Startled that he’d slipped away so quickly, she blinked, picked up her skirts, and hurried after him. Genevieve stopped on the main street. She searched both ways and found him and his damnable long stride headed around the curve.
He’s going to La Maison!
Frustrated, she hiked her skirts once again and hurried across the precariously frozen road to catch up. It would serve him right to discover on his own that Madame and her entourage were no longer at their fancy house, but in the abandoned saloon across the street.
“Mr. Kyo-yee,” she shouted against the wind unable to remember the exact pronunciation. It appeared he picked up his pace. With a sigh, Genevieve set her jaw and followed him, catching up to him just before he was about to enter the La Maison. In her haste she grabbed his sleeve.
“Mr. Kyo-yeek.” Fiddlesticks, she’d forgotten his name. She hoped he was an understanding man. “Please, may I have but a moment of your time?”
“It is…Kyi-yee.” He stood, head bent slightly, staring at La Maison’s painted door. Head lowered slightly, he his profile resembled a weary bear. “Not Mr. Kyi-yee.”
“My apologies, Kyi-yee,” she enunciated the name carefully, not wanting to lose his attention again. “Is it a fair assumption, sir, that all of the same things that appeal to most men, appeal also to you?”
His icy blue gaze slid from her hand to her eyes. She dropped her hold and took a step back. Genevieve’s thoughts jumbled. She struggled to find them. “Meaning, of course, comforts such as a home-cooked meal, companionship…uh, the matrimonial benefits God designed between a man and a woman.”
“You mean sex?” He gave her a puzzled frown.
She swallowed. Searched for her brain cells. “Well, yes—in part. Procreation is a fact of life, is it not?” She smiled, though it felt like a million stones sat on her chest.
He glanced at the door. “I think Madame might disagree on the point that sex is only for procreation.”
“You are well aware of my meaning, Mr. Kyi-yee. I would appreciate if you would not mock me.”
“Your point, Mrs. Walters?”
“Mr. Kyi-yee, I can give you those things.”
His brows shot up. He tipped his head slightly seeming to study her. She couldn’t be certain but she had the feeling that under that thick beard of his was a smirk.
“No, what I meant to say,” she bumbled, “is I believe I have just the right woman who could offer you all these things and more, Mr. Kyi-yee. I’m talking, of course, about a lifetime of wedded bliss.”
He searched her eyes as though contemplating the offer. It gave Genevieve hope that she’d at least broken through his rugged persona.
“I doubt it.” He lifted his hand to the latch, then seemed to change his mind. Turning on his heel he stepped out into the street.
The man, it appeared could be stubborn, but she was as tenacious. She followed and tried to face him but he twisted away, acting as though his attempts to ignore her might wear her down. It only strengthened her resolve. Her passion was her mission, and right now Penelope’s happiness was key. “Mr. Kyi-yee, wouldn’t you rather know the love of a good woman? A woman you could come home to every night?” She tried to catch his gaze, but he would not have it. He began to walk away. She set her jaw and followed doggedly behind him.
He turned suddenly, causing her to run into his blanket-covered chest. Catching her upper arms, he peered down at her. “Mrs. Walters, I said no.”
“What are you doing?” The shrill and none-too-happy voice of Madame Bonheur broke the silence, and tension, between them. She strode across the porch of the crudely built saloon located on the other side of the street from the La Maison des Chats.
Ever since she and the weary-from-travel brides had temporarily taken up residence in the elegantly furnished log building established by madam and her ladies, Genevieve had been advised to stay clear of the disgruntled woman. It was no secret that she was not happy about the transition. She was an intimidating woman—hardened by life, stitched together by survival. Looking every bit like a storm cloud her gaze bore into Genevieve’s as she strode toward her, her tight-fitting black dress rustling with each step.
“What is ‘appening here? Do you mean to parlay your situation, Meezus Walters? You and your…scrawny girls?”
“Parlay my--” Genevieve blinked, realizing her insinuation. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she answered. “I was simply discussing an alternative proposition with Mr. Kyi-yee.”
