Christy chuckled. “I’m afraid not, although I must say it’s a high calling.”
“You mean it? You worked at a saloon?” Sara crossed her arms over her middle.
“I did, for longer than I’d care to remember.”
“How’d you get out?”
Christy leaned against the brick building. “My sister had a baby, and when he was only two years old, she died. His pa took him to California, and when he was three, I was sent to steal Toby from his pa.”
Sara gasped and covered her mouth with her fingers. “I declare. I think you’re stringin’ me along.”
Christy shrugged. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, but it’s true. I ended up getting hurt. The very people I was sent to destroy forgave me and offered me a new start. Believe me when I say I understand ‘nice women’ shunning you—and me, the way I was back then.”
Sara reached out her hand. “I think I’d like that handshake now, if you don’t mind. I’m so pleased to meet you, Miss Grey.”
“Christy. It’s just Christy.” She smiled and extended both arms. “And I’d prefer a hug.”
Sara Darnell glanced back at the beautiful, auburn-haired woman walking the opposite direction. Sudden longing rose in her chest for things that used to be and no longer existed. Hard to believe someone like Miss Grey—or Christy, as she’d insisted on being called—would admit to having a less-than-desirable background. Sara tugged her cape closed over her scanty attire as a gust of wind caught the edges and almost tore it from her body. She surged forward toward the only home she could call her own—the Oriental Saloon.
Her stomach churned, and a sour taste lingered in her mouth. Home used to be a word she loved, but no longer. Not since the Apache attack, when her entire world had changed. A shudder shook her frame, and she stuffed the gruesome memories to the back of her mind, determined not to look back.
What would have happened if she’d gone into the bakery with Christy and sat like a lady having tea and a pastry? Probably at best Townsley would fire her for not showing up, and at worst…well, she didn’t care to think of that option, either. Better get to work and forget a kind person like Christy Grey existed in this raw town. No sense in mooning over a life she couldn’t have. It would only increase her misery.
The next morning Nevada stepped outside the door of the Grand Hotel. The early dawn light bathed the street in a kinder glow than it had appeared last night. Nice to wake in a comfortable bed and know you didn’t have to cook your own vittles. But it was time to move on and find a cheaper place to stay. His money would soon be gone if he stuck around here.
He’d seen nothing of Jake or the other two outlaws who’d held up the stage. If they were smart, they’d stay away from town. He took off his hat and slapped it against his leg, then plunked it back on his head. Might be solid advice for himself, as well, but he’d be jiggered if he’d leave town for something he’d not even done.
A rooster crowed somewhere in the distance, and he heard the sounds of mining not far away. Strange. This town had mining tunnels right behind some of the buildings and interspersed among the wood shacks they called homes a block or two from here. In fact, they’d even dug underneath some of the businesses. Miles of tunnels ran under most of the town, from what he’d heard.
Before long, he’d need a job. He hated sitting around all day doing nothing. All he knew was horses and cattle, but heading out on trail drives didn’t appeal at the moment.
However, there was always the past—what had come before—what he’d planned to do with his life in his earlier years…
Nevada shook his head, disturbed at the memories. He’d never return to being that person again. After all, God had failed him in the past when he’d committed his entire future to Him, and Nevada didn’t plan on setting himself up for the same type of pain. No. The past was better left alone.
He struck off down Allen Street for the livery stable. The OK Corral Livery, if he remembered correctly, lay a couple of blocks away on Fremont Street. Thankfully it was quiet this time of morning with only an occasional wagon rolling down the dusty avenue and a couple dozen people moving in and out of various businesses along the way. He spotted a large, one-story adobe boardinghouse on the corner of Fourth: the Russ House. From all appearances it was clean and respectable, with a wide, open patio off to the side. Hopefully it wasn’t a bordello. Nevada stopped at the door and hesitated, then pushed it open.
A woman who appeared to be in her midthirties looked up from her perusal of The Tombstone Epitaph spread out on the low counter. “May I help ya, sir?” The words were spoken with a soft Irish lilt, and large, dark eyes peered over small spectacles balanced on her nose. The attractive woman didn’t stand much over five feet tall and had to look up to meet his gaze. “Did ya need a room?”
