John was a nice man and wildly attractive. She was surprised he wasn’t already married. She was doubly surprised he showed an interest in her, an interest that seemed to go beyond a discussion of her father’s affairs, if she was reading his eyes and his mannerisms correctly.
“Wednesday, then,” she called out to him on impulse.
“I’ll pick you up. Noon all right?” His smile was like sunshine.
“Perfect.”
Chance looked positively irritated as he helped her onto the surrey. Delilah drove them out of sight before she had an opportunity to wave goodbye to John.
“I’d watch him, if I were you,” Delilah said, as she guided the surrey onto the bumpy road leading out to the ranch.
“Mr. Wellesley?” she said, glancing back at Chance, who followed them on Silas.
“Him, too. But I meant the other one. That banker.”
“Why do you say that? Mr. Gardner seems like a perfectly amiable gentleman.”
Delilah arched a brow at her. “He may be, on first blush and all, but there’s somethin’ about the man I never liked. Can’t exactly put my finger on what it is, but I’d be careful if I was you.”
It was clear that, despite what the other townspeople thought of Delilah and her girls, John Gardner did not approve of them. That, in and of itself, might be the sole motive behind Delilah’s dislike of the man. Dora brushed it off.
“You’d best listen to her,” one of the girls whispered in her ear.
Dora slid around on her seat. “Daisy, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And I’m Iris,” the girl sitting next to her said. “And this here’s Lily—” she nodded at the girl to her left, then pointed to the back “—and Columbine and Rose.” The two girls waved to her from the back seat.
“You’re all named after flowers. What an odd coincidence.”
They laughed, all except Lily, who was the most striking. Dora guessed her to be about her own age, twenty-five or so. A tumble of dark hair framed her delicate features and set off sharp green eyes that watched Dora like a hawk.
“No coincidence,” Delilah said. “I rename each of my girls when they first come to work for me. It’s better that way. Gives ’em a fresh start.”
Fresh start was not exactly the term Dora would have used to describe a woman’s entrance into employment at the Royal Flush. All the same, she didn’t wish to appear rude, nor did she wish to probe.
“Lily makes all the gentlemen call her by her proper name,” Iris said.
Delilah rolled her eyes.
“Which is?” Dora looked to Lily herself to answer.
“Mary Lou Sugrah,” Iris blurted.
Lily shot her a look. “Miss Sugrah to you.”
The girls dissolved into giggles.
Dora twisted around farther in her seat and smiled at the last girl, jammed into the back seat beside Rose and Columbine. She looked younger than the others, and had big doe eyes that lent her a fragile, almost childlike quality. “And what’s your name?”
The girl smiled back. “I’m Susan, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”
“Susan? That’s not a flower name.”
Delilah snorted, and the rest of them, all except Lily, laughed.
Rose was the first to recover. “Miss Delilah named her Lazy Susan, seeing as how she’s so slow and all.”
“Slow?” Dora frowned. “At what?”
They burst into another round of laughter. Delilah tried to hush them, but eventually gave up.
Susan leaned forward so Dora could hear her. “I can only manage two or three customers a night. The other girls can double that. Why, Lily here can sometimes triple it, can’t you, Lily?”
Dora’s face grew hot.
“My record’s fourteen, but that was in the winter. The nights are longer.” Lily tipped her nose in the air and looked out across the range toward the snow-capped peaks, making it clear she was bored with the conversation.
“Oh,” Dora said, trying to hide her shock. “I…uh, see.”
“You girls hush now!” Delilah said. “Don’t be bothering Miss Dora with your stories.”
Dora turned back in her seat, grateful for the older woman’s intervention.
“Don’t pay ’em no mind. They’re ninnies, most of ’em. Wouldn’t know how to get by in this world if it weren’t for me and your pa taking ’em in.”
Dora considered their predicament now that the Royal Flush was closed. “Surely they can get work elsewhere. There are two other saloons right here in town.”
