Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series)

by Margaret Brownley

  Chapter 21

  Bessie hunkered beneath a corner table at the Desert Rose Saloon and put a finger to her mouth. “Shh.” She motioned her sister closer.

  Lula-Belle rolled her eyes but crawled to Bessie’s side, bumping her head on the table’s underside.

  Bessie had chosen this particular spot to hide because the table was occupied by Hank Gristle, slumped in the chair passed out cold. Since the man didn’t look to be much company, she figured others would avoid his table. So far she was proved right.

  “This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever come up with,” Lula-Belle whispered, rubbing her head. “And that’s saying a lot.”

  “Quit your bellyaching,” Bessie said. “It’s for a good cause.” She’d do anything for her two nephews. “I want Luke’s wedding to be perfect.”

  And she meant to see that it was. Bessie knew from the moment she’d set eyes on Kate Tenney that she was the right woman for her nephew. Luke tended to be thickheaded at times, just like her husband, Sam. For that reason it took a great deal of persuasion on Bessie’s part to bring him and Kate together, but it was worth every anxious moment she’d gone through. She’d promised her dying sister all those years ago to take care of her two boys and that’s what she’d done. Was still doing, although Michael, the youngest of the two brothers, still required work.

  Like all the saloons in town, the Desert Rose Saloon was long and narrow. Since taxes were based on lot frontage, not length, some saloons were little more than a door wide and a hundred or more feet long.

  The smell of whiskey and cactus wine permeated the air and the blue haze of smoke burned her eyes. She was covered in sawdust and her knees, back, and chair warmer hurt like crazy. What a person had to go through just to put on a decent wedding!

  It was early yet and the saloon was only half full. Others would soon arrive. It was a rare night that every saloon in town wasn’t packed to the gills. Miners, cowboys, husbands, fathers, Christians, and non-Christians—pretty much every man in town showed up sooner or later.

  Fortunately, that didn’t include her husband, Sam, or Lula-Belle’s husband, Murphy, but only because they couldn’t keep their eyes open much pass seven p.m. It appeared that the only cure for alcohol was old age.

  She glanced around the room at men in various stages of stupor and was sickened. “What a crying shame they can’t figure out a better use of their time,” she whispered.

  “I was just thinking the same about us,” Lula-Belle whispered back.

  Little Jimmy Trotter’s father, Harvey, sat in a corner next to a half-empty whiskey bottle. A farmer by trade, he wore a plaid shirt under denim overalls. The same sun that burned his skin dark brown had bleached his hair pale yellow.

  Bessie shook her head. The man finds out his son has some sort of blood cancer and instead of turning to the Lord he turns to booze.

  It didn’t help that Reverend Bland drank himself silly following the death of his little girl. Some men used the preacher’s lapse as an excuse to justify their own disgraceful behavior.

  “Okay, now that you dragged me in here, what are you planning to do?” Lula-Belle asked in a hushed voice.

  That was just it; Bessie didn’t have a plan. Never before having stepped foot in a saloon, she hadn’t the faintest idea how to convince the owner to close his doors on the eve of the wedding.

  She glanced outside, wondering if they should just leave. Then she saw something that lifted her spirits. That new woman, Molly Hatfield, just walked past the saloon. Now if that wasn’t an answer to prayer, nothing was.

  “Stay here.”

  Before Lula-Belle had a chance to protest, Bessie crawled out from under the table and hurried outside. “Molly!”

  Molly turned and greeted her with a smile. “Why, Mrs.—”

  “Aunt Bessie.”

  “Aunt Bessie, how nice to see you.”

  Lula-Belle came barreling out of the saloon like she was being chased by wolves. “How dare you take off and leave me in there by myself!” Upon spotting Molly, she tried to gather her dignity but it was too late.

  Molly looked from one to the other. “You were in the saloon?”

  Bessie saw no point in denying it. “Yes, we were, but it was for a good cause.” She lowered her voice. “Since you were once, eh . . . worked in a saloon . . . I wonder if you would be kind enough to assist us?”

  “Yes, of course,” Molly said, curiosity written all over her face. “How can I help?”

