by Tess LeSue
“Well, why didn’t he ring the bell?” A strident female voice broke the silence.
LeFoy was back, trailing a woman no bigger than a gnat. She wore a lacy white cap and a faded pink dress. A bunch of giant fabric roses was pinned to her narrow chest. She didn’t look big enough to produce a voice that size, but she fairly crackled with energy.
“Why didn’t you ring the bell?” she snapped at Matt, and then she continued without giving him room to draw breath, let alone reply. “We’re full except for the Palatial Suite.”
“The Palatial Suite?”
“I’m afraid the widow and her little ’uns have taken the Imperial, which is our blue-ribbon suite on the third floor. But the Palatial is the next best we have, and it’s directly opposite.” She shot LeFoy a withering look. “Ideally, it’s suited for a family party. But it’s all I have.”
LeFoy’s attention seemed to be riveted by a glass bowl full of dried rose petals. He was running his fingers through them. At least he was until the old woman gave his knuckles a rap. “That’s not for touching. You’ll get your finger oils in there and mess it up.” She turned her snapping gray eyes back to Matt. “This one and his three hellions are crammed into a Gold Standard room.” She sniffed. “I’ve had to levy an extra charge, as the rooms are clearly designed for two people and not an entire tribe.”
“They’re small girls,” LeFoy told Matt, giving his sore knuckles a surreptitious suck.
“I used to be a schoolmistress, Mr. LeFoy, and I know very well how much space three girls occupy. And let me just say, your girls occupy more space than most.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “They’re circus performers,” she told Matt.
“Entertainers, Mrs. Bulfinch,” LeFoy corrected, sounding a touch wounded.
“They have a traveling show.” She made it sound like a traveling brothel.
“My girls sing,” LeFoy explained to Matt.
Matt didn’t care a fig if they sang or danced naked down the main street of Independence; he just wanted a room.
“How much is it, and how much to stable the animals?”
Mrs. Bulfinch named a ridiculous sum, made even more ridiculous by the fact that she doubled it when she found out his brother would be joining him, but Matt was too tired to argue. He slapped his money down and signed the register.
“Supper costs extra.”
Matt glanced at LeFoy, who shook his head and pulled faces behind her back.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll try my luck at a cookhouse.”
“I don’t hold with drunkenness in my establishment,” Mrs. Bulfinch snapped, closing the register so sharply it almost caught Matt’s fingers. “So if it’s a saloon you’ll be visiting, you’d best plan to spend the night there, rather than bringing your degeneracy back here with you. And,” she said ominously, leaning forward and dropping her voice to a fierce whisper, “I hope you know it goes without saying: no women.”
“He’s not going to a saloon; he and his brother are coming to the cookhouse with me and the girls, Mrs. Bulfinch,” LeFoy jumped in to defend him.
“Friends, are you? I should have known. You look like the type to hang around with circus folk.”
“We’re not a circus!” LeFoy couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice.
“Come now and I’ll show you to your room. I don’t have time to stand about yapping or supper will burn. You can stable your animals after I show you upstairs. Or I can have my stable hand do it, for a fee.”
“We’ll do it ourselves,” he said shortly.
“Is that mutt yours?” Mrs. Bulfinch peered out the window, to where Dog was pacing around the horses.
“My brother’s.”
“You’re to tie him up in the stable, you hear? I won’t have him bothering my guests.”
Matt was beginning to wonder if the bed was worth it. Maybe it would have been easier to sleep rough.
“Is your brother coming in?” she snapped. “I’ll be wanting to show you to your room now. I have supper on; I can’t be standing here waiting for you to sort your animals.”
If Matt felt out of place in the pink hotel, Deathrider sure looked it. He came in like a dusty shadow, silent, seething with exhaustion.
“You’ll take your hat off indoors,” Mrs. Bulfinch ordered him.
Deathrider looked her up and down.
“Just do it,” Matt sighed.
He did, and his long black hair tumbled down his back. If possible, Mrs. Bulfinch looked even more disapproving.
“You’ll get that cut if you’re wanting to stay here.”