“Don’t you worry about it. They’ll find a place. Won’t be as nice as the Flush, and they won’t be treated half as good as me and your pa treated ’em. Like daughters, is what Bill used to say.”
“Did he?” The thought of it made her feel funny inside.
“Oh, not like you, of course. Bill was wild about you. Talked about you all the time.”
“He did?”
“Oh, sure. He’d sneak off to the Springs just to get a look at you.”
“He told you that?”
“Didn’t have to. He was a fine man, your pa.” Delilah abruptly lowered her gaze, then roused the horses to pick up the pace.
Dora studied her profile as she drove the surrey toward home. Under all that face paint she was a handsome woman, and had likely been beautiful when she was young. Something about her seemed strangely familiar, yet Dora was certain she’d never seen Delilah before arriving at the Royal Flush.
“Those men that Mr. Gardner introduced me to at church…”
“Hmm?”
“They made it seem as if the whole town depends on the business my father’s saloon brings to Last Call.”
Delilah nodded. “It does. Boardinghouses, the hotel, the mercantile and livery, the laundry, the barber shop, the stage… Heck, even the other two saloons fare better because of us. Last Call’s nothing without the Flush. It was nothing before your pa arrived, and it’ll be nothing again.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so, honey. I was here before your pa quit ranching. Last Call was barely a stage stop and a few shacks.”
“Hmm.” All the same, the town would still need a school, although most of the children lived on outlying ranches. She’d confirmed that fact at church today. “Where will you go now?”
Delilah sighed. “Don’t know, exactly. But it’s time for me to move on, what with…” She paused and sucked a breath. “With the Flush closing and all.”
Dora had the oddest feeling Delilah had meant to say something else, but had stopped herself.
She thought about John Gardner’s advice to her that first day, to close the saloon until a suitable buyer could be found. Would the bank not go under, as well, if the Royal Flush closed its doors and the town’s trade dried up?
She’d hate to be responsible for an economic disaster, but she simply had no choice. She couldn’t be the proprietress of a drinking establishment and gambling house. It simply wasn’t proper. Besides, she had her heart set on opening a school. Now she wondered how she might fund it, if the town’s enterprises dwindled. Schools were often run on taxes. If Last Call had no thriving businesses, there would be no taxes.
“What am I going to do?” she said to herself.
Delilah tossed her a sober look. “You’re your pa’s girl, I can see that right off. You’ll do what’s right. That’s what he always did.”
“You thought a lot of him, didn’t you?”
She didn’t answer, and Dora took that as a yes.
Glancing back at Chance, she wondered, not for the first time, what he was hiding—or hiding from. If she closed the saloon now, she’d never find out. She’d also never get to know the woman whom she’d come to believe had known her father better than anyone else.
You’re your pa’s girl.
Was she?
That afternoon, while the staff was assembled in the dining room sharing their last Sunday dinner together, and while Chance Wellesley
was across the hall packing his bag, Dora stood in front of the walnut bureau in her father’s bedroom and, for the first time since she’d arrived at the ranch, went through his personal belongings.
She realized she knew little about him except what she’d gleaned from his letters and what other people had told her. Opinions as to what kind of a man he was diverged wildly.
Her mother had called him reckless, a dreamer, a poor husband and an unsuitable father who’d abandoned them in favor of a carefree life. But that’s not the impression she’d gotten from speaking with the people she’d met here, or from reading his recently discovered letters to her.
His room was neat and elegant, not at all what she would have expected. The walls were papered in a dark paisley print and trimmed in rich, burnished pine. The window coverings were velvet, a deep midnight blue. It was a man’s room, a gentleman’s room, by all appearances.
Excitement and fear gathered inside her as she opened the top drawer of the bureau and peeked inside. Amongst those things she expected to find—a razor and shaving brush, some handkerchiefs and neckties—was something she didn’t expect.
“It can’t be.”
