Chapter Seven
On Monday morning, Mary saw Roy Desmond walk into the café for breakfast. He took his usual table in the corner, greeted Gertie with a debonair smile and ordered ham and eggs. She wondered if he’d made his selection for Arline, the lead character in The Bohemian Girl. Gertie had been nagging her to accept the part, and she wouldn’t let up until Roy picked someone else. There was a lull in the crowd, so Mary dried her hands on her apron and went to say hello.
Roy saw her coming and stood. “Good morning, Mary.”
“Hello, Roy.”
He indicated the chair. “Would you care to join me?”
“Yes, but just for a minute.” She sat before he could hold her chair, making small talk so that she didn’t look anxious. When the moment seemed right, she brought up the new opera. “How’s the casting going?” she asked.
“Just fine,” he said. “Except for Arline. I’m still hoping you’ll change your mind.”
The role of Arline, a gypsy princess, appealed to Mary in every way. The music soared, and she liked the girl’s bravery. Until Roy filled the part, she’d yearn to take it. “I hope you find someone soon.”
He held her gaze. “The role’s yours. Just say the word.”
“No. But thank you.”
“At least look at the audition poster.” He put his elbows on the table, laced his fingers and leaned slightly forward. “Do you recall the advertisement for your show in Abilene?”
“Of course.” Chill bumps erupted on her arms. She had no desire to remember those days, especially not with Roy.
“The same artist did the drawing.” He lowered his voice to a murmur. “Of course, that was before the trouble you had with O’Day.”
Had Roy meant to assure her that he’d keep her secret, or was he using the old scandal to blackmail her into playing Arline? Mary didn’t know, but she didn’t take kindly to threats. The thought of the scandal erupting made her tremble, but threats made her fighting mad. Which had Roy intended? She needed to find out, so she looked him in the eye with deliberate poise. “I’m sure the poster is lovely.”
“It is.”
“I appreciate your interest,” she said. “But my singing career is over.
He lowered his chin. “That’s a tragedy.”
“It’s my choice.” It had been, sort of. If she hadn’t lost her reputation, she would have never left the stage. “I have a good life now. I’m happy.”
He teased her with a smile. “You’d be even happier singing for me.”
Laughing, she stood to leave. “No one will be happy if I don’t get back to the stove. Have a good day, Roy.”
“One more thing.” He stopped her with a hand on her fore arm. “I ran into a mutual friend of ours.”
She thought of the dozens of people she’d met in her acting days. Even a distant acquaintance could stir up gossip about the scandal. Her stomach churned. “Who?”
“J. T. Quinn.”
She felt relieved. J.T. wouldn’t talk. “I saw him on Sunday.”
“Just thought I’d mention it,” Roy added.
Mary excused herself and headed to the kitchen. Whatever worries she had about Roy disappeared. Considering his knowledge of her past, warning her about J.T. had been considerate. If she could have taken the role of Arline, she would have done it. Instead she grabbed the three new orders Gertie had left on the counter and went back to the hot stove.
It was Tuesday, almost night, and J.T. had slept away the afternoon. He’d woken up five minutes ago, sweating and tense. He didn’t like small places, and this room could have been a closet. He’d taken it because it was close to a side door. He wanted a private exit for himself, and Fancy needed to go out at night to do her business. Irritable, he looked out the tiny window high on the wall. Night was coming fast. He had to light a lamp or get out before the darkness grabbed him.
He couldn’t stand the thought of another evening with nothing to do. Feeling twitchy, he stood and reached for his hat. “Come on, Fancy. Let’s take a walk.”
The dog ignored him in favor of the bone Mary had given her. She’d gnawed it clean and was still enjoying it. J.T. had no such comfort. What did a man do with himself when he didn’t drink, smoke or gamble?
He slept.
He ate.
He thought too much. “Come on, girl,” he said with more excitement than he felt.
Fancy looked over her shoulder. With her tail wagging and the bone between her paws, she tipped her head at him, then went back to chewing with an intensity J.T. saw in himself.