Deathrider went to leave. Matt blocked his way. “Don’t be an ass,” he said under his breath. Then he turned to the hotelier. “We’ve been traveling for near on two weeks without rest. If we could just get a feed and a night’s sleep, we’ll make sure we clean ourselves up proper tomorrow.”
Mrs. Bulfinch sniffed, but she liked their money too much to cause more fuss. Matt bet she’d kick up again tomorrow though, if they still looked like trail hounds then.
“This way,” Mrs. Bulfinch said sharply, taking a lamp and heading for the stairs, which were, of course, carpeted in pink.
“The girls and I will wait on the porch for you,” LeFoy called after them.
“Don’t go hollering up my stairs,” Mrs. Bulfinch hollered down at him. “This is a respectable establishment.”
“I don’t suppose you provide a bath?” Matt asked tiredly as they passed first one landing, then another.
“Not for the likes of you. There’s a washbasin in your room. And there’s a bathhouse in town you can make use of.”
Matt sighed. He wasn’t up to a bathhouse tonight. It was no skin off his nose if he dirtied up Mrs. Bulfinch’s sheets; he wasn’t the one who’d have to wash them.
“This is your room,” Mrs. Bulfinch said when they reached the top floor. “There’s only the two suites up here, yours and the Imperial.” She fixed them with a gimlet stare. “Mrs. Smith is a lady of quality, you mind. From New York. You watch your manners, and don’t bother her or her children. If I hear you’ve been improper in any way, I shall be sending for the sheriff!”
“We ain’t planning on bothering anyone,” Matt told her, struggling to keep his temper. “We’re just looking for a bed.”
“Well, the Palatial has the biggest bed in the house,” she announced as she unlocked the door and threw it open. “There’s two rooms: this one and the one through there. This one has the double bed, and the other has two singles. As I said, it’s meant for a family.”
It was a nice clean room, which, thankfully, wasn’t pink. It had pale blue wallpaper and a big brass bed next to the fireplace.
“You have that,” he told Deathrider. He poked his head into the second room. It was smaller but perfectly serviceable, with matching single brass beds. Matt could sleep in here. It was better than he was used to.
When he turned back around, he found Deathrider had fixed Mrs. Bulfinch with his unblinking pale stare. She might be an old dragon, but even she wasn’t immune to the sense of danger he emanated. Deathrider held out his hand, and she gave him the key with obvious reluctance.
The minute the door closed behind her, Deathrider sat down heavily on the bed.
Matt eyed his own bed longingly through the open door. But as nice as it would be to lie straight down and sleep, his stomach was rumbling, and he knew if he didn’t eat now, he’d wake up in the middle of the night, ravenous, and there wouldn’t be anything to eat but the hardtack in his saddlebags, and he was sick to death of hardtack.
“You up for going out for food?”
Deathrider answered by unbuttoning his shirt. Matt winced. The flesh above and below the bandage was swollen and red.
“I’ll ask Doc Barry to come see to you,” Matt said. “I’ll bring you some food too. Just rest up. I’ll see t
o your animals.”
Deathrider nodded and collapsed back on the bed.
Matt didn’t envy him the wound, but he did envy him the rest. He dragged himself to the washbasin. The reflection in the shaving mirror was daunting. His beard and hair were a wiry, matted mess; the grime from the plains had worked its way deep into the creases beside his eyes; and his nose and lips were flaking from the sunburn he’d got a few days ago. He gave the neatly folded linen washcloth and the porcelain washbowl a doubtful look. He couldn’t imagine being able to shift even one tenth of the grime with those.
Why even bother?
He jammed his hat over his filthy hair and headed for the door. He’d face it tomorrow. After all, who did he have to impress?
Nobody, that was who.
