destination. San Francisco. He also remembered a horse of the Admiral’s description being loaded on a boxcar headed for the same place. Tabor bought a ticket for the next day, then left the station. He needed a good poker game and a livery man who couldn’t see too well, one he might convince to take Beetle off his hands.

  If Delilah and the Admiral were in San Francisco, he would find them. If the trail led on, he would follow, as soon as he had taken care of his other business in that city. He had a letter to deliver to someone named Clement Damon.

  Chapter 6

  “I had an absolutely abominable journey,” Emily Dearborn professed over tea with her niece. A small woman with china-blue eyes and blond hair that hadn’t yet gone gray, Lilah’s aunt had arrived a week earlier. “Lilah,” Emily continued, “why you want to live in this savage land is beyond my understanding.”

  “San Francisco isn’t savage, Aunt Emily. It’s not London, of course, but it is my home.”

  Lilah couldn’t imagine what her aunt had seen since arriving that brought her to such a conclusion. Lawless areas existed not far away, but Aunt Emily had seen only the port and the posh sections of the city. Lilah smiled indulgently. Why, just a glance around her sitting room, a look at the handmade Aubusson rug, the lace curtains, and the pink moiré lambrequins at the windows should make her aunt feel as comfortable as she would in her own London town house.

  “I’d like to change your mind about that,” Emily said, revealing a little of the strong will beneath her delicate appearance. “My intent is to persuade you and Dinah to return to England with me.”

  “You won’t succeed,” Lilah said, pouring tea, then taking a small second slice of poppy-seed cake. “Neither Dinah nor I intend to leave Papa again.”

  Emily chose to ignore Lilah’s remark. “That young Charles Rutherford who proposed to you has never married.”

  “I have a fiancé, Aunt Emily,” Lilah said. “Almost.”

  She guessed her aunt’s thoughts. Charles, although untitled, was from a prominent family and had been Emily’s choice for Lilah’s husband. Lilah remembered the handsome Charles Rutherford well. His father, who had made a fortune in trade, favored the match even though Lilah was American. She might have been tempted to accept Charles’s proposal if she hadn’t felt so strongly about her personal obligations.

  “A bank clerk,” Emily went on indignantly. “You could do better for yourself.” She gave a long, discontented sigh. “You know it broke my heart when you refused Charles and left my house. I still question your decision and why you choose to live in a wilderness.”

  Lilah lowered her eyes and thought about Emily’s motives. She loved her aunt and was indebted to her. Emily, whose husband had died only a few years after their marriage, had no children of her own. When she had taken on the task of raising her sister’s children, she had done so wholeheartedly. And though she had taken two unruly mining-camp waifs and transformed them into fashionable young ladies, Emily would not be satisfied until she saw them successfully married. To Emily’s mind, no American man could possibly have a family background that measured up to her standards.

  “First of all, Barrett isn’t a bank clerk,” Lilah said gently. “He’s Papa’s assistant and is being trained to oversee all the Damon enterprises. Second, America isn’t a wilderness, at least not all of it. Last of all, Aunt Emily—” Lilah spoke her aunt’s name with great affection “—I love it here. I could never be happy in London again.”

  Emily frowned, fearing defeat before she even got started. “I can’t bear to think I’ve failed Marie,” she said sadly. “Bringing out her daughters and arranging good marriages seemed the least I could do for my sister.” Emily directed a stern and asses
sing look at Lilah. “I haven’t heard you say you love this Barrett.”

  For Lilah the conversation was getting tiresome. She hoped it wasn’t to be repeated often during Emily’s visit. Her mind was made up and she wouldn’t change it. No doubt her aunt would soon despair of trying and direct her persuasive talk at Dinah.

  “I’m fond of Barrett and he is of me,” Lilah said softly. “We’ll have a good marriage,” she continued with a string of evasive chatter. “You must remember that my mother chose to follow my father into the goldfields when this country really was savage. Don’t you think she would be happy about her daughters being here now?”

  “I suppose you’re right, dear.” Emily’s chin trembled slightly. This journey to San Francisco was her first venture out of England, unless she counted Paris, which was only a little less civilized than London. The Bret Harte stories she had read and the proximity of the Californians who had shared her table on the ship hadn’t left her with a favorable impression of Lilah’s home. And though she was willing to admit that Damon House and what she had seen of San Francisco were pleasing, she suspected most of the inhabitants were like those men on the ship, ill-dressed and with the table manners of pigs.

  “I’m happy to hear you agree,” Lilah said.

  Though Emily had never accepted the ease with which her sister followed Clement Damon first to Pennsylvania and then into the unsettled West, she realized they had shared a strong love.

  “Even as a child Marie had a daring streak,” Emily said. “She coveted adventure.” She looked at Lilah, seeing much of Marie in her. “Your mother could be very unladylike at times.”

  Lilah’s smile brightened. “As unladylike as I was when I first came to you?”