Only My Love

by Jo Goodman

  Michael tried to imagine Kitty, fresh of face, full of hope and spunk, agreeing to lie with cynical, mean-spirited Happy McAllister. It was a troubling vision. Kitty seemed to read her mind.

  "Happy's not so bad. There's three or four others I could name that treat me worse. Not that I've ever complained to Obie. He'd call them out in the street and then where would I be? He'd get himself killed or Houston would have to put him in jail for a few weeks." She shrugged. "Enough about me. When you've been here a while you'll get used to the way things are. And one of the things you'll have to get used to asking Ethan for is money. It's all fine for him to pay for your clothes and the like, but you can't give forty percent of a hat to Detra. She'll want cash. Have you thought about what you want to charge?"

  Michael blanched. Before her life had been turned upside down she had been a respected reporter for a reputable paper. Now Kitty was telling her that in Kelly's Saloon she was no more than a prostitute who could serve drinks and dance. And she had yet to prove she could do any of those things.

  "No, I can see that you haven't," Kitty said, watching Michael's face closely. "Most of the girls ask for five or ten dollars a poke. I like to get at least twelve—this is a mining town, after all—but I'll settle for eight if they're down on their luck. Eight's my final offer. I take a man to my room if I want to, not because I'm forced. This is a saloon, not a bordello. Dee wants her share if she knows her girls are making money on the side, but she doesn't push the trade. Seein' that Ethan's already got an arrangement with you, she'll want her cut. You can't get by just dancin' and peddlin' drinks to the customers, 'specially when they're goin' to be all over you like bees on honey."

  Michael determined she was going to have a very frank discussion with Ethan Stone. "I'll speak to Ethan," she said.

  "Don't look so worried, honey," Kitty said consolingly. "He'll pay. At least until he tires of you. And the way he had you screamin' last night, it don't seem like an arrangement either one of you is goin' to quit soon."

  Michael was beginning to believe her scream the night before wasn't quite the rebel yell that Ethan had described it.

  "Just listenin' to you got Happy all hot again. I made a tidy fortune last night." She giggled. "He couldn't get enough of me."

  Michael was also revising her opinion about Kitty Long being only a slightly soiled dove. "Perhaps I should ask Ethan for ten," she said.

  Kitty shook her head. "No. Ask for twelve, just like I do, but be prepared to take a little less. Say nine or ten. That way he'll feel he's won more than just you for the night. And don't give anything away free and don't run a tab like you was servin' drinks. If word got around that you were treatin' Ethan then others are like to expect the same. It wouldn't be good for you after Ethan's gone. You have to consider your future prospects. That's only good business sense."

  It was an interesting slant, Michael thought. Kitty Long: the prostitute with the heart of a cash register. It made for better copy than those penny pulp stories where a dance hall demirep was likely to be confused with a long suffering charity worker. Fiction. Bah! Life was so much more interesting... and infinitely more strange. "I'll accept ten," she said.

  "Good for you," Kitty said.

  Michael got out of bed and slipped into the robe. The sleeves were too long and she had to roll up material at the waist and tie the belt tightly to keep from tripping over the hem. It wasn't Dee's robe. She didn't ask who donated it because she didn't want to know the answer. "Where did Ethan go?"

  "He does some handy work for a widowed woman just outside of town in the mornin' and usually by the afternoon they've got some work for him at the mines, blastin' out a tunnel. That's what he is, a blaster. You probably knew that, though."

  "I knew that," she lied. He probably blew up safes. That's what he did. Taking people's winnings, their wages, their pensions, and their rainy day money. Ethan Stone was a son of a bitch. "Breakfast?" she asked, putting her hand to her stomach as it growled loudly. She was ravenous.

  "Downstairs in the back. There's a kitchen. You've got a few minutes yet."

  Michael pointed to the tub. "What should I do with that?"

  "Use the bucket to throw some of the water out the window. When the tub's light enough to move you can drag it down the hall to the storage closet so the next person who needs it can find it."

  "I can't empty it here. Ethan told me the window's stuck."

  "Since when?"

