He grabbed the mastiff’s collar, the schoolmarm worked her gloved fingers free, and in short order he had the dog outside on the front walkway. Onlookers crowded, but he made shooing motions and they hung back. “Someone find Tommy Hammis for me,” he remarked, mildly. “The boy’s gonna hafta give his Ma a reckonin’.”
“The new miss, is she mad?” Isobela Bentbroad hopped from foot to foot, looking scrubbed and miserable in her Sunday best. Her lank brown braids flopped.
“Well, if the music didn’t frighten her off, Ma Hammis’s chickens might. Just wait, Izzie. And the rest of you, don’t cross these steps ’til we’ve got things calmed down.”
Boxer set up a wail as Gabe finished clipping his collar to the chain bolted to the porch. Most of the time, the dog kept Pemberton out of trouble. But he had a regrettable yen for chasing chickens. He hadn’t caught one yet, despite fowls’ inherent stupidity, but he was the original Tip Mancinger in the old nursery rhyme—he just kept trying.
“I mean it, now,” the sheriff said. A murmur ran through the crowd.
He squared his shoulders and strode back into the fray.
Granger was still going. “And furthermore, the drapes in here haven’t been beaten since this building went up, they’re stiff with dust! Honestly! Chickens, in the house!”
The schoolmarm stood against the parlour wall, no longer flushed but very pale, staring at the potbellied iron stove. She cast a single imploring glance at Gabe, and he was only faintly relieved to see the chickens had been dealt with.
“This is not respectable!” Granger was getting herself worked up but good. Keb Hammis, his meek face cheese-pale, had his shoulders drawn up like he wished he could vanish, his best suit straining at the seams. Lizzie was probably getting the chickens back into the coop, but she’d be no use here either.
Oh, Hell. Gabe sighed internally. A mastiff was one thing, Letitia Granger another entirely.
“Mrs. Granger, ma’am.” He had his hat in one hand, running the other back through his hair. “Thank you. That’ll be about enough.”
It was probably the wrong thing to say. Letty glared at him, her bosom heaving. The cameo pinned at her throat was a sailor on stormy waters, to be sure. The charing-charm on it flashed blue, then green. She didn’t talk about where her original charing had gone, but Russ Overton had once commented that it was no wonder Granger was so sour; anyone with her hard luck would be.
Gabe let his hands fall. “Keb. That boy of yours around?”
The new schoolmarm piped up. “Is he about ten, very blond, and quite agile?” The clipped, educated precision of the words made the entire parlour look shabby.
Well, we do as best we can, Gabe reminded himself. “That’d be him, yes.”
“I saw him heading down the hall, that way.” She pointed, her reticule swinging. “I believe he has perhaps made his escape. Will you be placing him under arrest?”
For one mad moment he thought she was serious, before the glint in her dark eyes caught up with him.
Jack Gabriel surprised himself by laughing out loud. Keb Hammis outright stared with his mouth open and his colorless eyes wide, and Mrs. Granger was mute with astonishment, thank God.
“He’s a handful and no mistake, ma’am. I don’t pity you having him in school.” It didn’t come out quite the way he wanted it to—he sounded sarcastic instead of amused. “I think we might be able to show you the house now, if you’re so inclined. Garrett’s already taken your trunks.”
Mrs. Granger harrumphed. The house was a sore subject. Or not precisely the house, but the hired help.
The sparkle in Miss Barrowe’s eyes was gone. She reached up, twitching her hat back into place. “Yes, I’d quite like that, thank you.”
And Jack Gabriel, abruptly, felt like a goddamn fool, for no good reason at all.
Chapter 2
The house was small and trim, freshly painted white and green, and at the very edge of the “town” proper, though no doubt inside the charter-boundaries. Cat kept her back straight with an effort of will, and groaned internally at the thought of more welcoming committees. There had been a crowd of people, some of them scuffed and bruised, all coated in dust and a layer of sparkling mancy, standing agoggle outside the boardinghouse. Stray mancy still vibrated in the street, and her charm was warm again. Sweat slicked dust to her face, her dress would perhaps never recover from the double assault of dirt and feathers, and her entire body ached. The sharp bite of hunger under her breastbone threatened to make her well and truly irritable.
