by Janet Dailey
The coins jingled in her pocket as she hurried down the hallway to her room. But no sliver of light gleamed under the door. “Justin,” she called softly, then tried the knob. It wouldn’t turn. Aware that it was late, she hoped he hadn’t gone out looking for her. She could hardly wait to tell him that they had the money to go to the Klondike. She rummaged through her pockets and found the key, then unlocked the door and entered the darkened room.
A faint light came from the window and revealed a long, lumpy object lying on the bed. Without pausing to light the lamp, she walked to the bed. “Justin, you scamp, you could have waited up for me.” But when she tried to shake him awake, she encountered only cloth—mounds of cloth and no body.
She turned from the bed, wondering where he could be at this hour. She tried telling herself that maybe he’d found work at one of the saloons as she fumbled in the dark for the matches and lit the lamp. Its light revealed that the items haphazardly strewn on the bed belonged to her. She knew full well that they’d all been stacked neatly in the corner when she’d left for work that morning. Someone must have been in their room. She hurried over to the bed to see if anything was missing.
As she started to sort through the articles, she heard the rustle of paper and uncovered a note. The crudely printed scrawl was barely legible. When she saw it was addressed “Dear M.,” she quickly glanced at the signature at the bottom. It was signed “Justin Sinclair.” For an instant she stared at the block letters, then remembered that Justin had once told her he’d never finished his schooling and had instead worked on his father’s fishing trawler. She went back to the beginning of the note and began to read it aloud.
“ ‘Dear M. Sorry there was no time to see you before I left.’ ” Left? She stared at the last word in shock, then hurriedly read on. “ ‘Got a job taking a pack train to Dawson. Took the place of man fired for being drunk. This my chance to get to gold camps. Knew you would understand.’ ”
Although there was more, she stopped reading and sat down on the edge of the bed, the silver coins clinking together in her pocket. Her fingers tightened on the paper. She understood all right. She understood that he’d left her behind.
She started reading again, her voice wavering with the anger she felt at his betrayal. “ ‘Needed a blanket. Took yours.’ ” She searched through her pile of belongings, wildly throwing things aside. The blanket was missing, as well as the sacks of flour, salt, and dried beans she’d taken from her aunt’s home. She was raging inside when she picked up the note again. “ ‘No time to buy supplies. Will pay you. Be back when I strike it rich.’ ” That was all there was except for his name at the bottom of the sheet. She crumpled the paper in her hand, crushing it into a ball.
He said he’d take me. He said he loved me. Then she remembered: “They always leave.” Aunt Eva used to say that. After he takes what he wants from a woman, he abandons her.
In a fit of pique, she hurled the note across the room and stood up. The sudden motion jingled the money in her pocket. Reaching inside, she took out the coins and stared at them, remembering what she’d done to earn them. At the time it hadn’t seemed so terrible. It hadn’t been as wonderful as when Justin had made love to her, but she hadn’t expected that it would be. Maybe what she’d done was wrong. Maybe Justin’s desertion of her was a punishment. She felt all twisted up inside, angry and hurt, confused about the right and wrong of things.
She let the coins slide through her fingers onto the bed, then removed the heavy burnous and flung it onto the foot of the bed. She stared at the ten shiny silver dollars lying in a scattered cluster on the blanket.
“If you had waited, Justin, you could have had the money, too.” She would have given it to him. She loved him, and they were supposed to be going to the Klondike together. That’s why she’d done it.
Maybe if she’d given him the money, he’d have left her anyway. Maybe he hadn’t loved her. She wasn’t sure about anything any more—except that ten dollars was more money than she’d ever had at one time in her entire life, more than she could have made working at the restaurant for a week. And she’d earned it in less than two hours, with considerably less physical labor. It wasn’t enough to get her to the Klondike, but she didn’t think she wanted to go there now.
