by Kaki Warner
A broad-shouldered Negro man stood behind a long counter, wiping a rag over the polished wooden surface. A mirror spanned the wall behind him, framed on one side by shelves containing tiny glasses and bigger glasses, and on the other, by whiskey bottles of various shapes and sizes. Above it hung a lurid painting of a woman reclining on a couch. What clothing she wore didn’t hide much of her ample form. She seemed to be smiling down into the room with an expression of vague contempt, although that might have been the way the morning light struck the canvas.
Suddenly aware that the voices had stopped, Lottie turned to find three women in various stages of undress staring at her from a corner table. Two were young and pretty in a brassy, overblown way. The third looked older, sporting improbable red hair and tired blue eyes.
“You lost?”
Lottie tried not to stare at the speaker, a pretty brunette in a lacy corset and thin chemise that exposed most of her bosom. Was that how men expected women to dress? She wouldn’t dare. “I’ve come to see Mr. Juno.”
“He know you’re coming?”
“No.”
The blonde beside her, who wore a garish patterned robe over her unmentionables, gave Lottie’s made-over Sunday dress a sharp look. “You’re not a Bible thumper, are you?”
Lottie shook her head.
“If you’re with the Temperance Union,” the older redheaded woman said around a yawn, “you’re wasting your time. He won’t see you.”
“I came about employment.”
Silence. Even the Negro stopped wiping the counter.
“But not upstairs,” Lottie added in a rush. “In back. Or . . . wherever.” Realizing she was only making it worse, she shut her mouth.
Chuckling, the redhead motioned to the Negro. “Get Juno, will you, Henry?”
“He sleeping.”
“Wake him up.”
“He be mad.”
Lottie’s courage deserted her. “Don’t trouble him. I can come back later.”
But Henry was already disappearing down the hall.
Silence. Aware that the women were staring at her, Lottie pretended great interest in the décor of the room, carefully avoiding the painting over the mirror.
“What’s your name, honey?” the older woman asked in a kindly voice.
“Lottie Weyland.”
“You’re Becky’s friend!” The blonde gave a big grin. “She talks about you. I’m Sugar.” She pointed to the brunette, adding, “That’s Belle, and Red is the redhead. Sally’s still sleeping.”
Lottie wasn’t sure about the proper etiquette when being introduced to whores, so she just smiled and nodded. They smiled back. No matter what Grandpa had said, they didn’t seem that evil, even if they were whores. She pointed toward the tables. “Is that where Becky deals?”
“Most nights. Unless she’s cooking or chasing after the preacher.”
“What are you doing in here, Miss Weyland?” a sleep-roughened voice said from the other side of the room.
Lottie turned to see Mr. Juno standing in the hall doorway, shirt half-buttoned, feet bare, dark hair poking out every which way. And frowning.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Is Becky all right?”
“I haven’t seen her today, but I assume she’s fine.”
He let out a deep breath. Dragging a hand through his mussed hair, he looked around as though trying to get his bearings. “What time is it?”
“A little past eight, I believe.”
“In the morning?”
Lottie nodded, ignoring the snickers behind her. She might have found his befuddlement amusing, too, if his state of undress hadn’t left her so flustered. “I’m sorry to wake you, but as long as you’re up, I’d like to talk to you, if I may.”
“I haven’t even had coffee yet.”
“I’ll wait.”
A disgruntled look. “Talk to me about what?”
“I have a proposition.” Hearing more snickers from her audience, Lottie added, “A business proposition.”
“Hell.” He scratched his head and muttered something under his breath, then turned to Henry, who had resumed his position behind the counter. “Give me a few minutes, then bring her—and coffee—to my office.”
After he disappeared down the hall, Lottie let out the breath she’d been holding. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she said to the faces staring back at her. “He didn’t seem mad at all.”
Which sent the ladies, and even Henry, into hoots of laughter.
Several minutes later, Henry deposited her, a straight-backed chair, and a mug of coffee in Mr. Juno’s office—a room crowded with overflowing bookcases, a single upholstered chair beside a small coal stove, a coat rack, and a big, battered desk. No paintings, no knickknacks, no personal items of any kind other than a faded tintype of a woman and child on a bookshelf.
A lonely room for a man who lived a solitary life amidst the chaos of a busy saloon. Rather sad, really.
He waited until she was seated and he’d gulped down most of the coffee before he spoke—and not in a particularly friendly tone. “What’s so important that you would come here at eight in the morning?”
“I’m sorry I disturbed you, Mr. Juno. I’d hoped by coming early I would avoid—”
“You shouldn’t have come here at all. And it’s just Juno.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a whorehouse.”
“You let Becky come.”
“That’s different.”
And she could guess why. But she hadn’t come to discuss Becky or his obvious feelings for her. “I’m starting a business.”
“Hell.” He took another swallow, then sat back, the long fingers of one hand idly turning the mug in circles atop the desk. “Okay, I’ll bite. Doing what?”
“Bookkeeping.”
“Bookkeeping.” He said it the way Griffin had, as if a woman in business was on a par with a talking mule.