  Bessie quickly explained the problem. “So you see, if something isn’t done, the wedding will be ruined.”

  “Oh, I hope not,” Molly said. “How do you plan to get your singer and piano player to stay sober?”

  “That’s just it,” Bessie said. “I don’t have a plan. I was hoping you would help us come up with one.”

  “Have you talked with them and explained . . .”

  “That’s a great idea. Come with me.” Aunt Bessie grabbed Molly’s arm and practically dragged her to the batwing doors. “Aren’t you coming, Lula-Belle?”

  “You got Molly, you don’t need me.” Lula-Belle hobbled away, rocking side to side like a child’s hobby horse.

  Bessie led Molly inside and ducked beneath the table, motioning Molly to join her. Molly looked momentarily startled but she nonetheless dropped down on all fours and scrambled beneath the table, earning Bessie’s approval.

  “Panhandle is the town piano player and he’s due any moment,” Bessie explained, keeping her voice low. “He rides into town the same time every day.”

  She arranged her bulky form until she could clearly see the bar by peering between Hank’s legs. She poked Molly with her elbow. “There he is.”

  Molly, on hands and knees, stared at him.

  Bessie whispered, “He can only play when he’s sober.” Right now he was so drunk he couldn’t hit the ground with his hat in three tries. “If Panhandle is here, Winkleman can’t be far behind. He agreed to sing at the wedding.” He and Panhandle were thicker than feathers in a pillow. “Winkleman has a lovely smooth voice—that is, when he’s not three sheets to the wind.”

  Panhandle bow-legged his way across the room, bellied up to the bar, and lifted a shabby boot onto the shiny brass foot rail. Randy Sprocket, the saloon keeper, placed a shot glass on the polished bar and reached for a bottle of whiskey.

  Molly moved her head until it practically touched Bessie’s. “Okay, here’s what you do.”

  She whispered her plan. “Is that clear?”

  Bessie nodded. Mercy. The girl wasn’t just pretty, she also had a good head on her shoulders. Still, what she proposed was a bit more daring than Bessie was prepared for. “You have to come with me.”

  Molly nodded. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

  Bessie gathered her wits about her and braced herself with a deep breath. “Now.”

  She struggled to her feet like a newborn colt, her creaking bones hollering in protest. In her anxiety to reach the bar, she accidentally knocked Gristle off his chair. Gasping, she dropped by his side. A few blurry-eyed men glanced at her but were too far gone to concern themselves with a woman who may or may not have killed a man.

  Frantic, Bessie checked Gristle’s pulse and head. Sprawled on the floor he continued to snore away, seeming none the worse for wear.

  “I think he’s okay,” Molly said.

  Blowing out her breath, Bessie stood, brushed the sawdust off her skirt, stepped around Gristle, and sauntered over to Panhandle with as much dignity and authority as she could muster. Molly was right behind her and the two of them surrounded the man at the bar like two determined bookends.

  A painting of a naked woman hung on the wall behind the bar, looming over the bottles of liquor arranged on a shelf. Averting her eyes, Bessie gave her head a determined toss. She would match her purple gown and carefully applied carmine and complexion powder with the bare-skinned woman in the portrait any day.

  Molly signaled with a slight nod of the
head that Bessie was to speak first. “Hello, Panhandle.”

  Clearly smitten with Molly, Panhandle managed to pull his gaze away from her long enough to give Bessie a quick glance. “Bessie.”

  He was one of the few men in town who didn’t bother covering up his pox marks with a beard. He liked to brag that he had as many pox marks on his face as the piano had keys. Bessie suspected that before his face was disfigured by disease he had been a handsome man. Nothing about his appearance suggested he was a piano player, except perhaps his long tapered fingers.

  He downed his whiskey in one quick swallow. He then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Does your”—he struggled to find the word—”m-mister know you’re here?” he slurred.

  Molly answered his question with a question. “Does your missus know you’re here?”

  He caught the saloon keeper’s attention with a wagging finger and pointed to his empty glass. “Where . . . where else would I be?”

  “Home with your family,” Bessie said. He had three children but he and his wife had lost two to diphtheria. He hadn’t been the same since.