“Is this a hotel or a boardinghouse, ma’am?”
Nevada surveyed the room that appeared more like a parlor than a front office. The furnishings were tasteful but not gaudy and made him feel right at home. A piano sat in the far corner with a sofa and two wingback chairs grouped around a potbellied stove. He doubted the stove was used more than two or three months out of the year, but it gave the room a nice touch, along with the braided rugs covering the floor.
“Boardinghouse and restaurant. Were ya lookin’ to stay only one night, then? I can direct ya to some clean hotels in town.” She stood on her tiptoes and pointed out the window. “There’s the Cosmopolitan around the corner on Allen Street, and—”
“No need, but thank you, and sorry to interrupt.” Nevada smiled. “I hoped it might be a boardinghouse. I need some place for at least a couple of weeks, maybe a month or more. Is it all right if I don’t give you an exact amount of time I plan on staying?”
“Certainly, sir. We rent our rooms by the week or the month, yer choice.” She reached under the counter and withdrew a book, sliding it toward him. A pen lay in the open fold. “It’s five dollars per week or sixteen per month. Comes with breakfast, and supper in the evenin’. Ya fend for yerself at dinnertime.”
“Thanks. I think I’ll start with a week and see how it goes.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple of gold coins, tossing them on the counter. “You do the cooking?”
“At times, but I also have a man who slings some of the best grub west of the Mississippi. He used to cook in a fancy French restaurant back in St. Louis.”
“Aunt Nellie?” A little boy dashed into the room and skidded to a stop next to the proprietor.
“I’m talkin’ to someone now. Ya need to wait yer turn, all right?”
He dropped his chin. “Yes, ma’am.”
Nellie stroked his hair. “Me sister’s boy.” Her accent crooned the words. “Oh, a couple of other things ya should know about my place.” She leaned over to the boy’s level. “What ya needin’, lad?”
He stood on tiptoe and whispered in her ear. She nodded, and he ran off, giggling. Nellie turned back to Nevada. “Where were we? Ah, yes. The rules. If ya don’t care for ’em, yer welcome to change yer mind.”
Nevada lifted one shoulder. “I doubt there’s much you can tell me that will make me back out, especially after hearing about your cook.”
Her expression softened. “Well, then, here it is. No women in yer room and no smokin’ in there, either. I run a clean place and want to keep it that way. Also, from time to time I use a room or two as a hospital, since this town hasn’t seen fit to build one yet. I do charitable work and often take in someone who needs a home for a short time. When a sick person is here, I ask my boarders to be courteous and not shout in the hallways or common rooms.” She waved toward the piano. “And yer welcome to play if yer able, or if ya have friends visitin’ who want to use the piano.”
“I think I can abide by those rules, Miss.”
“Oh, and my name is Nellie.” She pointed at the sign hanging outside visible through the front window. “Nellie Cashman, late from Tucson and before that, Alaska.”
“
James King, Miss Cashman, but my friends call me Nevada.” He took the proffered hand and shook it. “Alaska, huh? I’d have thought Ireland from the accent.”
She emitted a tinkling laugh. “Sure now, I was raised there, although I try not to let it get out of hand.” Nellie looked him up and down. “Yer a right strappin’ specimen of manhood. Will ya be workin’ while yer visitin’ our fair town?”
Nevada chuckled at the woman’s blunt remark, but there wasn’t a hint of a flirtatious tone in her voice, and her manner was all kindly solicitude. “Yes, I hope to. If I can find a job, that is.”
Her gaze sharpened. “What type of work might ya be lookin’ for? I could use a handyman around the house a few hours a week, if ya know how to swing a hammer and use a shovel. In fact, ya could work off part of yer board, if yer of a mind to.”
“That would be fine, although I’m hoping to also find something that includes working with horses.”
