"Did a beautiful woman with dark red hair come looking for a room here?"
The clerk shook his head decisively. "I ain't seen nobody like that. I woulda remembered."
The manager appeared in time to hear Jeff's question. "She came in here yesterday," he said. "But I didn't have a room to give her."
Jeff had to stifle an impulse to strangle the man. "Where did you tell her to go?"
"Everything's filled up."
"What did you tell her?" Jeff demanded, deciding the man deserved to be choked.
"To go back to Denver where she would be safe."
"Advice I'm certain she ignored."
"I can't say. She went out and never came back."
"Where should I begin looking?"
"You can go street by street asking at every house. You never know. Somebody may have taken pity on her. She sure was a good-looking woman."
Jeff didn't want to think of the kind of people whose pity might be aroused. If he found anyone had harmed Violet, he would tear them limb from limb, even if he had to get somebody to help him do it.
So Jeff began the tedious and disheartening business of going from house to house, street by street. He found word of her many times, but she had always been turned away.
"It broke my heart to turn her out," one woman said, "but I couldn't take her in, not with the rough lot I've got in here. I wouldn't even trust my own husband around the likes of her."
Jeff found men sleeping in places a dog wouldn't use. People came to Leadville to get rich quick. They figured they could put up with any kind of conditions for as long as the silver held out.
It was after dusk when Jeff walked into the Grand Hotel on Chestnut street to find Violet sitting in the lobby, her satchel between her feet, a wary eye on the male occupants of the lobby. His feeling of relief was so great he felt too weak to speak. For a moment all he could do was look at her.
Her emerald green dress was badly crushed, its hem heavy with mud. Her hair had come down and been repinned. Her expression was grim, her cheeks white. Her mouth was set firmly; her eyes dared anyone to come near her.
She was the most beautiful sight he'd never seen.
He knew absolutely and without question he wanted to marry her, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life trying to make up for the terrible things he said at the ball, that she was not a vile Yankee, that somehow she had escaped the curse that blighted everyone else born and reared above the Mason-Dixon line.
Most important of all, he was going to protect her. Never again would she have no place to go. Never again would she be at the mercy of women like Clara Rabin or Eleanor Settle. She was going to be Mrs. Thomas Jefferson Randolph, and any protection his money couldn't give her, his fist would.
"Violet," he said softly. Her name was lost in the hubbub of voices and the sound of heavy boots on the hotel's wood floors. "Violet," he called a little louder.
She looked up, startled. He saw her eyes light up, her expression lift. For a fraction of a second she seemed happy to see him. Then everything changed. She looked at him like Miss Settle must have looked at Violet when she was about to fire her. "What are you doing here?"
Why had he come -- to take her home, ask her forgiveness, take care of her, ask her to marry him? All of that and much more. But where did he begin? There was so much he wanted to say, needed to explain. So much more he had to know.
"I followed you. Surely you knew I would."
"After what you said, I thought you'd want to keep as far away from me as possibly."
"I want to apologize for that. I let Philip Rabin get me worked up. Then when I saw you with Harvey, leaning on his arm, looking up at him like you thought he was the only man in the world, everything went out of control. I was dying inside. At the same time I was so angry I couldn't think straight."
"You've always been good at getting angry," Violet said, her expression unrelenting. "You're not so good with your other emotions."
"I know, and I'm sorry. You were right when you said I used my anger to get my way, to control people, to keep them from getting close. You were right about so many things."
"I'm glad I did something right. Now you'd best go about your business. You're attracting attention. I've done enough of that already." She indicated several men who were quite openly eavesdropping on their conversation.
"Don't worry about that. You're coming with me."
Violet blistered him with a bleak stare. "Why would I do something as stupid as go with a man who can't stand me or anybody else born within five hundred miles of my birthplace?"
"Because I love you," Jeff said, in a low voice. "I want to marry you."
Jeff couldn't figure out what was going in Violet's mind. Once more he thought he saw a flash of something warm, but it was gone almost immediately. Nothing remained but the cold, hard expression.
"I don't believe you know what love is. I'm not even sure I think you can learn, but I am certain you don't love me. As far as I can tell, you don't love anybody or anything -- except possibly Virginia and your obsession with the true Southern woman."
"I'm finally able to admit I love a lot of people. I was just afraid they wouldn't love me back."
She looked unbelieving, like a housemother listening to a child trying to lie her way out of punishment.
"And what brought about this revelation?"
She was terribly angry, angry enough to forget the tightening circle of listeners, angry enough to forget to keep her voice low. Jeff had never seen her so unforgiving.
"You."
"Me!" Violet's laugh was harsh and cynical. "Do you expect me to believe a Yankee female, the lowest and most despised creature in God's creation, has caused the great Jeff Randolph to have a change of heart? Once I thought Essie had found the way to something worthwhile inside of you. I don't know what she found, but she must have used it all up. There's nothing there anymore. Now go away, Jeff. I have things to do."
"You may not believe me when I say I love you, but you'd better believe me when I say you aren't going to get your mine back just sitting here."
"What do you know about my mine?"