  Sprocket slung a dirty rag over his shoulder, picked up a halfempty bottle, and filled Panhandle’s glass.

  Panhandle gulped down his drink and the bartender immediately replenished it. “That’s ex-exactly where you thould be.”

  “For your information, I have an equal right to be here,” Bessie said. “We both do,” she said, indicating Molly.

  Panhandle laughed in her face, squinting through unfocused eyes. “The only way you’re ever gonna get equal rights, Bess, is to thacrifice some.”

  “I’m not much for sacrificing,” Bessie admitted.

  “I’m sure that Mr. . . . eh . . . Panhandle isn’t much for sacrifice himself,” Molly said.

  Panhandle turned his head toward Molly. “What makes you say that?”

  “A discerning man like yourself would demand only the best,” Molly explained with a flutter of eyelashes. “Which is why we’re surprised that you would patronize this particular saloon.”

  Panhandle lifted his glass. “Why wouldn’t I? It has the highest p-poker thakes in town.”

  Molly shrugged. “That’s fine if you don’t mind drinking watereddown whiskey.”

  Panhandle stared at the amber liquid in his glass, his face turning an alarming shade of red. “Watered?”

  “I thought you knew,” Bessie said, emulating Molly’s calm demeanor the best she could by pretending to study a fingernail. Mercy, her heart pounded to beat the band and Molly looked cool as a block of ice. How did she do that?

  Panhandle frowned. He then took a sip of his drink, swooshed it around in his mouth, and slammed the glass onto the bar. “You’re right.”

  Bessie glanced up at the tin ceiling and feigned a look of childlike innocence. Molly’s idea worked! It was amazing how a mere suggestion could sway a man’s opinion about almost anything. God forgive her and Molly the lie, but it was for a good cause.

  Panhandle pulled away from the bar. “It’s the last thime I thum in here.” He staggered away without paying.

  “Hey, where you going?” the saloon keeper called. “You owe me.”

  “I don’t owe you nothin’,” Panhandle slurred. “These two ladies here sed you’re messin’ with the kick. Gonna get me thum good thuff.”

  Sprocket slammed the bottle on the counter and glared at Bessie and Molly. “Why’d you tell him that? This whiskey is pure as gold.”

  “Fool’s gold you mean,” Molly said, staring him straight in the face.

  Sprocket got all red and looked guilty as a two-timing husband. Bessie was taken aback. The whiskey was watered down, but how in the world did Molly know that?

  “What do you want?” Sprocket demanded. “Money?”

  “Tell him, Aunt Bessie,” Molly said.

  Bessie went to put her foot on the brass foot railing and accidentally turned over a spittoon. Sidestepping the spilled tobacco juice, she leaned on the bar, hands clasped beneath her neatly stacked chins. “My nephew is getting married next Saturday.”

  The saloon keeper wiped the bar with a dirty rag, purposely knocking against Bessie’s arm. “You’re losing your touch, Bessie. The wedding hasn’t yet been declared a national holiday.”

  Bessie gave him a closed-mouth smile. “I’m working on it.”

  Sprocket shook his head. “I think the heat addled your think box.” He glanced at Molly. “Yours too.”

  Bessie pulled her arms off the bar, all pretenses gone. “And your whiskey is watered down.”

  “But it’s not too late to make amends,” Molly added.

  He squinted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Molly leaned forward. “It means that you will stop cheating your customers and . . . you will close by three p.m. Friday and stay closed until after Saturday’s wedding ceremony.”

  The saloon keeper’s hooked beak practically met Molly’s dainty upturned nose. Despite his menacing look, Molly didn’t seem the least bit intimidated.

  “Let me get this straight. You want me to lose a whole day’s business just because of a blasted wedding?”

  “You already lost one customer’s business,” Molly said.

  “For your information, I’ve got expenses to pay. We have more than eight hundred residents in this town. That means the saloon tax is now fifty dollars a quarter—double what it was only a few years ago.”

  Bessie had no sympathy for the man. He and the other saloon owners in town had wrecked more families than all the loose women put together.