3
IT WAS HIM! The brute! The brute was here, in the cookhouse! Oh my, and here she was, looking a fright! Georgiana tugged at the bodice of her dress, which had great oily stains from the glue. She cursed herself for not going back to the hotel to change. She’d meant to, but halfway there, Wilby had thrown a colossal tantrum, and Susannah had been dragging her feet, and they’d all been hungry and tired, and the thought of going back to the hotel and out again was too much. There’d also been the deterrent of the men she’d interviewed today, most of whom were back at the hotel, hanging around, just waiting to catch her alone. The last thing she felt like was running that gauntlet. Who could have imagined there were so many men looking to be husbands? Especially to a woman with so many children.
They thought she had money, obviously. She should never have put “widow of means” in the advertisement. It made her sound wealthier than she was. These days she had enough money to get them to California and set up a store, and that was about it. What she’d meant by “widow of means” was that she wasn’t a burden. She had land. She had money to get them west. She had a plan for the future. But it had been clear from their careful questions today that they’d all read it differently. Especially because she’d made the mistake of saying the land was in Mokelumne Hill. And how big is your claim? Was your husband mining it? They all had the shine of gold fever in their eyes. She’d been sure to tell them that there was no claim and there was no gold; there was just the house in the town and her hopes of setting up a mercantile business. She didn’t have gold—not anymore. She had to sign that land over to Hec Boehm, or who knew what would happen to her son. But she couldn’t tell anyone about that.
At the thought of facing the men at the hotel, she’d given up on any idea of dressing for dinner and gone into the first cookhouse they passed. The place was a revelation after Mrs. Bulfinch’s stuffy dining room. Georgiana loved it. It was like something out of a novel. It was a big, rough-hewn hall with raw pine tables and benches, pewter dishes, tin mugs and sawdust on the floor. There was only one thing on the menu, which was beef and beans. And there was only one thing to drink, which was coffee. It was exactly how she’d imagined the frontier to be. Much more so than Mrs. Bulfinch’s airless Grand Hotel, which was a bit like a maiden aunt’s house.
The children loved it too, and Becky seemed happy enough. It was only Mrs. Tilly who was dubious. But the food was actually very good and seemed to pacify her. And the patrons were mostly emigrant families, so it wasn’t too rough. Although it was very loud.
Too loud for the brute by the look of it. For a minute, Georgiana thought he would bolt, and her heart plummeted. But then the tide of people behind him seemed to sweep him along to the serving hatch, and he surrendered and went with the flow. He really did look like a character from a dime novel come to life, Georgiana thought admiringly as she watched him take off his hat and have a good look around the room. He was even bigger and rougher than he’d looked from a distance. He was precisely what she’d been picturing when she’d come up with the whole mail-order husband idea. He didn’t look like anything—or anyone—would intimidate him.
“Oh!” A breathless noise from Becky dragged Georgiana’s attention back to the table. The children had already bolted from their food and run off to play. Their toys were strewn everywhere, discarded where they’d fallen. But that wasn’t what Becky was making noises about.
“It’s him,” she sighed. Georgiana followed her gaze and felt a stab of jealousy. Becky was looking straight at the brute.
“Him who?” Mrs. Tilly craned her neck. And then her expression turned very cranky indeed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Did you tell him we’d be here?”
Becky gave her a disdainful look. “And how could I do a thing like that when I didn’t even know we’d be coming here?” Before Mrs. Tilly could stop her, she was on her feet and skipping through the crowds. To Georgiana’s brute!
“I’m afraid I’ll rue the day I ever took her in,” Mrs. Tilly despaired.
Georgiana was already ruing the day.
“He’s about as French as my French hen,” Mrs. Tilly muttered.
And then, miracle of miracles, Becky walked straight past the brute, who didn’t so much as blink at the sight of her, he was so busy paying for not one, not two, but three bowls full of beef and beans. And they weren’t small bowls.
Georgiana gave herself a shake. Of course Becky wasn’t interested in him. Look at him. He was a beast.
“That girl is a perfect fool if she believes a word he says,” Mrs. Tilly was saying. Georgiana wasn’t really listening; she was searching the room, trying to see if there were empty seats. How could she get the brute to sit at their table? There was a big gap right next to them, where the children had vacated the benches, but why would he sit here and not somewhere else?