She plucked the child’s toy, a small stuffed rabbit, from between the stacks of handkerchiefs and looked at it. A strange feeling welled inside her. It was her rabbit, one she’d had as a girl. She wouldn’t have remembered it had she not seen it again, but seeing it, she’d never forget it. He’d given it to her when she was four or five, but she couldn’t recall what had happened to it.
Delving beneath another stack of handkerchiefs, she withdrew something even more surprising. “Oh!” A lock of pale blond hair, tied with a piece of pink ribbon. More than anything, she wanted to believe it was her hair, that he’d kept it all these years along with the rabbit.
She laid the items out on top of the bureau, then fished her diary out of the pocket of her dress. Inside, next to the letter she kept with her at all times, she’d placed the tintype she’d found in her father’s safety deposit box. She plucked it from between the pages and looked at it.
Wild Bill Fitzpatrick. The name suited him, she decided. His eyes were shining and his smile was warm. How she wished, now, that she’d known him.
In the tintype he had one hip perched on a table that looked as if it had seen better days. On top of the table was an elaborately crafted iron birdcage. No bird. Part of the image had been smudged, the lower left corner near her father’s right hand. “Hmm.”
She tucked the lock of hair and the rabbit carefully back between the stacks of handkerchiefs, and recalled Chance Wellesley’s bold pronouncement yesterday afternoon.
You’re afraid.
Was she?
She was, a little, but the fact that he, a gambler and a rogue, could look inside her and plainly see it, did more to fuel her courage than all the innate fortitude she possessed. She was no shrinking violet.
Abruptly she slammed the drawer shut.
“Whoa!”
She whirled toward the half-open door, startled by the deep timbre of his annoyingly familiar voice. Chance stood in the hallway, peering in, a dark brow arched in question.
“It’s rude to sneak up on people like that.” She pocketed the tintype and her diary.
“Sorry. I was just—”
Blasting past him, she closed the door to her father’s room and locked it with the key she’d obtained from Delilah. She noticed Chance wasn’t carrying a bag.
“Why haven’t you left yet?” She gave him a quick once-over and realized he was not attired in traveling clothes. She’d specifically told him he’d have to be on his way this afternoon.
“I was just coming to talk to you about that. Now, as I see it, a woman like you, a woman alone, needs a man around to—”
She turned her back on him and made her way to the spiral staircase. As she descended, she gave a moment’s thought to the repercussions of what she was about to do. They seemed minor compared to what would be lost were she to keep to her original course.
Quiet conversation drifted from the dining room as she paused at the bottom of the stairs to adjust the tidy bun that was her sole hairstyle. She smoothed her gray dress, then made her way down the long hallway.
As expected, Chance dogged her heels. She was determined, from now on, not to let him intimidate or embarrass her. If others could tolerate him, so could she. It was within her power to banish him from the Flush, but that wouldn’t be good for business, and business was what she had in mind.
She stopped under the archway leading to the dining room. Chance slid past her and hitched a hip on the walnut sideboard, his gaze fixed heatedly on hers. He absently twirled his watch fob, a habit that annoyed her, and waited to see what she’d do next.
Mr. Wellesley, you’re in for a surprise.
She turned her attention to the staff, who’d ceased all conversation and were looking at her with saucerlike eyes. The meal they were eating smelled delicious. She’d had nothing since breakfast and could die for a plate of Jim’s biscuits and fried chicken.
“I’ve made a decision,” she said. “The Royal Flush will remain open—permanently.”
Delilah dropped her fork.
“And I shall stay on, until a buyer can be found for both the saloon and the ranch.” Her school teaching could wait.
Tom let out a whoop as Jim and Delilah raised their shot glasses in a toast. She had no idea people drank whiskey with fried chicken. The girls began chattering all at once. Susan remained quiet, her soft smile beaming at Dora like morning light.