If she never again sat in another rocking wooden contraption pulled over ground by terribly apathetic nags, she would be ever so grateful. Mrs. Granger rocked back and forth in the seat behind them, either too mortified to speak or holding her peace for other reasons.
The sheriff pulled the horses to a stop. “It’s small, but it’s safe. The town charter covers a couple miles out past here, so you don’t have to worry about any bad mancy or otherwise. Plus the girl working here, well. She’s a fair girl, in her own way, except she’s Chinee. You don’t mind that, do you?”
Behind her, Mrs. Granger sniffed loudly. It wasn’t quite a harrumph, but it was close.
That’s right; they did mention a girl to charm the laundry and do the cooking. “Mind? Why on earth would I mind?” The meaning behind his words caught up with her. “A Chinoise girl?” Does he think we’ve never seen them in Boston?
“Name’s Li Ang. She’s a widow. Good girl, will cook and keep house. She gets half Sundays off, and she’s a fair seamstress. Knows some English. Glad you don’t mind.” It was by far the longest speech he’d given, and he looked straight ahead at the horses while he did so. “There’s good people here, and our charter’s solid.” Still staring forward, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. “May not be what you’re used to, but—”
“Sir.” She wished she could remember his name. It wasn’t like her to forget such a thing, but a day such as this would strain even a mentath’s wondrously unshakeable faculties. “If I held the comforts of civilization so highly, I would hardly be here. I am quite prepared for whatever this town holds.”
For some reason, that made his mouth twitch. “I hope so, ma’am. Hope we ain’t scared you off yet.”
“It would take far more than this to frighten me, sir. On the contrary, I am roundly entertained. Shall we proceed?”
His only answer was to hop down from the cart. Mrs. Granger cleared her throat. The woman was a serious irritant. She reminded Cat of Mrs. Biddy Cantwell in her everlasting black and disapproval, jet jewelry and her habit of lifting her lorgnette and peering at anything that incurred her considerable and well-exercised displeasure. Biddy’s daughter had been a success in Season, and could have had her pick of beaus, but Mrs. Cantwell had driven every suitor off one way or another. It had been the tragedy of the year and was still bemoaned, and Miss Cantwell—none dared unbend enough to address her as Eliza, especially in her mother’s hearing—was now officially a spinster and would quite probably be her mother’s handmaid until said mother shuffled off the mortal coil.
Mrs. Granger shifted her weight, and the cart rocked. “This was not my idea, Miss Barrowe. The girl is mostly respectable. She’s a widow, and a Christian. But her condition—”
Thankfully, the sheriff again intervened. “Mrs. Granger, ma’am, let’s not go on. Miss Barrowe’s probably worn down by all the excitement.” He offered a hand, and Cat accepted his help. The landing on hard-packed earth jolted all the way through her, and she longed for a bed. Or some cold chicken and champagne. “You look a little pale.”
“Quite fine, thank you,” Cat murmured. “Merely unused to the heat. Is it always this warm?”
“Except when it’s raining. Sometimes even then. And winter’s snow up to your…well, that’s why the town was named, maybe. For the weather.”
“Really?” Now that was interesting.
“No. Just my personal guess. This way, ma’am. We repaired the gate.” He said
it as if he expected a prize, but Cat only had the wherewithal to make a small sound that she hoped expressed pleasure at such a magnanimous gesture. It was difficult to keep her balance, for the ground was swaying dangerously underfoot, as if it had thrown its lot in with the stagecoaches of the world.
The gate in question was painted white, and opened with only a single guttural squeak. There was a sad, spiny attempt at a garden, cowering under the assault of heavy sunshine, and a pump that looked to be in working order. She hoped beyond hope that there was a little more in the way of plumbing inside, and swayed as the ground took a particularly violent turn underneath her.
A hand closed around her elbow. “Miss Barrowe?” The man now sounded concerned.
“Quite fine,” she muttered. Her stomach twisted on itself, and she hoped it wouldn’t growl and embarrass her. “Thank you.”
“You don’t look fine, ma’am. Let’s get you inside. Li Ang! It’s Gabe, open up!”