“You’ve got a one-track mind,” he said to her.
The dog’s thoughts were on the bone. His were on places he couldn’t go and things he didn’t do anymore. He needed to get out of the tiny room, and he needed air that didn’t smell like the sauerkraut cooking in the kitchen. The smell reminded him of the food he’d scavenged from garbage cans in New York when he was a child. He hated cabbage and always would. He’d eat somewhere else tonight.
“Okay, Fancy. You can stay.” He put on his gun belt and duster, scratched the dog’s head and left the boardinghouse.
The day had cooled with the setting sun, and he welcomed the fresh air. He didn’t welcome the temptation nipping at his heels. Just one drink…just an hour of faro. He walked faster, but his thoughts kept pace. He wished he’d taken Fancy Girl with him. Most saloons didn’t appreciate four-legged customers, and having her at his side made it easy to walk by the open doors.
One street led to another until he found himself on the corner of Market and Colfax Avenue. A whisper of conscience told him to stay on Colfax, but his feet turned down Market. A block later he was surrounded by saloons and dance halls. Pianos filled the air with tinny music, and girls in skimpy dresses were giving him easy smiles. He looked away, but his toe caught on a warped board and he stumbled. Off balance, he found himself staring through the open door of a saloon. Two men were standing at a counter. Between them a bottle glistened amber in the lamplight. One had an empty glass, the other a full one he was raising to his lips. J.T. could taste the poison, feel it running down his throat. A faro dealer sat at a table shuffling cards. The rasp called to him like the morning crow of a rooster.
As much as he missed the oblivion of liquor, he missed faro even more. Beating the odds gave him a thrill. So did winning big. If he made a bet or two, he could double the money in his saddlebag and secretly give it to Mary. If he gambled tonight, it would be for a good cause. He put his hand on the half door and pushed. As it moved, a fight broke out in the street. He turned and saw a cowboy sprawled on his back. Two men were going after him, shouting and kicking and cussing. The cowboy had blond hair, and in his drunken state he couldn’t put words together.
J.T. came to his senses in a rush. As much as he liked faro, he cared more about helping Gus fight off bullies. Needing to get away from temptation, he walked away from the saloon at a rapid pace. In the distance he saw the Newcastle Theater and decided to walk by it. It wouldn’t hurt to remind Roy that he had his eye on Mary.
When he reached the theater, the doors opened and the crowd began to go inside. Among the wealthy couples, he spotted Roy speaking to a girl in her late teens. Dressed in pink, she had cinnamon hair and a sparkle that reminded him of Mary. Next to her stood a brunette wearing a crimson gown with gold trim. He guessed her to be in her twenties and far more sophisticated than the girl. He was sure of it when Roy made the younger girl blush with just a look.
J.T. didn’t know the girl at all, but he wanted to drag her home to her family. What was she doing at the theater without a chaperone? The thought surprised him, because he didn’t like chaperones. The ones he’d encountered had been nosy old women who’d gotten in his way. Watching Roy with this girl changed his mind about the custom. She was smiling too brightly, encouraging him without knowing the nature of his thoughts.
J.T. recognized that innocence. He’d been seventeen when Zeke Carver recruited him to be the lookout on a bank job. He
’d done well and had ridden off with them. That night he’d gotten drunk for the first time. He didn’t remember much, but it had been the start of his worst years. With regret thick in his throat, he watched the girl and her friend enter the theater. Roy watched them with too much intensity. J.T. stared hard at the man, willing him to look at him instead. It took a long minute, but the man finally turned and their eyes locked. Roy smiled.
J.T. didn’t.
Smirking, Roy followed the last of his guests into the theater and closed the door.
More distrustful of the man than ever, J.T. walked past the building. Near the doors he saw a poster in a glass case. Below a drawing of a gypsy woman, it read:
Coming Soon!
The Bohemian Girl
Auditions for the role of Arline
Saturday, August 3rd at 2 p.m.
Did the sign mean Roy had given up on Mary? J.T. didn’t think so. Knowing how much she loved to perform, he saw the poster as bait. Tomorrow after supper she’d get an earful about Roy.