Chance didn’t exhibit the victory smile she’d expected of him. His expression was bittersweet, as if he’d gotten what he wanted, but now regretted it. She feared that soon she, too, would know that feeling.
She was well aware he’d been baiting her yesterday. He wanted the Royal Flush kept open. She didn’t know why, but she intended to find out. She’d also find out why a man whom she suspected was a former cattle rancher had forsaken his calling and had taken up gambling as a profession.
She stared at Chance, then Delilah. She thought about her father and her mother, and knew that in time she’d discover everyone’s secrets. For the present, however, she had business to attend to. Solving mysteries would have to wait.
“There’s one more thing I’d like you all to know.”
“What’s that, Miss Dora?” Jim, along with the others, snapped to attention.
“As proprietress, I’ll be running both the ranch and the saloon—my way.”
Chance cleared his throat. That cat-who-ate-the-canary smile of his was back, and frankly she was glad to see it. He was much easier to deal with this way. At least she knew what to expect.
“Whatever you say, Miss Dora.” Jim exchanged loaded glances with Delilah.
“And, Jim…” She cast him a pointed look. “If I have to tell you one more time to remove that indecent painting from above my bar, I really will close this place and put you all on the next stage to Garo.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Chapter Five
Be careful what you wish for.
Chance wasn’t much for old sayings, but considered this one as he bounded down the carpeted steps of the spiral staircase into an uproar. It was half past seven in the morning, a time when all self-respecting gamblers, bartenders, piano players and whores should be asleep.
“That’s right,” Dora said as she directed Tom and Jim, who were moving the piano closer to the bar. “Just a few more feet.”
The two men shot him pained glances, grunting under the weight of the instrument.
“Perfect!” She smiled at them. “Now, rearrange all the card tables as we discussed. And get rid of that painting!”
“The danged thing is heavy as sin, Miss Dora.” Jim wiped his balding pate with a bar towel.
“It’s the frame,” Tom said. “Carved walnut. Your pa ordered it special last year, all the way from Kansas City.”
“Yes, well, it’s lovely, but…”
Chance grinned. True to her word, Dora Fitzpatrick had taken charge and was running things her way. God help them all. He’d like to think it was his influence that had changed her mind about keeping the saloon open, but he knew there was more to it than that. Something had happened between yesterday morning when they’d had their conversation and yesterday afternoon.
When he’d caught her unaware in her father’s room, cradling that toy, he’d read a vulnerability in her eyes that had stunned him. Right then and there, he’d realized that somewhere under that prim, self-righteous exterior was a woman with feelings.
Shaking off the image, he waited until Tom and Jim had removed the painting and carried it out to the hallway, then grabbed a cup of coffee from behind the bar. Iris and Rose hemmed him in, scrub brushes in hand. He maneuvered around them and approached their new taskmaster.
Dora acknowledged him with a polite but cool nod.
He gave her one of his smiles in return. “First time I’ve ever seen any of these girls on their knees doing something besides…well, you know.” He left the rest to her imagination.
Behind the bar, Iris and Rose giggled.
Dora didn’t raise a brow, didn’t so much as flush. He admired her fortitude. “Those floors are filthy,” she said. “They haven’t been scrubbed in months. Someone has to do it.” She turned on her heel and whipped open her diary, running a finger down a neatly printed list. When he tried to read over her shoulder, she snapped it shut. “Do you mind?”
He shrugged, amused, and downed another swig of coffee.
“Oh, Delilah, over here.” Dora rushed to help her with an overflowing bucket of soapy water.
“Kitchen’s nearly done. Don’t know where Lily’s got off to, but Columbine and Daisy are working like miners in there.”
“Good. There was enough dirt and grease caked on that stove to conceal buried treasure.” Dora relieved her of the heavy bucket. Water sloshed over the rim onto Bill’s favorite Persian carpet.
Chance winced, set his cup down and stepped in. “Here. Let me help you.”
“No need.”
Rocky Mountain Marriage Page 6