“And investing.”
That dark, focused gaze made her hands sweat. Eager to fill the lengthening silence, she explained. “I’m very good with numbers, you see. And Mr. Griffin at the bank is teaching me how to invest. I know you’re already a rich man, but with wise investments, you could increase—”
“What makes you think I’m rich?”
“You do own the only saloon and brothel in Greenbroke,” she reminded him with studied patience. “Between the whiskey and food sales, gambling, and activities in the rooms upstairs, you must be doing very well.”
His shoulders stiffened. His face lost all expression. “I let rooms, Miss Weyland. What the women do in those rooms is up to them. Other than what they pay me for rent and board, they keep what they earn.”
“Oh.”
“I am not a pimp.”
Shame sent heat rushing into her face. But before she could apologize, an idea came to her. “What do they do with the money they earn?”
He made an impatient gesture. “Buy fripperies, face paint, I don’t know. Nor do I care, so long as they pay me.”
“So they might be interested in investing, too?” She hurried on, the idea taking flight. “If we pooled our money, we could broaden our investments and minimize our risks. Mr. Griffin taught me that last week.”
“Maybe I should hire Griffin, then.”
“I charge less. Especially to those who also hire me to keep their books.”
He let out a gust of air. It had the sound of surrender. “You certainly are persistent, aren’t you, Miss Weyland?”
“I try.” Flush with triumph, she grinned. “Shall I start on your books today?” When he didn’t respond, an awful thought arose. “You do have books, don’t you? Receipts? Invoices for whiskey and food? A tally of gambling wins and losses?”
“Sort of.” Leaning forward, he pulled out a desk drawer.
He smirked in challenge. “Still want my business?”
“Of course.”
His smirk faded. “I’ll get a box.”
Over the following days, Lottie made her rounds of the most promising business establishments in Greenbroke. Several had started up after the spur line had come through a couple of years ago. The fact that they were still in business was a sign of Greenbroke’s slowly growing economy. Frances Seaforth of Fashions by Fanny agreed to take her on trial. So did Ralph Krebs at the dry goods store. The small auction barn at the edge of town declined, as did the blacksmith, the repair shop, the newspaper, and the Western Union and Wells Fargo offices, all of which had a single owner/employee, limited business, and no interest in investing.
The Petersons, who ran the Greenbroke Hotel and Restaurant across from the depot, were more enthusiastic. Theirs was a small establishment—four rooms upstairs and a three-table restaurant downstairs. They catered mostly to railroad workers, itinerant salesmen, and drifters who couldn’t afford the price of an entire night upstairs at the Spotted Dog. The young couple was delighted to hand over their books, since Mrs. Peterson was pregnant again and Mr. Peterson was “not so good with numbers.”
Lottie didn’t try the barber shop. The owner, Lester Eldridge, who was also the local dentist and mortician, gave her the shudders.
She now had five clients, including Mr. Juno—Juno—and the Bracketts.
It was a start.
Chapter 4
Soon Lottie was so busy she didn’t have time to feel lonely or discontented. But she was making progress. And money. Which Mr. Griffin helped her invest as soon as it came into her hands.
And her nest egg grew.
November came in on the heels of a blue norther that whistled through the eaves of the storeroom and had Lottie shivering in her cot. Four days later, the temperature edged back into the pleasantly warm—a short reprieve before the next storm. It was time to start thinking about a new place to stay. After three years of cold winters and stuffy summers in a crowded storeroom, she could finally afford to rent a real bedroom.
Becky’s boarder, Sally, with just over three months to go in her pregnancy, had given no indication of her plans after the baby came. If she decided to go back to the Spotted Dog, Lottie could rent her room. But if Sally did go back to whoring, what would happen to the baby?
That was the question that plagued Becky more and more as Sally’s belly grew. “It doesn’t seem right raising a kid in a whorehouse,” she told Lottie one evening after a quick dinner at the Ledbetter house before she had to leave for the Spotted Dog and her dealing duties.
Lottie carried her plate to the sink. “Maybe she’ll marry her cowboy. She seems pretty taken with him.”
Several days ago, Bar M riders had brought a small herd of late calves to the auction barn since it was doubtful the young animals would make it through the winter. A rawboned redhead with more freckles than sense who had been one of Sally’s Saturday night regulars before her pregnancy, had come by to see her. They’d been stepping out every evening since, whenever the cowboy was in town.
“He won’t raise another man’s kid,” Becky muttered in disgust. “Told her so himself.”
Together they tidied the kitchen, then Becky lifted her coat off a peg by the back door and pulled it on. “She hasn’t told Juno what she plans to do, either.”
“Maybe she hasn’t decided yet.” Lottie followed her out the door. As they crossed the alley that ran behind Brackett’s, she worried that her friend was becoming overly attached to a baby that wasn’t even born yet. Becky had a generous and forgiving nature—evidenced by her attachment to the reverend—but this was different. Taking on a baby would change her life forever.