Madam frowned. “So, it eez, Mr. now, eez it?” She nudged his shoulder and offered him a savvy wink.
The man simply shook his head and looked away.
“If you are quite finished, I’d like to take my client inside. He looks in need of a beet of…refreshing, shall we say?” Madam slipped her arm through his.
“And I was just offering that he could have such refreshment on a nightly basis with what I have to offer.” Genevieve crossed her arms in an effort to make her point.
Madame’s ruby red lips curled into a smile. “Weeth such ambition, my dear, perhaps you should come work for Madame?”
Genevieve frowned. “Oh, not me, Madame. One of my brides.”
Madame snorted. “I have heard that one of your grooms left town. You won’t be taking theez one from us, mon cherry. He eez madame’s Monsieur Charmant.” She puckered her lips and made a smooching sound.
Mr. Charming? Genevieve, who’d had schooling in French, found Madame’s mastery of the language lacking, but she refused to humiliate the woman. She had greater concerns. For instance, she needed Madame to release the man she needed as a prospective groom.
“Excuse me, Madam. Mrs. Walters.” Kyi-yee pulled away from the woman’s grasp. He sighed and glanced from one woman to the other. “Ladies, I wish I could say this has been a pleasure.” He eyed them. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Oh, now, Ze--” Madam started.
His finger darted to her lips, silencing her. “Another time, Madame.” He tipped his head, glanced at Genevieve, and strode again towards town.
Madame tossed Genevieve a stern glare, flipped her shawl around her shoulders. “You would do well, Meesuz Walters not to interfere with the men who were wise enough not to volunteer for theez ridiculous leetle game the pastor created. It will not work, you know.” Her stern gaze flicked over Genevieve before she turned with a huff and walked back to her temporary palace of sin. She glanced up at the array of women along the balcony railing who’d sauntered out to watch the encounter, dressed scantily in their undergarments. “I do not pay you to stand outside,” she called, waving at them. “Back inside, now. I don’t need you all to catch a chill. The sneezing is bad for beeznus.”
Maybe it was useless. Maybe she didn’t have a prayer. What was it that Pastor Hammond had told her? When one door closes, God opens another? Well, perhaps Mr. Kyi-yee—the stubborn old-so-and-so—didn’t realize yet that he’d been the one to walk through that door. Surely, he couldn’t argue with divine intervention?
She glanced at his departing form. What now? Perhaps Madame had been right, despite her poor French and penchant for lust. Maybe she was wrong to bring women here who might not be as well-equipped as she thought to deal with this new frontier.
Then again, it was the season of miracles. She needed to find Pastor Hammond and convince him she’d laid for him a proper foundation. It was now his job to explain to Mr. Kyi-yee what fulfilling this agreement would mean for the town and its residents.
Breathless from her urgent walk, Genevieve pushed open the door of the Golden Nugget. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dim shadows. Kerosene lamps flickered on the tables. The scent of the wood-burning stove, male sweat, and whiskey hung in the closed quarters of the saloon.
She wove through the tables, reset from earlier in the day, filled now with patrons playing cards, drinking and, in general, taking advantage of the slow down at the mine.
Seamus Malone leaned on his bar as she approached. “Aye, Mrs. Walters. Di
d ya manage ta wrangle a groom for Miss Penny?”
Genevieve glanced over her shoulder catching the curious gaze of a table of men playing cards. They quickly refocused on their game.
Genevieve sighed. “I’m going to need Pastor Hammond’s aid in convincing Mr. Kyi-yee,” she said. “Unless, by some chance, you might be looking for a wife, dear Mr. Malone?” She eyed the handsome bartender.
Seamus lowered his gaze, pretending to be polishing his beloved bar. “Might I ask ye for a bit of advice, ma’am? You being a matchmaker, and all.”
“For a cup of coffee, Mr. Malone. I would gladly welcome the reprieve.”
He nodded toward a small table near the Christmas tree. “I’ll get us some coffee. Ye go have a seat there where we can chat in private.”
