The Talisman - Crisscross

by Shaunna Gonzales

  *

  Trish stood at her door, watching Quinn amble across the stained floorboards. The lone curl of smoke from a gambler’s cigar added its fumes to the stale odors of tobacco, liquor and foul body odor. She listened, hearing Quinn order a whiskey at the bar before he turned around, hooking his elbows on the lip of the bar while waiting for Pierre to pour the shot. She continued to watch Quinn, feeling slightly obsessed.

  "Wasn't sure I'd see you around for a while," Pierre ventured to open a conversation.

  "Nothin's changed," Quinn drawled, glancing up. Trish darted inside her room and shut the door before hearing his next question.

  Several minutes later, she reemerged wearing some of Zelda's clothes. Unlike Zelda, she dared to wear the vivid red against the purple jewel tone of the camisole with its ruffles along the deep neckline. A carefully drawn black line of ashes mixed with Zelda's grease paints imitated the line of silk stockings from the 1950's. It wasn't the right time period, but Trish refused to wear used stockings. She wore Zelda's black lace up boots. To finish the look, Trish wore a purple feather in her hair.

  Trish leaned on the banister, the conversation below catching her attention.

  "No, I'm concerned about Milton Moore. The cad has come by again. He's upset that the homesteaders are settlin' closer here than up yonder to his place. He fancies himself as building a town around his stake and reckons the three of us are takin' all his business." Pierre spoke to two men, Quinn and a man Trish hadn't met.

  "But Albert is a smithy, he doesn't have anything to do with my mercantile or the saloon up at Moore's." The smaller of the three men swirled his drink as he spoke.

  The snippets of Moore's threat surfaced in her mind. Had they heard other threats or had he threatened them as well?

  "If it is Moore's saloon and mercantile that are suffering, shouldn't he be upset with all three of us?" Pierre asked.

  "You would think so, but here in the West, a blacksmith sets up shop and the rest of the town just gathers. I know the livery and the smithy are why I built where I did."

  "An' the two businesses are why I built the saloon here. Can't imagine building up by Moore now. It ain't our fault we thought ahead to the stage stop down the river a bit. 'Course the bridge don't hurt none when the rivers runnin' high like it is."

  "Albert's a smooth talker, I'll give him that but Moore won't see the truth. He just won't listen to reason anymore. He threatens Albert, but what can Albert do? He is not a fightin' man, those days are behind him."

  "We can run 'im outta town. He wouldn't be the first man on a rail this week." Quinn scoffed, throwing his whiskey back. It was at that moment when Trish realized he had spotted her. His posture changed and now he watched her.

  "Boys, Root Hog way deputized a sheriff over that."

  Quinn set his glass on the bar, watching her and yet he spoke to his companions. "We got a hen perched up there's." He indicated Trish. A wave of heat raced through her. He had caught her eavesdropping. They all had.

  Pierre glowered at her. "Well, songbird, ya got our attention. Sing."

  Pierre's demand caught every man in the room’s attention and threw it all on her. A blazing white spotlight couldn't have done a better job. Trish stared at Pierre, then at Quinn saving a more wide-eyed look for the rest of her audience.

  "Moonriver--"

  "Louder!"

  "…wider than a mile." Trish choked. Had she even started at the beginning? What would she change by singing a song that hadn't been written yet? She slowly descended the steps. "I'm crossin' you in style…"

  Whoops and hollers drowned out the following stanzas. Trish decided the social drinkers demanded a more frolicking number. She shifted vocal styles and did her best to belt her efforts over the rowdy crowd.

  "…Oh, Suzanna…"

  "Come on down here, little bird, and sit on my lap."

  "She don't wanna sit with the likes of you," another man interrupted."Missy, holding this chair just for you."

  Trish doubted they heard a single word so for her third number, she shifted to a little ditty she had prepared for a competition. It didn't matter that she didn't know the words, the melody would be lost on the mens’ tone deaf ears and they would most likely be too drunk to remember the words.

  "If ya wanna see me tonight, ya gotta treat me right…"

  A man grabbed her about the waist. She squeaked through a key change before she managed to disengage herself.

  "Monday night, treat 'em right, Tuesday do the same. Oh, Wednesday's wicked game…" Did it matter that she was poking fun at the situation? She glanced at Quinn. His scowl told her he was listening close. She stumbled through a garble of words, knowing they didn't make any sense. She'd need to come up with a better repertoire before the next show. Another hand snaked around her waist. This time she froze. She smiled at the offensive man and removed his hand. Taking a deep breath, she walked to the bar. She could feel every eye in the room on her. She turned her back to the bar and placed her hands on it at either side of her hips.

  "Gentlemen," she looked at Quinn. Did she need to spell it out for him? No one moved. "Some assistance, please."

  Quinn moved forward and just stood there.

  "I'd like to sit on the bar." She glanced at Pierre, "If that is all right."

  Quinn didn't wait for Pierre's response. He placed his hands at her waist and lifted her. A sweet jolt ran up and down her spine. The heat of his hands on her waist burned with a delightful pleasure. Her breath caught. Did he feel the jolting heat? Or was she imagining things? She looked away from his face, fearing he would see what she was feeling. She sucked in several deep breaths allowing her smile to broaden. She had planned to sing to Quinn, but she couldn't now. She turned to Pierre and began.

  "You are my Sunshine, my only Sunshine. You make me happy…" The men grew quiet as she continued. With her voice being the only sound in the room, her confidence increased. Second verse, she couldn't sing it to Pierre, the patrons would think her a whore, especially working here. She leaned over to sing the first words to the third man in Pierre and Quinn's discussion, then slipped off the bar and kept moving. Every man in the saloon received her momentary caress as she finished the song, every man but Quinn.

 

  Chapter 19