The thought came that the farm-boy-ranger would father beautiful children. Maybe he already had. Maybe he was married and had a passel of kids. She frowned at that, then remembered that men of the Frontier Battalion couldn’t marry. That made her feel better. “Maybe Sally will go to San Francisco,” she ventured. “She told me whores make a lot more money out there than they do here.”
“And take the baby with her?”
Lottie shrugged. She didn’t know Sally well, and what she did know wasn’t that favorable. It was kind of Becky to let the girl stay here, especially when some of the townsfolk questioned the propriety of it. But Sally had done little to repay that kindness. Nor did she seem particularly interested in the baby she carried. She had yet to try out names, hadn’t prepared a single thing for the infant’s arrival, and now was out every night doing God knows what instead of eating properly and getting her rest. “You don’t think Sally would abandon it or give it away, do you?” Lottie asked when they reached the stoop behind the market.
Anger tightened Becky’s features. “If she does, I’ll keep it.”
“What do you know about taking care of a baby?”
“I was the oldest of seven, remember? So it fell to me to take care of the younger ones. And even though we all flew the coop as soon as we could, we’re mostly good people. Because of me. So I sure know more about babies than Sally does.”
Lottie was surprised by the grim determination behind Becky’s words. “You mean it, don’t you? You’d take Sally’s baby as your own.”
“You bet. If she doesn’t want that baby, I’ll keep it myself.”
Which made Lottie wonder what it would be like to have a baby of her own. Maybe one with bright blue eyes.
Sally was thrilled with the idea of handing her baby over to Becky.
Juno wasn’t. He tried several times to talk Becky out of it, but that only brought out the stubbornness in the feisty blonde.
So naturally, he turned to Lottie. “You’ve got to talk her out of it,” he told her early one afternoon when she came by the Spotted Dog to go over his receipts—such as they were.
“I’ve tried. She won’t listen.” Thunking the ledger marked DOG on top of the bar, Lottie opened it to a page lined with neat columns of numbers. “See this?” She pointed at figures marked in red.
“She’s young.” He frowned thoughtfully out the front window. “She’ll have her own babies someday.”
“And you’ll go bankrupt if you keep taking IOUs when you have no intention of collecting.”
“She doesn’t need to take on some whore’s bastard.”
Lottie slapped the book closed. “That’s an awful thing to say! Luckily, Becky doesn’t see it that way.” And luckily none of his “renters” were in the room, either, or they would surely have been offended.
He finally looked at her. “She really wants this baby?”
“She wants a baby. And since neither the reverend—nor anybody else”—she paused to give him a pointed glare—“has offered to marry her and give her one, she’s decided this one will do nicely. And without the bother of a husband. Now, are you going to stop taking IOUs, or not?”
He glowered at her.
But she knew him well enough now to not be intimidated. “Well?”
“I’d lose half of my customers.”
“The half that doesn’t pay, so where’s the loss? And you’ll save big on whiskey orders.”
“What if the others stop coming around?”
“Where would they go? You’re the only saloon in Greenbroke.”
A tall figure wearing a dark duster moved through the split front door. Lottie and Juno glanced his way, but with the shadow cast by the brim of his dark Stetson and the glare of light behind him, the man wasn’t recognizable.
“We don’t open until four,” Juno called over to him.
The man continued toward the other end of the counter. Eyeing the mostly naked lady smirking down at him, he began unbutt
oning his duster. “Mind if I have a drink while I wait? I’ve come a long way.”
Pushy fellow, Lottie thought. Then she frowned. There was something about him . . .
He took off his hat and set it on the bar, and she saw the thin scar stretching from his eyebrow, past his temple, and back into the black hair along the side of his head.
Her breath caught.
She grabbed Juno’s arm. “I know him,” she whispered. She nodded toward the circle-star badge pinned to the man’s shirt. “His name is Ty. He was one of the rangers in the shoot-out last summer.”
Juno glanced back at the stranger then motioned to the Negro polishing glasses behind the bar. “Set him up, Henry. First one on the house.”
“My thanks,” the stranger—Ty—said.
He’d changed. In three short months, he’d become less of a farm boy, and more of a man, his jaw as square as she remembered, the blue of his eyes still a shocking contrast to his sun-browned face, his shoulders just as broad but now starting to thicken with muscle.
But he still hadn’t learned to smile, she noticed.
Juno leaned over the counter and retrieved an empty whiskey box marked Forty Rod. “I’ll get this week’s receipts. And I’ll put up a sign saying no more IOUs. But if customers stop coming in,” he added as he walked toward the hall, “I’ll quit paying you.”
“No problem there,” she called after him. “You haven’t paid me anything yet, anyway.”
He stopped. “I haven’t?”
“Nary a penny.”
“Hell.” Retracing his steps, he pulled from his vest pocket a small wad of paper money. He dropped it on the counter. “That should cover most of it.”
Lottie studied the bills. “All of it, and then some.”
“You earned it.” With a dismissive wave, he disappeared down the hall.
Henry started on another tray of glasses.
Lottie slipped the money into her skirt pocket then became aware of the young ranger studying her. She gave him a tentative smile, wondering if he remembered her.