As he entered a quieter part of the city, he slowed his pace. To his surprise, he ended up in front of the saloon where he’d found Mary a few days ago. Instead of the shuffle of cards, he heard fiddle music. And in the place of whiskey, he smelled chili so hot it stung his eyes. Mary used to tease that he didn’t know good food when he had it, because he’d burned off his taste buds. Maybe he had. He’d burned a lot of things in his life—bridges, women, even friends. His life was one big pile of ash, but a man still had to eat.
With his stomach rumbling, he pushed through the door. He glanced at the fiddler, an old man playing “Buffalo Gals,” and headed for the counter. The barkeep, a large fellow with red hair, greeted him with a nod. “What can I get you, friend?”
“A bowl of chili.”
The man indicated a stool. “Have a seat.”
J.T. ambled to the far side of the counter and sat where he could see the door. The place wasn’t busy, and he wondered why. Maybe the owner served cheap whiskey, or maybe he didn’t serve whiskey at all. He looked behind the bar. Instead of bottles, he saw a hodgepodge of canned goods, tin plates and a row of glasses. A mirror hung on the wall, reflecting both the room and J.T. himself. Six months ago, he’d had deep crevices at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes had been bloodshot. The man staring at him now looked almost young, though J.T. felt as burdened as ever.
The barkeep put the chili in front of him. “That stuff’s hot. Want something to put out the fire?”
Beer. “Just water.”
“Got some sweet tea,” he offered.
“Sure.”
After the barkeep left, a man with the look of a gunfighter walked into the saloon. He was wearing dark clothing and he was surveying the room as J.T. had done. J.T. glanced at the man’s waist. When he didn’t see a gun, he guessed him to be a preacher, maybe the one who’d spoken here on Sunday. He’d expected the man to be older, maybe with a paunch and gray hair. The fellow who pulled up a stool was his age or younger. If life had marked him, it didn’t show.
The barkeep returned with the sweet tea and a plate of jalapeños. He put the items in front of J.T., then poured coffee for the reverend. J.T. ate his meal, half listening as the men discussed the progress on a church they were building. The sides were going up fast, and they needed to get the roof in place. J.T. didn’t think much about the talk until the minister mentioned a familiar name.
“You know how Roy Desmond is,” he said to the barkeep. “He’s not happy about having a church next to his theater.”
“What did he say?” the barkeep asked.
“He wants to buy the property.” The minister sipped his coffee. “He offered us a lot of money, too.”
“What’s he want it for?”
“A hotel.”
J.T. nearly choked on a chili bean. If Roy opened a hotel, it wouldn’t be reputable.
The barkeep dried a glass on his apron. “Maybe we should sell to him and build somewhere else.”
The minister shook his head. “I want to be in the heart of the city.”
“So do I, but—”
“We aren’t selling.” Judging by the minister’s tone, he’d build that church or die trying. J.T. understood the feeling, because he felt that way about protecting Mary. J.T. had no interest in churches, but he and the minister had a common enemy in Roy Desmond. They also had needs that fit like a handshake. The minister needed someone to put a roof on the church, and J.T. needed to keep an eye on Roy. Working on the roof would give him a bird’s-eye view of the theater manager’s activities.
J.T. set down his spoon and spoke to the minister. “I heard you say you needed a roofer.”
“That I do.”
“I can swing a hammer, and I don’t mind heights.” Small dark places were another matter. “I’d be interested in the job.”
The man named a wage that struck J.T. as pitiful, but he didn’t care about the salary. If he could keep an eye on Roy, he’d have the pay he wanted. Neither did he balk at the man’s description of the steep roof and bell tower. The minister gave him a steady look. “That’s the job. It’s yours if you want it.”
“I’ll take it.”
He walked up to J.T. and offered his hand. “I’m Reverend Joshua Blue. Call me Josh.”
J.T had a hunch the man would recognize his name because of Mary. He gave him a look that dared him to judge, then held out his hand. “I’m J. T. Quinn.”