As she lifted her skirt to sit down on the bed, she felt the coarseness of its fabric and realized she did have enough money to buy one entire outfit—corset, camisole, pantalettes, bustle, chemise, petticoats, skirt, shirtwaist—and still have a little left. She could throw these drab, shapeless garments away, these hated clothes that belonged to Marisha Blackwood—the woman she was never going to be again.
Justin was gone, and she vowed she wasn’t going to look back. This was a new life. And she was going to have new clothes and a new name. From now on, she was Glory … Glory … She paused to think of a suitably unique last name. In deference to Justin for his help in setting her on this new road and for unwittingly providing her with the funds, she decided it was only right that she adopt a variation of his name. From this moment forward she would be Glory St. Clair.
CHAPTER XLIII
Lazily Glory pushed herself into a reclining position on the pillows propped against the bed’s headboard, then pulled the blanket up to cover her bare breasts. It was not an attempt at false modesty because of the man busily engaged in pulling his embroidered silk suspender straps onto his shoulders, but rather an attempt to protect herself from the room’s drafty chill. Her long hair lay loose and tousled about her neck and shoulders. Idly she twirled a golden lock of it around her forefinger as she watched him shrug into his coat, then reach for his pearl gray fedora hat.
“I’ll take that five-dollar piece now.” She held out her hand for the gold coin he had shown her earlier and promised to pay her after she had lain with him. His clothes, his jewelry, his manner—everything about him reeked of money. Which was why she hadn’t insulted him by insisting that he pay in advance.
“I enjoyed myself, Glory. I truly did.” He took the coin from his vest pocket and held it up. “But this is all the money I have. I can’t very well give it to you.”
“But you agreed!”
“So I did. Unfortunately I shall have to go back on my word. With that tight little glory hole of yours, you have your own gold mine, Miss St. Clair. You aren’t likely to starve as I surely will.” He tucked the coin back into his pocket and tipped his hat to her. “Good evening.”
As he walked out the door, her initial shock at his audacity turned to outrage. She scrambled out of the bed. “You come back here!” In the two months since she’d quit her job at the restaurant and gone to selling her favors full time, this was not the first man who had refused to pay her.
By the time she reached the door, he was halfway down the hall. She could hardly pursue him into the street, not when all she wore was her bright blue silk hose and the Paris brand hose supporter—articles her now fleeing customer had asked her not to remove. Hurriedly she pulled on her lace-trimmed drawers and corset cover, then slipped her feet into her pointed-toed shoes, and grabbed her old fur-lined burnous off the wall hook. With the latter to cloak the state of her near undress, Glory ran down the hallway and out of the rooming house.
A layer of newly fallen snow blanketed the street, and more flakes swirled down to speckle the night air. Her customer was nowhere in sight, but Glory saw the fresh tracks he’d left in the snow and followed them like a bloodhound until they were stamped out by other footprints outside Jeff Smith’s Parlor. She hesitated only an instant, then walked into the gaming establishment.
Normally she didn’t go into the saloons and gambling halls. The girls who worked in them regarded her as a trespasser trying to take their trade away from them. Glory usually sought out her customers in the various restaurants and hotels in Skaguay—or, as the recently established post office spelled it, Skagway.
The parlor’s false front artfully concealed the crudeness of the building behind it. The long, narrow room was
dingy and drab, its bare walls and floors built with roughly finished planks. Cigar smoke obscured her vision as Glory scanned the crowded room. Amidst the drone of low voices was the click and clatter of poker chips, dice, cards, roulette balls, and spinning wheels.
Her attention was caught by a man’s crisp summons: “Get your bets down, folks. Pick your lucky number and place your money on it.”
The call came from a red-haired man standing in front of a tall wheel of fortune. At almost the same moment that Glory located the source of it, she noticed the man in the gray fedora hat at the table. Although his back was to her, she recognized the hat and doubted there were two like it in Skagway. She pushed through the crowd to the man’s side and grabbed his arm.
“I want my money.”
After his initial start, he recovered his poise and gazed at her disdainfully. “What nonsense is this? I’ve never seen you before. Kindly remove your hand from my person.”