“Ah, I might know just the thing. The smithy across the street from the OK Corral hurt his leg a week ago Saturday. Good man. Got kicked, I believe, and he’s hobblin’ around a bit until it heals up. He can hammer out the horse shoes, and do some of his other work, but he’s havin’ the dickens of a time standin’ for long periods and doin’ the nailin’. Might ya have any skill with shoein’?”
Nevada felt a surge of hope for the first time in days. “I do. I’ll go talk to the man. Do you happen to know his name?”
“Sure do. John Draper. He’s an honest man and a hard worker. Tell him I sent ya, and he’ll probably put ya to work.”
“Thank you, Miss Cashman.”
“Nellie. No one calls me Miss Cashman. It’s just Nellie.” She started to turn away and paused. “I almost forgot. This time of day he’s probably at the Oriental Saloon gettin’ a bite to eat. They serve a fine sandwich, and he’s partial to the steak.”
“Thank you, Nellie.” He turned and reached for the doorknob.
“Would ya like to see yer room before you go?”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to head over there straightaway. I’ll bring my things with me from the hotel and be back for supper, if not before.”
“All right then. Godspeed.”
Nevada hurried out the door and stepped into the dusty street. A wind had picked up, blowing fine grains of mixed sand and dust, along with tumbling weeds and bits of paper. Music poured from a saloon up the street, and a man’s raucous laughter floated from an open doorway. Time to see what his future might hold over in the Oriental Saloon.
Chapter Eight
Christy braced to meet her mother as she walked up the path to the house after her morning trip to the store. Shifting the burlap bag of food momentarily to her injured arm, she winced, then moved the bag back to her other arm. Ma’s mood seemed to change as fast as a lightning bug. You could never tell what it would be—mellow, sour, or somewhere in between. Hopefully finding the money yesterday that she’d tucked away so they could buy groceries would help improve her frame of mind.
The memory of her mother’s loss smote her, and a lump formed in her throat. What kind of pain must Ma be enduring at the death of her husband? Even if the man was basically no good, he’d treated Ma decent much of the time. Too bad he was the only man in Joshua’s life during his teen years, though. Now that Joshua was nineteen he figured himself a man and wanted to be tough like Logan. Christy felt a deep stirring of fear at what may lay ahead for her brother if he didn’t change.
Her visit to Doctor Goodfellow first thing this morning had brought a sense of relief. She’d avoided infection and the deep tear in her arm seemed to be healing nicely. He’d placed a fresh dressing on the wound and instructed her to keep it covered for a few more days, but the pain had almost abated.
Her mind drifted to the man who’d bandaged her arm during the robbery. Something about his eyes as well as his actions said decency resided in him, and he’d insisted he wasn’t part of the outlaw gang. She doubted that was the truth, as the other robbers accepted his presence. But his touch had been gentle, and he’d not cast an offensive glance her way. Christy pushed open the door of their small house. She’d kept her word and not described him to the marshal. There was nothing more to do.
Ma swung her feet to the floor and struggled to stand, but a coughing spasm hit and held her captive.
Christy rushed to her mother, who was hunched into a ball. She looked so small and fragile, and her entire body shook. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
She hurried to the kitchen and searched the cupboards for a container of water. Nothing but a dirty slop bucket. All the water she’d brought yesterday had been used for cleaning. Hastening to her mother’s room she surveyed the area. Her gaze lit on a porcelain jug. She lifted it and sniffed. Eww. It reeked of spirits. She set it back down and turned away, then spied a small pitcher on the floor by the bed. Gingerly she lifted it to her nose. No smell. Clutching it tight, she ran to the kitchen and poured it into a glass. Water. It didn’t appear to be terribly fresh, but it couldn’t be helped.
Ma’s coughing spell had eased, and Christy pressed the glass into her hands. She took a sip. “Thank you, girl. I’m beholden to you.”
Christy sank onto the sofa beside Ivy and wrapped her arm around the older woman. “I’ve missed you, Ma.”