“You’re Mary’s friend.”
“The same.”
The minister’s grip tightened with a warning. Hurt Mary, and you’ll answer to me. “She’s a good woman.”
“The best,” J.T. replied, squeezing even harder. It was easy to imagine the reverend staring down the devil himself, a fact that gave J.T. comfort. He was glad Mary had people who cared about her.
The man’s lips tipped upward. “I’m glad we understand each other, Mr. Quinn.”
“Yes we do,” he answered. “Call me J.T. When do I start?”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Sounds good.”
“Do you know where the church is?” Josh asked.
“You said next to the Newcastle.”
“That’s right.” The reverend indicated the barkeep. “This is Brick.”
The man studied J.T.’s face as if he were matching it to a Wanted poster. “I know about you, Quinn. You rode with the Carver gang.”
J.T. had no desire to recall those days. “It was a long time ago.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “How long?”
“Years.” A lifetime.
“So you weren’t there for that silver heist in Leadville?” His tone accused J.T. of more than stealing silver, a sign he’d been harmed by the Carvers.
J.T. had heard such accusations before. He’d spent three years with the gang before he’d gone off on his own, but he still carried the stench of that time. Not only had the Carvers robbed banks and stagecoaches, they’d been cruel about it. J.T. would never forget Zeke tormenting a scrawny old man while his daughter watched. He’d left the gang soon after that job. If he was going to stay in Denver without getting shot, and without embarrassing Mary, he needed to stop Brick from digging up the past.
“I rode with the Carvers before Leadville,” he admitted. “Those were ugly times and I want to forget them.” He also wanted to forget his time with Griff Lassen. J.T. didn’t think Lassen cared enough to hunt him down, but the man might take a shot if he had the chance.
The reverend spoke with a Boston accent. “We all have things we want to forget.”
“Some of us can’t.” Brick spat the words.
J.T. knew the feeling. Confident, he looked the barkeep in the eye. “I don’t want trouble, Brick.” He used the man’s given name to take control, but he said it kindly. “I owe Mary Larue a favor. I’m going to be in Denver until that debt is paid. That’s all.”
The man scowled. “You better mean it.”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
; Brick heard the “sir” and relaxed. “All right, then.”
Josh interrupted. “We’ll leave the past buried. But to be clear, gentlemen, I don’t mind a little trouble for a good cause.”
J.T. wondered what cause the reverend would call “good.” The ministers he’d known had all been gutless. The worst had been the old man in New York. He’d given J.T. and his brothers food when their mother died, but he’d done nothing when the landlord threw them into the street. Looking at Reverend Joshua Blue, J.T. had a hunch he’d fight for orphans, even ornery ones.
The minister said goodbye and left, leaving J.T. to finish his supper. He chewed a jalapeño, swallowed and then sat, rather amazed that he’d just taken an ordinary job. Not only had he become a working man, he’d be helping to build a church. J.T. finished his supper and headed back to the boardinghouse. He didn’t know what tomorrow held, but he felt a pleasant mix of possibilities.
Chapter Eight
“You’re late!” Mary cried as Gertie came through the back door to the café.
It was nine o’clock, and her sister had promised to be home in time to help serve breakfast to the crowd that arrived on the morning train. In the dining area, travelers filled every seat, and a dozen were standing outside the door. Enid, the other waitress for the morning, had threatened to quit unless Mary hired more help. Older and fighting rheumatism, she didn’t hesitate to complain. In the chaos, Mary had nearly set fire to a pound of bacon.
Gertie grabbed an apron hanging on the back wall. “I’m so sorry, Mary. I—uh—I…I overslept.”
When Gus dragged out his words, Mary ignored it. When Gertie hesitated, she suspected her sister of twisting the truth. Turning from a bowl of half-scrambled eggs, she took in Gertie’s appearance. She’d pulled her cinnamon-colored hair into a hasty coif, but Mary could see remnants of elaborate curls. She also smelled traces of expensive perfume, something a woman would wear on a special occasion.
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