“He has some sort of traveling show.” Mrs. Tilly was sighing. “Those are his three girls there. Sweet little moppets, but really, who drags their children around the country like that?” There was an awkward pause. “Oh. I didn’t mean any offense . . .”
Georgiana craned her neck to see what the brute was doing. He seemed to have paused and was speaking to someone out of Georgiana’s line of sight. “Believe me, Mrs. Tilly, I wouldn’t be moving if I didn’t have to.” Which wasn’t entirely true. She’d always longed to travel. That had been one of the ways Leonard had wooed her, with promises of adventure. None of which had ever eventuated.
But she was here now, wasn’t she, finally having an adventure. Without him. And, she had to admit, even if it was trying and frightening and she was worried sick about Leo, she’d never felt so alive in her entire life.
“And of course she’s bringing him over,” Mrs. Tilly said, throwing her hands in the air. “Her mother would be rolling over in her grave.”
Becky came back into view, trailing a man Georgiana vaguely recognized. He was slender and neat, with a very carefully styled mustache. He really did look very familiar. Lord, she hoped he wasn’t one of the men she’d interviewed today. That would be embarrassing.
Behind the slender man came three little girls, in descending order of height. They were dressed identically, in green gingham, and they had riotous golden curls that burst out of some very badly done braids. To Georgiana’s shock, bringing up the rear like the last duckling waddling after the mother duck, came the brute.
He was coming to her table! Her heart started pounding. Hard.
She ran a hand over her hair. Her chignon was in complete disarray. She looked terrible. But then he got closer, and she had a clearer view of the state of him, and her hand dropped from her hair. At least she was clean, which was more than she could say for him. His buckskin shirt may have never been washed in its lifetime, and his hair was a thick mat of knots. Most of his face was obscured by beard. And look at his hands. They were the size of anvils, enormous muscular paws. But the really notable thing was how deeply ingrained the dirt was; his fingernails were black with it.
“See, we have plenty of room,” Becky was chattering as she brought the party to their table.
If the brute looked big from a distance, he wa
s enormous up close. Enormous and not particularly friendly. He had the look of a bear that had been woken from hibernation.
“Pierre, you remember Mrs. Tilly, the lady I work for?” Becky shoved Wilby’s wooden sword off the table. Georgiana caught it and then removed the rest of the toys before Becky could sweep them aside, which she seemed in a hurry to do.
Mrs. Tilly gave the neat little man a look that should have reduced him to ashes. He adjusted his collar nervously.
“And this is Mrs. Smith,” Becky said offhandedly. She was clearly not very enthusiastic about her beau meeting Georgiana.
“We’ve already had the pleasure,” the man with the mustache gushed.
Becky’s face blackened, and Georgiana flinched. Oh no. Had she interviewed him today?
“My girls and I are staying in the Grand Hotel,” the man told Georgiana, oozing charm. Georgiana wasn’t charmed. “We spoke briefly at breakfast. Over the coddled egg.”
Georgiana smiled politely. She had absolutely no memory of it. But she’d spoken to so many men today.
“The hotel is bursting at the seams with Mrs. Smith’s suitors,” the little man told Becky with a twinkle. “It’s impossible to take a step without bumping into one of them.”
Georgiana still couldn’t tell if he included himself in their number, so she just kept smiling politely.
“Are we going to sit?” the brute asked bluntly. “My beans are getting cold.”
“Matthew?” Mrs. Tilly sounded shocked. She seemed to have just noticed him. “Matthew Slater, is that you? Look at the state of you!”
Mrs. Tilly knew him. Georgiana couldn’t believe her good fortune as she watched Mrs. Tilly cluck over the brute, settling him on the bench next to her.
“I was expecting you in March,” the widow was scolding him. She had completely turned her back on Pierre LeFoy. Becky took advantage of her rudeness and sat Pierre next to her. Georgiana found herself surrounded by the little girls. At least Mrs. Tilly and the brute were sitting directly opposite her, so she could eavesdrop, and hopefully when Mrs. Tilly had stopped fussing over him, she might remember to introduce him to Georgiana.
