by Beth Ciotta
Ignoring her shaky legs, Paris stood and marched toward the scene. “You could have gotten yourself killed!”
“You told me to make them stop.” He bent over to retrieve his ruined hat. Straightening, he stuck his finger through the hole. “A good hat, shot to hell.”
Bothered by his casual attitude, she knocked her hand against his Stetson, pointing out, “Better your hat than your head.”
He grinned. “Worried about me, darlin’?”
“No,” she lied. “From that arrogant smirk on your face, I’m guessing you actually enjoy giving troublemakers their due.” Just like Rome and Boston. Likening him to her brothers in this instance helped to soothe her concerns. Experts with their fists and guns, they came out on top every time. Still, the thought of Josh being shot made her physically ill. That was definitely the last time she’d ask him to interfere.
Her heart easing from her throat, she squinted down at the crumpled drunkard, wincing at the awful stench wafting off of his soiled clothes. “Don’t they take baths around here?”
“I guess they get around to it once a month or so.”
“That’s disgusting.” She flinched when more shots rang out. This time they came from inside the saloon. “Please tell me that’s not the Desert Moon.”
“Used to be the mercantile. Now it’s the Lucky Lady. The Desert Moon sits at the opposite end of the street.”
Paris’s mouth gaped open as she made a visual sweep of the uncultivated area. Did four false-front log structures and various framed tents constitute the makings of a town? “Lovely.”
He laughed. “Welcome to Chance, darlin’.”
In lieu of a red carpet, the rumbling sky split open and poured rain.
Josh hauled her up and ran for the covered veranda of the Lucky Lady. “Stay here where it’s dry. I’ll stable the horses, snag a slicker, then we’ll head on down to the Moon. Last thing I need is for you to catch cold.”
She started to point out that she was already soaked to the bone, but he’d already crossed the street. Stuffing her wet hair up underneath her hat, she turned toward the sound of a rollicking tune. The pianist was quite talented. Perhaps that meant he’d be more gracious than the rude oaf she’d encountered back in Yuma.
Lured by the music, she slipped through the Lucky Lady’s front door, shimmied sideways and flattened her back against the wall. There was scarcely enough space for a body to turn around. Men of every shape and size filled the converted mercantile wall to wall, gambling and drinking the obvious source of amusement. More than half puffed on cigars or cigarettes, creating an eye-tearing haze while painted ladies circulated throughout the room, polluting the air with cheap perfume. Between the cigars and the cologne, the stench was overwhelming. The obscene language was shocking, the décor lacking, but the entertainment, she had to admit, was quite excellent.
She stood on her tiptoes, trying to get a better look atthe trio of musicians seated in front of the elevated stage. Someone nabbed her arm and she threw a blind punch.
Josh caught her wrist and blasted her with a heated glare. “What are you doing?”
“Checking out the competition,” she said, breathing easier now that he was here. The Lucky Lady gave her the willies.
“I told you to stay put.”
“You told me to stay dry. The veranda roof leaks.”
He sighed and slipped a protective arm about her shoulders. “Let’s get out of here.”
A musical fanfare rang out over the din causing Paris to dig in her heels. The noise level dipped to a buzz of excited murmurs. “Wait.” Her skin tingled with anticipation. She stared up at the stage, flooded with cherished memories of some of her papa’s variety shows. “It must be someone special. Please,” she added when he seemed intent to leave.
“Five minutes.”
A dandified host sauntered across a four-foot makeshift platform taking center stage. Tall and lanky, dressed in a dapper dove-gray suit, his short, brown hair slicked back with pomade, his posture and mannerisms branded him an arrogant man. Rubbing his palms together, he took stock of the audience while the musicians played on. Paris tensed when he looked their way, his attention clearly on Josh. Fancy Pants winked, his smile as cold as a frozen pond.
Paris shivered and glanced up at Josh. He acknowledged the man by touching the brim of his hat. “Who is he?” she asked. “He doesn’t look very—”
“Quiet, boy,” a man hissed.
Josh shifted his arm to her waist and pulled her close.