She gazed at the festive tree and thought of her recent encounter with the mountain man they called Kyi-yee. A man who, from all appearances, seemed comfortable conversing with others but could not seem to carry on a conversation of two minutes with her. In fact, he could barely look at her in the eye.
Chapter 6
The fierce thudding of Zeke’s heart pounded against his chest, reminiscent of the sound of the rock crusher, called the Drum--at the mine. He felt like a coward. Able to face a ferocious bear, but not the woman he’d once sworn his heart to. Just the same he was relieved to have slipped away from the clutches of the two quarreling women before Madame foolishly blurted out his real name.
Seeing her, being so close and yet afraid to admit he still cared for her was an unbearable torture to his soul. Crushing. Smashing. Until he thought he might not be able to breathe. He’d made up his mind never to marry again. Once…seeing the horror on his new bride’s face—was enough of a jolt to his pride. Besides, so much time had gone by. They’d both changed. He was acutely aware of the scars he bore both inside and out. Genevieve had moved on. What right did he have to resurface now, or perhaps risk her rejection? Besides, a woman of Genevieve’s upbringing, her stature, deserved more than a scarred body and a man who lived like a hermit in the hills.
Feelings he’d so carefully folded away for over time caused his chest to ache, and his body to burn with a desire that not even a visit to La Maison would quench. Memories plagued his mind—the taste of her lips, the soft sound in her throat as he held her close. Zeke pressed his eyes shut, willing the past to remain where it belonged. Things were different now. He had to accept that.
He glanced up from where he’d ducked into the shadows of a building waiting and watching until he’d seen Genevieve walk past. The look of defeat on her face, the resignation--it appeared she’d finally given up. That was as it should be.
Then why did it hurt so damn much?
He spotted Pastor Hammond going into the barber shop. Curious, to find out what all this marriage ruckus meant for Noelle and for the woman who seemed to be at the center of the chaos, he followed the preacher inside.
Butch glanced up in surprise. “Change your mind about that shave? I can get to you right after I finish here with the preacher,” he said snapping open a cloth and laying it over the pastor’s torso.
Pastor Hammond glanced at Zeke and offered a friendly smile.
“We need to talk, preacher,” Zeke said, pulling up a chair.
“That’s all well and good, if you don’t mind me going ahead with my shave,” Pastor Hammond said.
Butch waited, cup and brush poised.
Zeke nodded.
Butch began to lather the preacher’s face.
“I want to know what’s going on in this town.” Zeke peered at the man whose lower face had transformed to a soapy white.
“I presume you are referring to the matchmaker woman and the good number of our businessmen in town who are recently married?”
“To start with,” Zeke said. He leaned his chair against the wall and waited for the preacher’s explanation.
“You may or may not be aware that there has been little evidence of gold in the mine in some time now. Concern is that it’s dried up.”
Zeke raised a brow. “That’s interesting. You can usually hear the drum for miles through these mountains. Has he closed the mine?”
Pastor shook his head. “Oh no. On the contrary, Charles Hardt is most determined to prove otherwise. A good number of miners have already left town. Try to stake their claim elsewhere. The drum’s shut down and the crew left were let off today to attend the foreman’s wedding.”
Zeke nodded. “I happen to run into Silas Powell early this morning. Said something about hearing of another strike. He seemed in a hurry. That would explain it. Can’t say that riding alone is a very wise thing to do these days.”
Pastor Hammond sighed. “Dern fool is liable to get himself killed.”
“Or worse,” Zeke added raising a brow.
Silence filled the room as the trio absorbed Zeke’s words.
“Well, for the folks that have chosen to stay, who’ve created their businesses here, this town means more than a gold strike. Sure, it’s why they settled here, most, anyhow--to take advantage of the claim. But they chose to settle down and make a life in this little spot where they’ve worked and lived for the past couple of years.”
Zeke thought of what it’d been like when he and Clem had arrived. Back then, Noelle was no more than a handful of tents and ramshackle buildings. With each new wagon train filled with men coming to work in the mine, they brought not only dreams of striking it rich, but their individual ingenuity and determination as well. It didn’t take long for Charles Hardt, owner of the mine, to tap into the human resources he had and begin to slowly build a town. There was much that could still be achieved to make it habitable, but the progress over the past couple of years was evident.