The stairs tilted most disagreeably, but she received the impression of a small, lovely porch with white railings, blessed shade enfolding them. The sudden darkness almost blinded her. There was a sound of bolts being drawn back, and she swayed again.
“Aw, Hell.” Gabriel, she remembered. Gabriel was his name, a herald of woe, and his fingers suddenly bit into her poor arm. “Granger, come on up here, she’s about ready to—”
Everything went fuzzy-gray, as if she had been wrapped in a fog-cloud. Her stomach made an indiscreet grumbling noise, and the embarrassment flushed the gray with rosy pink.
Cat returned to herself with a thump, half-reclining on a black horsehair sopha which had seen much better days. The cushions were hard as rocks, and someone held a cup against her lips. It was sweet water, and she drank without qualm or complaint.
Her vision cleared. A scrubbed-clean little parlour met her, lace under-curtains and brocaded green over-curtains, a small table with curved legs, and threadbare carpet worked with faded pink cabbage roses. The sunlight was tamed as it fell past the lace, and Gabriel the sheriff proceeded to try to drown her with the remainder of the water from a battered tin cup.
Cat spluttered in a most unladylike manner, and an exotic face topped with shining blue-black hair rose over the sheriff’s shoulder. Sloe-eyed and exquisite, the Chinoise girl was in a faded homespun frock that did nothing for her, and the high rounded proudness of her belly suddenly made all the talk of widowhood and respectability much more comprehensible. Mrs. Granger hovered near a doorway cut in the white-plastered wall, her long jaw set with a mixture of what looked to be resignation and apprehension. Feathers stuck to the big woman’s bonnet and her quaintly cut brown stuff dress; a completely inappropriate desire to laugh rose in Cat’s throat and was ruthlessly quelled.
“Oh, my.” She tried not to sound as horrified as she felt. “I am ever so sorry.”
The sheriff’s face had turned interestingly pale, but he snatched the tin cup away and didn’t offer an explanation for tossing its contents over the lower half of her face. The Chinoise girl moved in with something like a handkerchief, dabbing at said face, and that was how Cat Barrowe began her stay in Damnation.
* * *
The regular card game upstairs at the Lucky Star was usually blessedly monosyllabic, except when there was news of a surpassingly interesting nature.
It was just Gabe’s luck that the schoolteacher’s arrival was extra-wondrous. It had replaced Jed Hatbush’s fence as the preferred topic of gossip, at least.
Stooped Dr. Howard, in his dusty black, dealt with flicks of his long knobbed fingers. “Little Tommy Hammis, the snot, charmed the chickens into the boardinghouse. And set that damn dog loose.”
Paul Turnbull, silent owner of the Star, smoothed his oily moustache with one finger. He was a heavy man, stolid in his chair, but quick enough in a saloon fight. And he dealt with Tilson, who ran the girls and handled the day-to-day operations of the Star, well enough. At least, he kept Tils mostly in line, and that was a blessing. “Wish I’d seen Letitia Granger’s face at that.”
It was a sight, Gabe silently agreed, scooping up his cards. Not a bad hand. The whiskey burned the back of his throat, and he tried to forget the dazed look in Miss Barrowe’s eyes. Big dark eyes, and surprisingly soft once you got past that prim proper barrier of hers. She probably thought they were a bunch of heathens out here, and she wasn’t far wrong.
Russell Overton, the town’s official chartermage, scooped up his cards with a grimace. Dapper in his favorite dark waistcoat, dark-curled and coffee-skinned, when he was sitting down you didn’t notice he was bandy-legged and had a stiff way about him. You could, however, always tell he was aching for a fight, like most short men. “That woman could sour milk. So, what’s she like, Gabe?”
“Granger? Still sour.” He picked up his own cards, his charing-charm cool against his throat. The schoolmarm’s was a confection of lacy silver and crystal; his own was a small brass disc with the orphanage’s charter-symbol stamped on the back. There couldn’t be a better illustration of just how much she didn’t belong here.
Stop thinking about it. It won’t do any good.
Dark eyes. Brown curls. Not like blonde, blue-eyed Emily.
Stop it.
“Not Granger, you buffoon.” Russ chomped the end of his cigar as if it had personally offended him. Smoke hazed between the lamps. “The schoolmarm. From Boston, yes?”