“And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” Fancy Pants announced in a broad theatrical voice. “She’s the Darling of Denver, the Kitty of Kansas City. She’s the gal with the golden voice. Let’s hear it for Red Adams!”
Deafening applause accompanied boisterous hoots and shrill whistles. Two men parted a plush green curtain, revealing a gorgeous woman with an eye-popping figure. Her magnificent bosom spilled over a low-cut, ruby velvet costume. Her hair, an artfully arranged mass of fiery, auburn ringlets, grazed her bare shoulders. Even her lips were painted the color of cherries.
Paris blinked at Red Adams in stunned wonder. Beautiful, brazen, full-figured. This was her competition? Her only hope was that the woman couldn’t sing her way out of a pickle barrel. The instrumental trio, consisting of a piano, banjo, and fiddle, finished their intro, whereafter Red chimed in with the opening lyrics to You Naughty, Naughty Men. Paris’ heart sank to her toes. Red was a first-class vocalist.
“She’s not all that great,” Josh whispered sympathetically in her ear.
“She’s better than great.” Red handled the stage and the rowdy audience with the grace of a seasoned professional. Paris had no practical experience. No training. She’d actually planned on winging it. Was she crazy?
She pressed a hand over her churning stomach. Maybe if she eased herself into the show at the Desert Moon. Yes, that was it. Maybe she could talk the house pianist into allowing her to accompany a couple of the other acts, just to get her stage-feet wet. She could practice in the afternoons and then, after a couple of weeks, she’d make her starring debut. Josh wouldn’t mind if she took it slow. She was relatively certain he’d be thrilled if she didn’t perform at all. But that wasn’t an option.
Red belted her last note, ending with a dramatic bow.
Several men threw coins on the stage. Others shot bullets at the rafters. The woman was a rousing hit. Fancy Pants introduced the next song while motioning Josh forward.
“Come on,” he said, taking her by the elbow and maneuvering her through the crowd. “I need to talk to someone.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.” Personally, she’d seen and heard more than enough. She didn’t want a closer look at the woman who made her feel like a no-talent blockhead. She certainly didn’t want Red to get a closer look at her. Dressed like a boy and soaked clean through, she was hardly at her best. Unfortunately, Joshdidn’t seem to notice her dragging her feet. He steered her closer to the stage, nudging aside smelly drunks as easily as a horse’s tail flicks away flies. Did these same men patronize the Desert Moon? “So much for a sophisticated clientele.”
Just when she thought things couldn’t get more depressing, Red launched into Foster’s Old Folks at Home. The crowd eagerly chimed in. “Perfect,” she muttered. “She stole my opening song.” At least she had the satisfaction of knowing her intuition had been dead on. The sing-a-long was a rousing crowd-pleaser.
Two seconds later they were standing in the wings. Aside from the tasseled velvet curtain, the performance space lacked style and imagination as did the rest of the room. No painted backdrops. No stage lighting or comfortable seating. Overall, the Lucky Lady was drab. Everything was makeshift—the bar, the stage—but apparently the only thing anyone cared about was the entertainment. On and off stage. “There’s more to running a successful theater than pretty faces and frilly costumes,” she noted aloud.
“I agree, my dear. That’s why I sent my partner to Phoenix to mak
e a few essential purchases.” Fancy Pants stepped off of the stage and extended his callus-free hand in greeting. “Niles Burke. And you are?”
She stared at his long-fingered hand, struck speechless by his gold pinkie ring. It was the gaudiest piece of jewelry she’d ever seen. Wait a minute. Burke? Was this man related to Josh’s uncle? She sized him up in a heartbeat. An arrogant bully. He was handsome, though not as handsome as Josh. And, like Josh, his eyes were sable brown. However, when she met this man’s gaze her stomach didn’t flutter, it turned. She took an unconscious step back.
Josh interceded, shaking Niles’s hand and making the introductions. “Niles, this is Paris. Paris, this is my cousin. Mason’s son. He’s part owner of the Lucky Lady.”
Paris blinked. If he was Mason’s son then why hadn’t he inherited the Desert Moon? From Niles’s icy smile she had a feeling he wondered the same thing. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Burke.” Although that felt like a lie.