"I know two men dispute its ownership. I also know no silver has been taken out of it since your uncle died."
"Doesn't that sound odd to you?"
"Very. But you can't do anything about it by talking. Where are you staying?"
"Here."
"I thought they didn't have any rooms."
"I said here," Violet said, pointing the chair on which she sat.
"You stayed in this lobby all night?"
Violet nodded.
"You can't do that. You can have my room."
"You can't have a room. I must have knocked on every door in town yesterday." Suddenly she let her head roll back, her gaze going to the ceiling. "Of course you have a room. You probably keep one at the best hotel just in case you need it."
"I'm staying in Horace Tabor's private suite at the Opera House," Jeff said. "He let me borrow it. I want you to use it."
"No."
"You can't stay here."
"Why not?"
"It's not safe."
"I was safe last night."
"Look at you. You're exhausted. Your clothes are a wreck, and your hair is coming down."
"This from a man who says he loves me and wants to marry me," Violet said to the circle of curious onlookers who'd gathered close to follow this showdown.
"I love you enough to care about your safety. I may not have acted like it in the past, but I hope you'll give me a chance to prove it now."
"Some other time. I'm too tired now."
"You can have my bed, lady," one man offered. "Won't be nobody in it but me."
"She's going to take my room," Jeff stated.
"No," Violet repeated.
"Take it," the man advised.
"I'll stay here," Violet insisted.
"I won't have my future wife spending the night in a hotel lobby stared at by anybody who
wanders in."
"I'm not going to be your wife."
"Yes, you are," Jeff said, sensing she was weakening. He didn't know why he was sure of it, but he was. "You're going with me right now. You're going to have a bath, something to eat, and a long night's sleep."
"Where are you going to sleep?" the man asked.
"Yeah, where?" another man said.
"In the lobby if I have to," Jeff said.
"You're not used to roughing it," Violet said. "I am. Since I'm here, I might as well stay."
"You're coming with me."
"No, I'm not."
Jeff gave Violet a particularly angry scowl. "Stand up and say that."
Goaded, Violet immediately got to her feet. "I'm not going with you, Jeff Randolph, not now, naaaahhh!" she shrieked. Jeff had bent down, wrapped his arm around the back of her legs tipping her forward. He stood up with Violet neatly thrown over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Violet was too stunned at first to react.
"I'd appreciate it if you'd bring her luggage," Jeff said to the man who'd offered the room. "Having only one arm, she's about all I can handle."
The onlookers had tensed when Jeff swooped down on Violet, but the man winked. "Don't mind if I do. It's always a pleasure to see a man who knows how to handle a spirited woman."
"You let me down this minute, Jeff Randolph," Violet demanded, trying unsuccessfully to twist out of his grip. She pounded him on the back, kicked her heels furiously. It did no good. Jeff had a secure hold on her, and he was much too strong for her struggles to break his hold.
"You can keep on squealing if you want," Jeff said, "but we'll attract less attention in the street if you're quiet."
"If you dare carry me through the streets over your shoulder, I'll never speak to you again."
"That'll leave more time for kissing," Jeff whispered. "You do remember how much I like kissing you."
"You barbarian!" Violet hissed as Jeff carried her across the lobby and out onto the boardwalk.
"You always said I was used to getting what I wanted," Jeff said. "Well, I've never wanted anything as much as I want you. You can imagine how far I'm willing to go."
"And you can be sure I'll go just as far to see I'm not what you get."
Jeff carried Violet down Chestnut Street then turned north on Harrison. The Tabor Opera House was on the corner of Harrison and St. Louis, two and a half blocks away. He passed thirteen saloons, seven tobacco shops, six clothing stores, seven jewelers and pawnbrokers. He also passed signs advertizing billiard halls, banks, barbers, doctors, dentists, rooms to let, and the undertaker.
Jeff saw his image reflected in several windows as he passed by, but he found it impossible to believe he was actually walking down the streets of Leadville with the woman he planned to marry over his shoulder. He felt like some primitive caveman or Viking. His family would be stunned. Nobody in Denver would believe it.
He'd never done anything so insane in his life. And he'd never felt better. It made George's spur-of-the-moment decision to marry Rose look like a well-thought out plan. He knew Violet was going to try to kill him the minute she got her feet on the ground, but he didn't care. Never in his life had he felt more like a man. His father might not have been proud of him -- he certainly wouldn't equate this with glorious service in the cause of the South -- but for once in his life Jeff didn't feel inferior to anyone.
Along the boardwalk, on the street, and from windows and doorways, men stopped to watch as Jeff passed. Some grinned. Some whistled or cheered. Everyone seemed to ready to applaud him. He'd never done anything popular in his entire life. He wasn't used to approval. He was actually relieved when the reached the Opera House and entered the lobby. Behind the ticket window, the clerk's mouth fell open.
"Get the key and open the apartments," Jeff ordered. The man obeyed wordlessly.
"Who you got there?" one stranger asked.
"My wife, as soon as I can get her in front of a preacher," Jeff answered.
"I wouldn't wait if I was you," the man said.
"She's worth it," Jeff replied following the clerk up the steps. A couple of men hanging around the ticket window tried to tag along, but the man with the luggage blocked their way.