“Do you believe the mine is dried up?” Zeke asked.
Pastor Hammond seemed to debate the thought. “Well, whether or not they find more gold in the mine, there are now those who consider Noelle their home. And if, say, the railroad was to bring their line through Noelle and take it further west, it would be a boon for all involved.”
Zeke listened, beginning to realize what the reverend had been trying to accomplish.
Pastor Hammond caught Zeke’s gaze, pulling him from his previous thoughts. “I’d heard you lost your brother here in Noelle.”
Zeke looked away, the memories still fresh in his mind. His brother’s laugh, how ornery he could be. How much he loved being out here--being his own boss, a real pioneer. Clem’s death wasn’t a topic he discussed with anyone. And he’d never spoken to a man of the cloth about it. “Yessir. It was…an accident.”
“My sincere condolences, son. It’s never easy to lose someone or something you love.”
“It was the mine,” Zeke blurted out, surprised by the bitter taste on his tongue.
The pastor waved away Butch when he offered a spicy aftershave. He turned his attention to Zeke. “And a man in your position would have every reason not to care whether the mine, this town, or its people stay or blow away in a cloud of dust.” He nodded and breathed a quiet sigh. “Perfectly understandable.”
Zeke stared at his boots. The memory of his brother’s enthusiastic expression when he came home from the mine haunted him still. He’d never seen a man more alive as Clem was when he went to work every day at the mine. In the evenings, Zeke would find him seated on the front porch of the cabin they’d built with their own hands. He’d be holding a cup of coffee and staring at the sunset. “He loved it here,” Zeke said. “The river, the trees, the mountains…that damn mine. It was like some grand adventure to him” Zeke glanced at the preacher, his heart twisted with guilt. Why hadn’t he insisted that a more seasoned man volunteer that day? He’d been the foreman. Clem had been adamant about setting the charges…. “He’d never have lasted had he stayed on the farm. Always had his damn head in the clouds. Wanting to travel, see new places.” The memory of that day served like a knife, plunging deep into Zeke’s heart.
“Come on, Zeke. Look, not anoth
er man has offered to set the charges.” Clem’s enthusiasm for this mine was beyond anything Zeke understood. Up at the crack of dawn, pickax and lantern in hand, heading into that black hole of a mountain.
“You heard the boss. If we want to save time before the cold weather hits, we need to use charges to get farther inside the mountain. I’m good at this, Zeke--you know I am. I can get in there and out faster and more efficiently than any man here,” Clem pleaded with his brother.
Zeke scratched the back of his neck and scanned the other members of his scraggly crew. He looked at Clem. “I’ll do it.” Zeke started walking toward the wagon loaded with dynamite. They needed to only set a few to create some exploratory holes.
“I’ll flip you for it. Heads I win, tails you lose.”
Zeke looked over his shoulder. “What kind of a fool do you take me for?”
Clem shrugged his shoulders and gave him a wicked grin. The crew was waiting. Clem was five years younger than Zeke and thankfully hadn’t enlisted when the war broke out at the insistence of their father who needed him on the farm.
Zeke turned on his heel and winced. An old injury to his knee caused him fits now and again if he turned it the wrong way. Clenching his back teeth, he limped back to Clem. His brother raised his chin, holding his gaze steady.
“You’re not going to be able to get out of there fast enough with that bum knee of yours.” Clem nodded toward Zeke’s leg.
“I think we should send a more seasoned man,” Zeke countered. He scanned the crew. Not a soul piped up to volunteer; most looked down at the ground.
Clem glanced around and then looked back at Zeke. “There’s your answer, sir. How many charges do I need to set?”
Zeke hated conceding to his younger brother, but he had little choice. “Three. That’s it. We just need to blow some exploratory holes, nothing more. You make sure they have long fuses, light them, and get your ass back out here. Don’t look back, don’t hesitate. Do you understand?”
The Piper_The Eleventh Day Page 5