Niles studied her face, his expression warming to cordial. “The pleasure is all mine,” he bellowed over the music. “What brings you to Chance?”
“Josh,” she said, without thinking.
He crossed his arms and gloated. “That so?”
Josh reached out and grasped her hand, giving it a supportive squeeze. “What brings you to Chance, Niles? Since when are you interested in making an honest living?”
“I take it you stopped by Florence. Talked to Wright.”
“He filled me in on a few things.” Josh angled his head. “Missed you at the funeral.”
“Mason didn’t.” The man slid a cigar from his inner jacket pocket and lit up. “I think he made it pretty clear what he thought of me.”
“He left you a fortune.”
“Half of a fortune. But that’s water under the bridge.”
The nerve in Josh’s jaw ticked. “Is it?”
“Maybe we should talk somewhere else,” Paris whispered, mindful of the escalating tension. Whether she liked Red or not, it was rude to carry on not three feet away from where the woman performed.
“Friendly warning, cousin,” Niles said, ignoring her suggestion. “Some of the men in this region are less than thrilled about having another lawman in their midst.”
“Ex-lawman.”
“Officially, maybe.” Niles spit a sliver of tobacco from his tongue then huffed a disgusted breath. “You’re a chip off my old man’s block.”
“I aim on keeping the peace, if that’s what you’re driving at. In which case I’ll issue a friendly warning of my own, cousin. Keep your rowdy clientele in hand. I can build a jail in a day if need be, and I won’t think twice about filling it with your patrons if they get out of line.”
Niles slid a hand deep into his pocket and rocked back on his polished heels. “Last I knew, drinking and whoring weren’t out of line.”
“If you can’t run a respectable business, just keep the flying lead to a minimum.”
“That’s like asking a man to scratch his ears with his elbows. How do you propose I accomplish this monumental feat?”
“Have them check their guns at the door. Man’s got no business waving his piece around when he ties on a bear.”
Between the cryptic statements and unfamiliar lingo, Paris was having a hard time keeping up. “Why on earth would a man tie himself to a bear?”
Niles laughed. “Just a colorful phrase for drunkenness, little girl.”
Pride smarting, she fixed him with a confident glare. “I’m not a little girl. I’m a performer full grown.”
“You don’t say.” The music stopped and the audience erupted with applause. Niles glanced toward the stage. “Maybe I can fit you into the show. I’ll talk with Red and—”
“I’m already spoken for. Thank you, anyway.” Looking past Niles, she caught sight of what she thought was a familiar face staring at her from behind the green velvet curtain. The face disappeared before she could decide if she was seeing things. Burgess Riley couldn’t be in Chance. He was on the Overland Stagecoach and the coach had yet to arrive in Florence. It wasn’t possible, was it? She thought about asking Josh, but he’d want to investigate, and she’d learned her lesson on that score. She glanced up at him. “Can we go now?”
“Sure, honey.”
“So that’s how it is.” A slow, lecherous grin spread across Niles’s face.
Paris saw Josh clench his fist. Worried that he was setting to knock that grin off of his cousin’s face, she tugged him into the crowd. “Good luck with the Lucky Lady, Mr. Burke.”
“Don’t involve her in this, Josh,” he shouted in reply.
Paris felt Josh tense. For the first time since she’d met him, she sensed that he needed her. It was a powerful good feeling. Giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, she yelled back, “I’m already involved.”
He could hear her wheels turning.
If he had any sense, he’d fess up, tell her they were married, and that he had no intention of allowing her to perform. Surely that would derail his wife’s assuredly dangerous train of thought. Instead, he nudged Paris over the Desert Moon threshold, battling a flash-flood of emotions.
He hadn’t realized how much he despised Niles until the man had issued that veiled threat. Hadn’t realized how deeply he cared for Paris until she’d lashed out in his defense. Neither realization sat well.
Seth was right. His cousin was a vindictive bastard, his intentions as obvious as his tasteless jewelry. If he couldn’t have the Desert Moon, neither could Josh. But why go to the trouble of running him out of business? Why not set the place ablaze, as Seth suspected he’d done with the original Lucky Lady, and be done with it?