"Let'm be," he said. "You'll get a chance to gawk later."
The clerk scurried up the long staircase, casting glances over his shoulder as though to assure himself he wasn't hallucinating. Violet remained quiet, her body rigid. The young man unlocked the door then stepped back.
"You can set the bags in the bedroom," Jeff told his companion. "Thanks. I couldn't have done it without you."
"You'd have found a way," the man assured him with a wide, conspiratorial grin. "You randy young fellas always find a way. Come along," he said to the clerk, who stood with his mouth open. "You got tickets to sell. I got a woman to see."
Once the door was closed, Jeff allowed Violet to slide from his shoulder to the floor in the middle of an elegant sitting room decorated in green velvet. Even before her feet hit the thick, imported carpet, he had his arm around her and was kissing her. Then he let her go and jumped back before she could hit him with the arm she had drawn back.
"I'll send somebody up with hot water. When you get changed, we can have dinner."
He vaulted over a sofa to get beyond the range of her nails.
"Afterward we can talk about your mine. But first we have to talk about wedding plans."
Violet climbed across the sofa after him. Jeff scooted around the end of the sofa and darted toward the door. "I'd like to get married before Rose goes back to Texas. She loves weddings."
Jeff bolted through the door and pulled it closed behind him. Violet pounded on the door, kicked it when didn't open it, called him names he hadn't heard since his army days, and promised to do things that would seriously threaten his general health.
Jeff just laughed. He laughed so hard he thought he might never stop. He didn't care. It felt good. He felt happier than he could remember ever feeling. Violet was going to kill him when he opened that door. She was going to swear at him and refuse to do anything he asked. He didn't care. He loved her and she loved him. He was going to marry her. The rest of it didn't matter.
Chapter Twenty-five
Violet raged in impotent fury. Delivering a last exasperated kick at the wood panels, she attacked her luggage. She succeeded only in hurting her toes. That made her madder. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, her hair coming down, her face flushed, the lace of her collar twisted and torn, and she got madder still. She would never recover from the humiliation of being carried through the streets over Jeff's shoulder like an erring wife. She'd never be able to face anybody in this town again. She'd have to steal away on a dark, moonless night. She would never get her mine, and it was all Jeff Randolph's fault.
He had acted like a marauding barbarian, raiding a village for women, carrying off his spoils like a badge of accomplishment. He wouldn't have treated his southern belle like that. What made him think she'd like it, even if she was a Yankee?
She ground her teeth in frustration.
But then her life had fallen apart from the moment she met him. No, from the day she left Massachusetts. No, from the day that awful war started. It didn't matter when it started, Jeff had destroyed anything left. She had fled Denver to get away from him, but he'd followed her to perpetrate this final indignity.
And he said he loved her and wanted to marry her! It would snow at high noon on Cape Cod in mid-August before she married Jeff Randolph.
But it was very hard to stay in a flaming rage when the object of her fury had already made his escape. It was even more difficult when he'd just solved her most pressing problem and set her down in a private suite in a town where even the dogs had to fight for a place to sleep. It was impossible when she loved the jerk, even though she would have traded her silver mine for the chance to choke the life out of him.
Abandoning any hope of making Jeff suffer the agonies he deserved, Violet looked arou
nd her. She was in an elegant sitting room. The tall windows were hung with green silk drapes. Chairs and sofas were covered in green velvet. A thick carpet covered the floor. Tiffany gas lamps flooded the room with soft light. Through one door she discovered a small dining room, through the other a large bedroom. There was a spacious bathroom attached to that.
This was no ordinary hotel room. How, in a town without a single room for rent, had Jeff managed to come up with a private suite?
The same way he'd managed to find all those potatoes when no one else could. He was a genius. His only blind spot was people, women, and southern belles in particular. She wondered how she had managed to crack the ring of fire, if she really had, if he really did love her.
Her heart started to beat faster. It had finally sunk in. Jeff said he loved her. He wanted to marry her.
Violet stared at herself in the mirror. She looked a wreck. She'd have to do something before he came back. She returned to the sitting room to get her suitcase when a knock came at the door.
She immediately forgot her softened mood. She remembered only the humiliation of that walk through town. She jerked the door open. "How dare you come back. I'll--"
Two nervous young men stood before her holding buckets of hot water. "Mr. Randolph said we was to bring you these."
Violet wanted a bath more than anything. She could practically feel the grit on her skull. After spending the night sitting up in the hotel lobby wide awake, stiff with fear, she was exhausted. She could already feel the soothing sensation of the hot, scented water as it soaked away the grim, loosed the tension in her body.
But Jeff had sent the bath. She wouldn't have nothing to do with it.
"Take it back."
"Mr. Randolph said you was to have a bath," one of the men said, apologetically. "He said if you was to refuse, I was to go downstairs and get him."
Violet had a severe struggle with herself. After what had already happened, she had no doubt Jeff would force her to endure further humiliation if she refused. She had every intention of making him pay dearly for her disgrace, but she had no desire to be embarrassed further. Besides, she desperately wanted a bath.
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