  Kitty walked over to the window, tapped it along the frame and pushed. It lifted easily. Cold air swept through the room and she slammed it shut quickly. "Just goes to prove how far you can trust any man." She went to the door and opened it. "I'll expect you in the kitchen in a few minutes and afterwards we've got a routine to learn. We do our show at eight and again at ten thirty. In between you'll have to mingle with the customers and push drinks. Don't worry. Pushin' drinks ain't hard and the minglin' comes easy after you've had a few yourself."

  "I don't drink."

  "You will," Kitty said. She wasn't smiling. "You may even learn to like it."

  Michael stared at the door for a full minute after Kitty closed it. Ethan Stone blew open mine tunnels and train safes. Detra Kelly was a madam who preferred to be called a proprietress. Kitty Long was a shrewd young businesswoman whose stock had gone public. Nathaniel Houston led a gang of murderers and still found time to run for sheriff... and win.

  What in God's name had she gotten herself into? How soon could she get herself out?

  * * *

  The kitchen was noisy and crowded. Only one woman beside Michael and Kitty was dressed in something other than a flimsy chemise, drawers, tights, and a corset. The robes they wore were tied loosely at the waist and sheer to the point of being inconsequential. They appeared to be eminently comfortable as they sat around the large knotty pine table trading casual remarks about the night that had passed and their plans for the day.

  "This is Michael..." Kitty turned to Michael. "I'm sorry. I don't think I know your last name."

  She couldn't say Dennehy. Houston may have been familiar with her byline on the Chronicle. She couldn't say Stone. Kitty and the others weren't supposed to believe she was married to Ethan. She said the first name that came to her mind. "Worth." Michael had never wanted to depend on her father for anything. It struck her as ironic that in a moment of great fear she had grasped for his name as she would a lifeline.

  "Michael Worth," Kitty repeated. "You might have seen her last night. She's the one Ethan carried in here over his shoulder."

  There were several nods, a few smiles, and general laughter.

  Kitty grinned. "Don't mind them. They're jealous." She pointed to each of the women. "That's Carmen at the head of the table." Carmen raised her sloe eyes to Michael and gave Michael a sly whisper of a smile in greeting. Michael had no difficulty divining the look as a challenge. She had been intimate with Ethan and she wanted to be again. Looking on Carmen as a savior rather than a competitor, Michael smiled brilliantly and openly. "Josie's on her right," Kitty went on. Josie had a round, expressive face that telegraphed her thoughts before she opened her mouth. She was studying Michael as though she might a particularly vulgar looking insect. When she concluded there was nothing to be alarmed about she grinned and pushed a cup of hot chocolate in Michael's direction. "That's Lottie at the sink," Kitty said, pointing to the fair-skinned young woman up to her elbows in dishwater. "And Susan Adams." Susan was closest to Michael. She reached forward with plump, bejeweled fingers, clasped Michael's hand, and pumped it hard. Michael tried not to grimace. Susan's grip squeezed her fingers.

  "That's enough, Susan," Kitty said, easing Michael away. "She's not looking for a fight." Kitty encouraged Michael to have a seat and help herself to the spread on the table. There were scrambled eggs, fresh bread, several kinds of jam, bacon, sausage links, and fried potatoes. Michael put a little of everything on her plate.

  "Where's Miss Kelly?" she asked when Kitty had finished serving herself. The qu
estion effectively silenced the entire table. Even Lottie stopped scrubbing.

  "Actually it's Mrs. Kelly," Kitty said.

  "And no one calls her that," Josie said. "She prefers not to be too closely associated with the late Mr. Kelly."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't know about her husband."

  Carmen cinched her robe more tightly around her waist. "Don't know why you should be sorry. You didn't know him."

  "I just meant—"

  "You wouldn't have wanted to know him," said Lottie. "I never heard anything about him that was good. The only piece of luck he ever ran into was winning this saloon in a card game. It would have gone under if it hadn't been for Dee."

  "I thought Mr. Houston owned the saloon," Michael said, smearing a thick slice of bread with grape jam.

  "Mr. Kelly later lost it to Houston," Susan said.

  "Oh. That must have been..." She searched for the appropriate word. "...unsettling for Dee."