“Far as I know.” Gabe’s mouth was dry. He took another jolt of whiskey, eyed the cards. The room was close and warm, the saloon pounding away underneath them with rollicking piano music and a surfroar of male voices. Every once in a while a sharp feminine exclamation, as the saloon frails and the dancing girls went about their business. It was, Gabe reflected, almost like a steamboat making its way upriver. The noise made it seem like the place was rocking.
“You’re asking Gabe? You should know it’s like pullin’ nails.” The doctor showed a slice of yellowed teeth as he examined his cards. “She is from Boston. Highly recommended, according to Edna Bricketts. Why a miss consented to come here, only God knows. She’s a little thing too; I couldn’t see much in the melee. Seemed a bit prim.”
I am so very sorry, she had kept saying. I don’t wish to put you to trouble, Mr. Gabriel. After nearly fainting, for God’s sake. He was willing to bet it was a combination of hunger and nerves; someone should hold her down and feed her something fattening. Little and birdlike. And she acted like a pregnant Chinee girl was no great shakes, offering her hand to Li Ang and murmuring How do you do just as she had to him.
He laid his offerings down. “Two.”
For a few minutes, each of them focused on the game. Doc took the round. “Well, I heard Joss Barker’s already sayin’ he’s in love with her. So’s Eb Kendall. Two.”
“His wife won’t like that. Two and a half.”
“His wife don’t like nothin’. Three, and call.”
“You’d feel the same way, married to Eb. Look at this, two Dominions and a Pearl.”
Gabe laid his cards down. He took the round, with the remaining Dominions, two Espada, and a Diamond. There was a good-natured round of cussing before he accepted the greasy cards and began to shuffle. “Who else?”
There was a brief silence. Maybe they didn’t understand. So he added a few more words. “Barker, Kendall. Who else?”
More silence. He glanced up as his fingers sorted through the winnings, blinking a little, and Doc hurriedly looked away. Turnbull’s mouth was open slightly; he shut it with a snap and became suddenly very interested in his own pile of seed corn.
“Nobody,” Doc finally said. “You know how Barker is. Mouth two sizes too big for the rest of him.”
Well, that’s true. He searched for something else to say, a thing that might paper over the uncomfortable silence. “Last thing we need is some damn thing else happening to scare away the schoolmarm. Had a hard enough time finding one as it is, what with recent events.”
Meaning the boy, and the claim in
the hills, the cursed gold, and the incursions. Since closing the claim, though, the rash of walking dead had gone down quite a bit. Even if some damn fool sooner or later would be tempted by the rich veins lurking under the claim’s black mouth. Or the bars, each stamped with that queer symbol, just waiting for the unwary to carry them home.
Another uncomfortable silence.
“Well, then.” Doc watched Gabe’s hands as the cards slid neatly into their appointed places, no motion wasted. “Bad mancy, to talk about women at a card game.”
“Aw, Hell,” Russ piped up. “What else we got to talk about? Whiskey and donkeyfucking, and claims up in the hills.”
“Not to mention undead. How’s the charter holding, there, Russ?” Turnbull grinned, and Gabe sighed internally as the chartermage and the saloon owner glared at each other over the cards.
“Charter’s holding up fine.” For once, Russ heroically restrained himself. It was probably too good to last. “No howlings from the hills that I can tell. Gabe?”
And from there it was all cards and business. But Gabe caught the doctor looking at him speculatively, especially as the night got later and Paul and Russ started sniping at each other again. The night ended as it always did—Paul a little behind, Russ a little ahead, Doc and Gabe largely breaking even.
And the saloon below them rollicking on.
Chapter 3
It was such a welcome sensation to sink into a bed; Cat almost squeezed her eyes further shut, rolled over, and dove back into sleep. But sunlight gilded the window, and she heard a queer tuneless humming floating somewhere in the house.
I am here.
Where was Robbie? Had he seen her, in yesterday’s comedy of errors? It wasn’t like him not to join in a joke. She’d half-expected the banner to be his idea, of course. How it would have warmed his heart. If anyone loved a prank, ’twas Robert Barrowe-Browne.
The Damnation Affair Page 2