“You too, Christy girl.” Ma patted Christy’s hand and mustered a smile. “More than you’ll know.” Then the smile faded, and she stiffened her spine. “That’s enough mollycoddlin’. Where’s Joshua?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. He ran out of here yesterday without saying a word. Where does he usually go when he’s upset?”
Ma grimaced. “To the bar. Like Logan always did.” She scowled. “I loved that man, but when it came to whiskey and gamblin’, he was worthless for anything else. I’ve fretted over your brother somethin’ fierce. Don’t want him endin’ up like Logan, lyin’ dead in some street.”
Christy sucked in a sharp breath. Ma remembered. Maybe she’d only needed time to come to terms with her husband’s sudden passing, and now she’d adjust. If only they could get her well and over this bout of consumption. Heaviness tugged at Christy’s heart, and worry gnawed at her stomach. Had she ever heard of anyone recovering from a case as bad as Ma’s?
She shook off the thought. No sense in borrowing trouble. Making another trip to see Doctor Goodfellow would be her first order of business. “Joshua has a good head on his shoulders, Ma. He’ll be home as soon as he works out his grief.”
Ma needed medicine and proper care, and Christy planned to get it, whatever the cost. Too bad she hadn’t thought about it when the doc tended to her arm.
A tap sounded at the door, and Christy turned her head. Joshua wouldn’t knock, and they hadn’t ordered anything. Her trunk had already been delivered the day before. She pushed to her feet and glanced at her mother, but she only shrugged.
A peek out the window revealed Marshal Sippy waiting outside, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol. Christy hesitated, then pushed open the door. “Good morning. I’d ask you in, but my mother isn’t well.”
He swept off his hat and tucked it under his arm. “No problem, Miss Grey. I’m sorry to intrude, but I had another couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”
She stepped outside and eased the door shut behind her. “I suppose I can spare a moment or two.”
A wagon rumbled past, heavily loaded with silver ore, the long team of mules straining at the harness. Her eyes followed what must surely be another prosperous find as it disappeared down Toughnut Street. If only she had a small portion of what they brought from the mines, her mother could have proper care. Maybe Josh wouldn’t even feel the need to gamble if they lived in a nicer home and didn’t have to scratch for everything. An instant later she shook off the thought as useless, knowing they’d never achieve anything close to wealth in her lifetime.
“Miss Grey?” Marshal Sippy shifted his weight from one boot-clad foot to the other. “About
those questions?”
“I’m sorry.” Christy turned back to the man.
“Your arm. Is it improved today?”
“Yes, I’m happy to say it’s better. Still painful, but not bothering me quite as much.”
“Good. Now, on to the reason I’m here. I’d like to get a description of the man who bound your wound during the holdup.”
Christy crossed her arms over her chest. “Like I told you before, Marshal, I can’t do that.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
“All right then, won’t.” She met his eyes squarely. “I made a promise, and I’m a woman of my word.”
A startled expression crossed the marshal’s face. “What kind of promise would that be, if I may be so bold?”
“He told me if he took off his mask to tend my arm, I had to promise not to betray his identity to the law. Of course, I had no idea who the man was and couldn’t give you a name, regardless. Any number of men have the same build and hair color. So I can’t see a description would do you much good, even if I was willing to break my word and give it to you, which I’m not.”
“I see.” His shrewd eyes assessed her, and he seemed to come to a decision. “I suppose you won’t tell me if you’ve spotted him, or any other men from the outlaw band, since you’ve been in town.”
She shook her head decisively. “No sir, I will not.” She hesitated. “But I’ll not withhold any information about the others who took part. I can honestly say I’ve not seen them since it happened.”
“I appreciate that, but why are you willing to protect a criminal? No one will think worse of you if you don’t keep your word to a man who held up the stage.” He gestured at her arm. “Not to mention shooting you.”
Christy frowned, not caring for the direction the conversation was taking and determined to set the marshal straight. “He wasn’t there when the shooting happened and had nothing to do with it. I saw him come out of the brush after the stage halted and we’d disembarked. Besides, he assured me he had nothing to do with the robbery.”
Love Finds You in Tombstone, Arizona Page 8