  Laughter jolted the table. When it died down Carmen leaned forward in her chair and tapped her tapered nails on the surface of the table. She looked long and hard at Michael. "Unsettled doesn't begin to describe Detra's feelings about that bastard she married."

  Josie giggled. "Murderous does."

  There was more laughter and when Michael looked to Kitty for an answer she responded, "They're just warnin' you, Michael. Give Detra plenty of elbowroom and if you cross her, run like hell. She killed Harry Kelly."

  Chapter 5

  The saloon's stage was nothing more than a platform raised two feet above the main floor. The proscenium was bounded by six sheltered tin boxes which held candles and served as footlights. There was no curtain. The canvas backdrop was a painted scene of a mountain lake and the words Kelly's Saloon were written in large script letters just above the distant peaks. There was a small area on either side of the stage where the performers could stand without being seen by the audience. Michael heard the areas being referred to as the wings, but like everything else about the stage, the name was a little too grand for the reality.

  In the left wing, just at eye level for most of the performers, there was a small hole that allowed the dancers to peek at their audience. Michael found the hole almost immediately and pressed her eye to it. The saloon wasn't open yet and, except for Detra who was taking inventory behind the bar and Lottie who was sitting at the piano off stage, the place was empty.

  Kitty tugged on Michael's sleeve. "Stop staring at Detra. And for God's sake, don't let her see you smoking. She thinks it's vulgar."

  Michael stepped away from the peep hole reluctantly. "I wasn't staring at her," she lied, embarrassed to have been caught doing just that. She inhaled deeply on her cigarette and wished she had asked Josie to roll a second one for her. Wetting her thumb and forefinger, Michael snuffed the end. It sizzled. When she was certain it was out she slipped it in a crevice in the wall where she could find it later. She just couldn't bring herself to throw it away. Who knew when she would get another?

  Watching Michael's antics with the cigarette, Kitty could only shake her head. "Of course you were staring at her," she said. "Every girl does once they've heard about the murder. Only it makes Dee angry and that's exactly what you don't want to do." She paused then pointed to the secreted cigarette. "Are you really going to smoke that later?"

  "Of course I am."

  "Aren't you a strange one," Kitty said softly.

  Michael waved aside Kitty's observation. "I'm not sure I even believe that story about Dee. You probably made it up."

  Kitty shrugged. "Ask Ethan. See what he says."

  "I'll do that." She took a quick peek through the hole again and saw Dee carefully adding a measured glass of water to a bottle of whiskey. It suddenly became easier to imagine Dee taking the same care with arsenic and her late husband's coffee. Michael turned away from the hole. "If she really did poison Mr. Kelly, and everyone knows it, then why didn't she go to jail?"

  "Because no one cared," Kitty said matter of factly. "You'd appreciate that if you'd known Mr. Kelly."

  "But-"

  "Enough. I wouldn't have told you if I knew you were goin' to ask so many questions. And don't let it get back to Dee that I told you. I don't want her mad at me."

  "She wouldn't poison you."

  Kitty looked at Michael as if she had grown another head. "Of course she wouldn't poison me. You take the oddest notions to heart. Dee might send me packin' and that would be worse. Everyone 'round here knows this is the best place to work. Someday I might go to Denver and run a place of my own, but until then this is just where I want to be." Kitty began unfastening her gown. "C'mon. You've got to take that dress off. You can't dance in it."

  It was Michael's turn to look appalled. "I've been dancing in gowns all my life."

  "Not like this you haven't." She stepped out of her dress, leaving her in a chemise, drawers, calf-length petticoat, and corset. Kitty tapped her foot impatiently. "Do you want me to teach you or not? The other girls will be coming soon and you should know a little of the routine before they get here. They're not very patient."

  "Oh, very well," Michael said, exasperated. There was only Lottie and Dee in the saloon. When she thought about it rationally her undergarments were less revealing than the gown Kitty had given her to wear for the actual performance. She hung her dress on the hook beside Kitty's and fought the urge to fold her arms protectively across her chest. "Let's get this over."