“That’s not what you said twenty minutes ago in my room. In fact, there were plenty of places you wanted me to put my hands,” she reminded him—to the amusement of the onlookers.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But a telltale flush reddened his neck.
The red-haired operator gave the wheel a spin. It clattered noisily as he made his time-worn pitch. “Round and round she goes. Where she stops, nobody knows.”
“You owe me five dollars and I want it now,” Glory demanded. “No man’s going to cheat me out of my money and get by with it.”
“Nonsense.” He tried to laugh away her claim and appealed to the onlookers for support. “Do I look like the sort of man who would cheat someone out of their money?”
Suddenly Deacon Cole appeared by her side. “I don’t know, mister. Are you?”
“Of course not.”
“The lady says you owe her money.”
“I don’t care what she says.”
For the second time the little derringer materialized in Deacon Cole’s hand. He thrust the muzzle under the point of the man’s chin and kept it there. “Are you calling the lady a liar?” His voice remained as calm and even as his expression.
The gambling hall became unnaturally silent. There was no more talking, no rattle of dice, no rustle of cards or clicking of chips. The only noise was the clatter of the fortune wheel spinning.
“No.” Panic was in the man’s eyes. “I … I don’t have any money to pay her. Honest.”
“He had a five-dollar gold piece in his vest pocket,” Glory stated. “He showed it to me.”
As Deacon Cole started to feel the vest pocket, the man quickly confessed, “I don’t have it. It’s on the table. I bet it on the wheel.”
The gold coin sat on one of the numbered squares. Glory easily located it among the other chips scattered over the board.
“Pinky,” Deacon Cole addressed the wheel’s operator. “Did this gentleman put that half eagle down?”
“Yes, he did.” There was more time between clicks as the fortune wheel continued to slow. Glory started to reach for the money that rightfully belonged to her. “Sorry.” The red-haired man stopped her. “The bet is down. The wheel is turning.”
“That bet belongs to the lady now, Pinky. Any winnings go to her. Isn’t that right, mister?” He nudged the man’s chin with the muzzle of his derringer, tilting it a little higher.
“Yes, yes. It’s hers.” Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead as he attempted to nod vigorously.
“Got that, Pinky.”
“You bet.” For a moment, Glory thought the wheel was going to stop, but it continued to turn slowly, numbers ticking by the arrow one by one. Then it stopped.
“Luck smiles on the lady. The winner at five to one.”
The crowd that had been so silent shouted their approval. Glory couldn’t believe it. Instead of five dollars, she had twenty-five. The winnings were pushed to her and she gathered up the chips in her hand, cradling them against her old coat. It was almost more than she could hold.
“I’m broke,” the man complained now that the derringer was tucked away in its hiding place.
“Maybe this will teach you a lesson. We don’t like cheats in this town,” Deacon told him, then turned and took Glory by the arm and guided her away from the table. “Let’s cash your chips in.”
“But … I thought I might play again.” She craned her neck to look back at the wheel of fortune.
“Don’t—unless you want to lose your hard-earned money.”
“Why?”
There was hardly any movement of his lips as he answered her in an undertone. “Because that’s the crookedest wheel in town.”
“But I just won.”
“Exactly. Pinky owed me a favor.”
Glory didn’t know how his friend Pinky had done it, but she believed Deacon Cole. She no longer resisted, even slightly, the guiding pressure of his hand.
“Where’s your uncle?” he asked.
“My uncle?”
“Yes, your boyfriend, partner, or whatever you want to call the man who looks out for you, makes sure you don’t get roughed up or cheated. The man you split the money with.”
“The money’s mine. All of it. No one looks after me. I look after myself.” She clutched her winnings a little closer to her body. When he halted, she stopped also, feeling defensive without understanding why.
“You haven’t been at this long, have you?”
“No.” She lifted her chin.
“I have a feeling there’s a lot you don’t know about the business.”
“Maybe, but I learn fast.”