  Molly didn’t look sympathetic either. She looked downright determined—Bessie’s kind of woman.

  “Men are fussy about their whiskey,” Molly said, clearly an expert in such matters. “If they suspect that you’re charging full price for watered whiskey, you’ll end up closing your doors permanently.”

  Tom Mason set his glass on the bar next to Molly with a leer in her direction. He was as tall as he was wide, his legs and arms as round and firm as tree trunks. A known troublemaker, hardly a day went by that the marshal didn’t have to lock him up for disturbing the peace. “What’s that you said?”

  “Don’t pay any attention to her,” Sprocket muttered. “You can’t believe anything an old gossip says.”

  “It’s only gossip if it’s not true,” Bessie argued. She then repeated Molly’s claim for Mason’s benefit.

  “Why, you—” Mason grabbed hold of Sprocket’s shirt and dragged him over the counter in one swift move.

  This gave the other customers an excuse to rise to their feet and start swinging. Quick as a flash, fists flew every which way. Chairs whizzed across the room. Tables overturned. Cards, chips, and glasses crashed to the floor. A bullet hit the naked woman where no sun should shine and the painting crashed to the floor.

  Nodding approval at the woman’s demise, Bessie ducked and weaved her way around the brawling men, but before she could escape, a man grabbed her.

  “Let me go!” she yelled, hitting him with her fists.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Molly climb up on the bar. What in the world? As quickly as it started, the fight ended. It took Bessie a moment to know why. Molly was singing. Not only was she belting out a bawdy drinking song, she was swinging her shapely hips in a way that . . . well, she was swinging her shapely hips.

  The man holding Bessie became so engrossed he seemed to have forgotten her. She pulled away and he made no move to stop her.

  Bessie was no expert on dance hall girls, heavens, no! But unless she missed her guess, Molly wasn’t half bad and even the saloon keeper looked enamored.

  The men tapped their feet and clapped their hands. When Molly finished singing she let one of the men help her to the floor.

  She stood a chair upright and leaned over the bar. “Do we have a deal?” she asked in a loud husky voice.

  The saloon keeper waved his dirty rag in surrender. “Okay, okay, you win. I’ll close Friday at six.”

 
; “Three,” Molly said.

  “Five.”

  They settled on four.

  Bessie couldn’t believe it. “We did it,” she all but crowed after leaving the saloon. She lifted her hand in the air and Molly’s hand touched hers with a resounding clap.

  “We were lucky.” Molly brushed the sawdust off her skirt. “But we could have gotten ourselves killed.”

  “Yes, but it was for a good cause.” Bessie started down the boardwalk just as the marshal came running up the street—late to the party as usual. “Come along, Molly.”

  Molly hurried to catch up to her. “Where are we going?”

  “Where do you think?” Bessie replied. She couldn’t resist sashaying Molly-style as she ambled along the boardwalk. “To the Golden Eagle Saloon. I’m not about to let one little bar fight stop me. Get ready to sing and, eh . . . swing those hips.”

  Chapter 22

  Molly didn’t want to go to the wedding. She didn’t even know the “happy couple,” as everyone referred to them. She’d never met the groom and had caught a glimpse of the bride for only a brief moment.

  But it wasn’t just the wedding, it was the church. Just the memory of being forced to stand outside during her father’s funeral filled her with rage. And the few times she’d stepped foot in the Cactus Patch church confirmed her opinion: churchgoers were a bunch of hypocrites! Sorry, God, but it’s true.

  There were exceptions, of course, Aunt Bessie being one. But even her friendly smile couldn’t make up for all the judgmental glares from other worshippers. Still, she had no intention of letting Aunt Bessie down, not after their mutual escapades and knowing how much the wedding meant to her.

  Never had Molly seen so much fuss over a wedding. The way the ranch hands talked about the nuptials was unnatural. If a miner ever went to a wedding, he was either the groom or dragged there at gunpoint—sometimes both. It struck her as odd that the ranch hands looked forward to the event and couldn’t stop talking about the bride-to-be.

  “That Kate was really somethin’,” Ruckus said. “I never saw anyone have so much trouble stayin’ on a horse.”