Plainly, Niles wanted to watch him struggle and suffer. Question was, how far would he go to exact his revenge?
Don’t involve her in this.
I’m already involved.
He thought about the vehemence in Paris’s voice, the way she’d squeezed his hand, as if to say, don’t worry. I’ll protect you. She’d gotten the way of things twisted in her mind. She was the one in need of protecting, and yet her silent decree wrapped around his heart like a thick blanket, warming him to his bones. The sensation proved unsettling.
Almost as unsettling was the possibility that she was in danger. What the hell had he been thinking bringing her into this volatile situation?
A clap of thunder rattled the front window’s stained-glass pane. A gust of wind slammed shut the door. Swiping off his Stetson, he sleeved rainwater from his face and noted the room’s occupants, his mood foul as the weather.
Two old men sat in the corner hunched over a checker match. Oscar Pike stood behind the bar immersed in a game of solitaire. The barkeep looked up from his cards, smiled at Josh, and then focused on Paris and frowned. He immediately disappeared into the back room.
Josh glanced down at the wildcat, who this moment more closely resembled a drowned kitten. He cursed when she stifled a sneeze. “I’m taking you to the log house to get dry.”
She waved off his concern. “I’ve been dying to see this place. What’s ten more minutes?”
He appreciated a stalwart countenance, but this was ridiculous. She hadn’t fully recovered from a fever, and yet she’d refused the slicker and rushed up the street, mindless of the driving rain in her haste to get to the opera house. She was soaked to the skin and her boots were sodden and caked with mud. If she caught pneumonia, swear to God, he’d strangle her.
He expected her to make a mad dash for the piano. Lord knows she’d acted recklessly in the past in a bid to tickle the ivories. Instead she stood stock still, arms folded, toe tapping, silently assessing the deserted opera house.
That couldn’t be good.
He scanned the dimly lit interior, wondering how the Desert Moon stacked up to the Gilded Garrett. Was Paris pleased or appalled by what she saw? He honestly couldn’t tell. It bothered him that he cared, but dammit, he knew the time and sweat Mason had invested in this rustic place. Now that he was here, he felt humbled that h
is uncle had willed him, what to his mind, represented the mother lode at the end of an honest man’s rocky life.
A sturdy pine bar lined the left side of the two-story establishment, complete with a stocked back bar. Gaming and dining tables occupied the first half of the main floor, followed by rows of theater seating. The second floor boasted balcony seating, kerosene sconces, and scenes from Shakespearean plays in gilded picture frames. The elevated stage stood at the far end of the room, its painted backdrop depicting a full moon rising over the Superstitions. Flush against the stage sat an elaborately carved upright piano. He didn’t know much about the instrument, except that, according to Mason, it rivaled a Steinway.
He knew the moment she spied the East-coast import. She clasped her hands to her chest and squealed. So why didn’t she make her move? Needing a drink and space to breathe, he snagged her hand and pulled her across the room. From the expression on her face he assumed she approved of the upright. In no mood to be charmed, he ignored her fetching smile and plopped her down on the padded stool. She reverently skimmed her fingers over the keys, summoning an awkward tickle in his throat. He suddenly felt as if he were intruding on an intimate encounter. “Ten minutes,” he said, then stalked to the bar.
He didn’t have to worry about anyone pestering her as there were exactly three men in the opera house and he knew each one. Barky Bob, the former owner of the mercantile, his tall, spindly friend, Tom Noggins, the proprietor of the livery, and Oscar, who’d emerged from the backroom carrying a blanket and steaming mug of coffee. “For the lady,” he said, passing Josh on his way to the piano.
“Mighty thoughtful of you, Oscar.” He bellied up to the bar, an impressive structure that Mason had constructed with his own two hands. Ignoring a wrench in his gut, he set down his hat, nodding at the barkeep on his return. “Desert Moon’s more spacious than I remember.”
“That’s cuz there ain’t no people in here crowdin’ it up.” The big man rounded the bar and poured Josh a whiskey. “I’m glad you’re here, Sheriff.”