“There are always a few things a person has to learn the hard way, but that doesn’t mean someone can’t pick up a few pointers from those who are … more experienced, shall we say?”
“Such as?”
He smiled, and it was the first break in his impassive expression. “Come to the Golden North Hotel tomorrow, about noon, and I’ll introduce you to her. She might even give you a job.”
“I don’t need one.”
“If you’re in it for the money, there’s more to be made in the saloons than there is on the street. I’ll be there at noon. Meet me there if you want.”
“I’ll see.” She glanced down at the pile of chips in her hands. “I guess I owe you for helping me get this money. I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“That’s easy.” His smile widened, reaching his eyes. “My pockets are empty. I need a ten-dollar stake to get back in that poker game over there.” He indicated the table along the wall where cards were being dealt to the four men seated around it.
“Are you sure it’s an honest game?”
“My dear Miss St. Clair, an honest poker game in this town is as rare as a virgin.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. If it hadn’t been for Deacon Cole and the favor owed to him by his friend Pinky, she wouldn’t have had this money. She gave him a handful of chips and added one more to make it ten. “Good luck.”
“Indeed.” Once he had the chips in hand he seemed to forget her. Before he had taken the first step away, his attention was already centered on the poker table.
The horse and wagon traffic had turned the snow-covered street into a mire of slush and mud. Glory lifted her garnet-colored skirt until the hem cleared the tops of her buttoned shoes, then picked her way carefully across the street.
On the other side, the boardwalk in front of the Golden North Hotel had been swept clear of snow. Glory mounted the planked walk, wet with the muddy tracks of many footprints, and let her skirt fall naturally to the break of her kid-leather shoes. She paused short of the hotel’s entrance and ran a smoothing hand over the snug-fitting waist of her jacket-coat, elaborately trimmed with gold braid at the waist, yoke, and forearms of its leg-of-mutton sleeves, then edged with plush seal fur. A long-feathered bird adorned the brimless seal hat she wore. She slipped her hands into the seal muff that dangled from the loop around her wrist and walked to the hotel door to keep her noon ap
pointment with Deacon Cole.
On entering, she spied the tall, black-coated gambler perusing some notices tacked to a wall in the nearly deserted lobby. As she walked over to him, the frou-frou of her taffeta petticoats attracted his notice and he turned.
“I wondered if you would come.” He cast an appraising glance over her, but his expression registered neither approval nor disapproval.
“I decided there’s no harm in listening. Besides, I had nothing better to do,” she replied, feigning indifference. “How was your poker game last night?”
“I did well.”
“What does that mean?”
“A smart gambler never brags about the size of his winnings.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold eagle. “But I did well enough that I can return the money you staked me.”
Glory shook her head in refusal. “I owed you that.”
“Take it anyway.” He took her right hand out of the muff and pressed the ten-dollar gold piece into its palm. “I may be in straitened circumstances again someday and I’ll know who to see.”
“In that case, I’ll hold on to it for you.” She smiled, and he responded with a faint curve of his thin lips.
The tall clock in the lobby chimed the quarter hour. “I’m sure Miss Rosie is becoming impatient. I’ll take you to meet her.”
“Where is she?”
“At the moment, she’s waiting in my room.”
Miss Rosie, as Deacon had called her, was a formidable-looking woman, tall and buxom in a stiffly starched white shirtwaist with a navy bow tied around the high collar, and fitted cuffs capping the full sleeves. Her hair was a brassy shade of yellow, piled atop her head in a small crown of curls and waved tightly at the sides with tiny little ringlets for bangs. Her powdered face looked stern, and her blue eyes cold and unforgiving. In a strange way, this madam reminded Glory of her prudish old maid aunt.
As soon as Deacon completed the introduction, Miss Rosie dismissed him. “I should like to speak privately with … Miss St. Clair.” She spoke her name with a trace of scorn. The instant the door clicked shut behind him, the woman asked, “How do you get your hair that color?” She walked over to take a closer look. For a moment, Glory thought she was going to check her roots.