  Kitty's head tilted to one side as she considered Michael thoughtfully. "What possessed you to answer Dee's advertisement in the first place?"

  "Desperation." Michael was relieved to see that Kitty seemed to understand that answer. "I want to do this, Kitty," she said. "I'm just nervous." I don't want to do it, she thought, and I'm scared to death.

  "All right. Let's go." Kitty's plump fingers clamped around Michael's wrist as she led her onto the middle of the stage. "Lottie, just give us the chorus to When the Sun Shines. I'll teach that part to Michael first."

  Lottie nodded, turned on her stool, and began playing. A light, festive tune filled the saloon. Kitty dropped Michael's wrist and took her through the steps slowly, showing her the saucy sashay around the borders of the stage while pretending to twirl her parasol. Kitty's expression was at once demur and sly, shyness used as an open invitation.

  The steps were not difficult for Michael to follow. The routine consisted primarily of several turns about the stage with the parasol in different positions, a few waltz-like twirls with the parasol as a partner, and some toe-heel steps that made a pleasant clicking sound on the floor while the parasol was used as a cane.

  "She's got the steps nicely," Lottie said, watching Michael while she played. "But her smile's just awful."

  "Don't I know it," Kitty said, glancing sideways at Michael as they went through the shuffle steps. "Two-and-three-and-four-and... quickly, Michael. And-light-on-your-feet-and-smile-like-you-mean-it."

  Michael laughed.

  "That's better," Kitty said encouragingly as Michael's smile grew more fulsome. "Much better. Just forget there'll be fifty miners, give or take a half dozen, in here tonight, and that most of them will be watchin' you 'cause you're the new girl."

  Michael's feet tangled almost immediately. Her smiled was forced down by rising panic. "Oh, Lord," she said softly looking out at the sea of empty tables and chairs. Tonight it would be swimming with men looking to her for entertainment. Handsome faces, plain faces, leering, respectful, or hopeful, every aspect of expression would be there in their eyes. "I don't think I can do this, Kitty."

  "Sure you can," Kitty said, aware that Dee had stopped polishing the bar counter and was watching them. "Dee's looking this way," she said under her breath. "Remember 'desperation.' It'll help."

  It did. Michael thought of all the things she was desperate to do: escape Ethan, escape the saloon, escape the mountain town. She had a story to write, testimony to give, and friends' deaths to revenge. Surely she could stand humiliating herself in order t
o achieve those ends. How was she to accomplish any of it without first gaining the trust of people like Kitty and Lottie, who didn't understand her circumstances, or like Houston and Happy who thought they did, or finally, of Ethan, who knew more about her than she would have wished?

  Michael managed a small smile as Lottie started up the chorus again and demonstrated the routine to Kitty without faltering. She felt Dee's watchful eyes on her, felt the other woman's animosity though her expression remained unchanged. Even when Dee's concentration returned to polishing the long mahogany bar, Michael sensed her activity was merely a pretense and that her interest was still on the stage.

  After nearly an hour of rehearsal they were joined by the other dancers. Practice continued for another hour while they taught Michael the main body of the routine, including the line kicks that Michael realized would expose a considerable length of her legs when done in the short gown and thigh-high tights. Joined arm in arm, the dancers raised their knees high and kicked out and up, alternating legs as they gradually made their line form a small circle, going round and round, faster and faster, until one of them lost balance and the group seemed to implode, falling in a heap of arms and elbows and a flurry of petticoats and ruffled drawers.

  Laughing as they untangled themselves, they didn't hear the light, appreciative applause that was offered in their direction. When they saw Houston standing at the end of the bar nearest the stage they laughed all the harder. Everyone except Michael. Feeling her face flame under the steady regard of Houston's black eyes, Michael disengaged herself quickly from the others and practically dove into the wings to retrieve her gown.

  "She's still a trifle modest," Kitty said to no one in particular. Laughter rolled through the group again. Houston merely smiled.

  "It's rather refreshing," he said.

  Carmen got to her feet and dusted off her behind, turning and twisting, making a display of it for Houston's benefit. "Too obvious?" she asked, tossing him a sassy smile over her shoulder.