by Lisa Plumley
Drawing a deep breath, Amelia scanned the street, then picked up both her satchels and trudged on. Eventually she’d be able to feel happy again. Truly, it couldn’t be possible to die of a broken heart like the poets said—no matter how hers hurt now.
Perhaps Juana was right. Perhaps she should try to find Mason, try to find out why he hadn’t returned for her and set it right again. But if he could elude a posse and the Tucson lawmen alike, surely he could remain hidden from her, too. Tucson was a big place, the largest city in the Territory. She’d hadn’t the slightest notion how to find him.
Or what she would say to him if she did.
I love you?
That hadn’t mattered enough to make him return for her. Humming a little louder, Amelia tried to push the thought away as she continued down the edge of the street. In front of her, a gentleman helped his wife, large with child, down from their carriage. Amelia paused in the cooling shade of a meat market’s ramada to let them pass, watched the man open the shop door and smile down at his wife before escorting her inside, and her heart sank a little lower at the sight.
It had been one thing to expect never to marry, to believe her father and brothers when they told her that her only future was to care for them and the home she’d grown up in. It was something else altogether to taste the future she might have shared with Mason, only to have it snatched away again.
Frowning, Amelia quickened her step, crossing Mesilla Street in a few short strides. If she gave in to many more thoughts like these, she’d be tempted to retreat to the safety and solitude of her room at the Palace Hotel, where she could just lie down and bawl her eyes out with no one seeing. Her next customer was only a little ways ahead—better to focus on that, else she’d never find the strength to go on.
She reached the street corner and glanced around. The business she was looking for ought to be right here. Setting down her satchels again, Amelia opened her book order log and double-checked the address. She looked up at the small, hand-lettered sign on the cramped-looking adobe building closest to her, and sighed.
A saloon. Her next customer operated a saloon.
Well, that needn’t stop her, Amelia resolved. It wasn’t as though the place was teeming with ruffians about to rush outside and accost her. The establishment appeared a bit run-down, but that in itself wasn’t a crime.
Straightening her spine as courageously as she could, Amelia raised her chin and attempted a worldly air. She stepped closer just as the nearby church bells of San Agustín tolled, loud as a sign from the Almighty Himself. Startled, Amelia skittered backward. Heavens above! She couldn’t enter a saloon alone, book order or no. Who’d have thought the owner of such an establishment would be interested in literature, anyway?
Cautiously, she shaded her eyes with her hands and peered into the saloon’s gloomy interior. George Hand, whomever he was, obviously preferred his establishment’s customers to do their imbibing in the dark. She couldn’t see a blessed thing.
“Errr—hello?” she squeaked, wavering on tiptoes as she tried to catch a glimpse of the book customer she’d come in search of. “Excuse me, but—”
The saloon doors swung, then stilled, propped in place by the man peering over them. His chest-length dark beard, prominent cheekbones, and shadowed eyes put Amelia in mind of Abraham Lincoln—except this man was at least a foot shorter.
“Ma’am?” he asked politely. “George Hand, here. What can I do for you?”
His voice sounded gravelly, but kind. Shuffling her satchels and book order log, Amelia noticed a few passers-by staring curiously in her direction and felt a blush heat her cheeks. “Oh, I, ah…”
“Ma’am—” he lowered his voice conspiratorially “—you ain’t lost track of your husband, have you? I don’t—”
“Oh, no!” Her blush deepened, feeling as though it fairly blazed toward her throat and chest. Amelia put her hand to her throat, welcoming its coolness. “It’s not that at all.”
“If it is, you can step inside and ask in private,” he went on, his eyes like those of an old basset hound beneath his busy dark brows. “Don’t no lady have a thing to fear from George Hand.”
He thumped his hand on his chest, letting the saloon doors swing open, then held one open for her.
Amelia glanced backward. “No, thank you. Honestly, I haven’t lost my husband.”
He pursed his lips, looking skeptical.
“I mean I’m not married.”
His eyebrows raised.
“I’m a book agent,” she almost shouted, scrabbling for her order book. Tucking it beneath her elbow, Amelia put her hand forward and assumed her best book-agent demeanor. “I’m Miss Amelia O’Malley, representing the J.G. O’Malley and Sons book company, at your service, Mr. Hand. I believe you ordered a volume of poetry from one of our agents some months ago?”
This time it was Mr. Hand’s turn to blush.
“Uh, why don’t you come inside, ma’am?” he said, stammering a bit as he shook her hand. “There’s folks ‘round here might find the notion of George Hand reading poems and such mighty amusing. I’d rather not hand out more ammunition for the fire than I got to, if you follow my meaning, ma’am.”
Amelia glanced around. “I’m not sure I ought to,” she began, noticing yet another pair of ladies pointing in her direction. At this rate, she’d ruin the good name of J.G. O’Malley and Sons. “I’ve never entered a…an establishment such as yours, and I—”
He saw who she was looking at, and nodded toward the two ladies. “Them old biddies wouldn’t even see you in here. ‘Sides, I’m about to close up anyway, head out to the big fiesta down at Levin’s Park this afternoon.”
Wavering, Amelia peered over his shoulders toward the saloon’s interior. She couldn’t see any customers, but that didn’t mean the saloon was empty. There might be a man drinking at the bar right now, and she’d never know it from where she stood.
He raised his hand, palm facing. “Word of honor, ma’am. No harm’ll come to ya’ in George Hand’s place.”
Just this one delivery, Amelia promised herself. Then I’ll go back to my room and rest for a while. She imagined the high double bed back at the Palace, a nice wash at the fancy porcelain basin and a good long restorative nap, and made up her mind.
“Very well, Mr. Hand,” she said, stepping between the swinging doors into the saloon’s cool interior. Everything looked black, dimmed as her eyes adjusted to the lack of sunlight. It smelled of sour whiskey and, oddly enough, stale lavender perfume.
Amelia turned to her host. “I’m sure you must be eager to have your volume of poetry,” she said, “and I—”
“Let’s just keep this poetry business ‘tween ourselves, ma’am,” he interrupted as he hurried in behind her, his forehead wrinkled into a sheepish look. “Or I won’t never hear the end of it from my friends.”
He darted a glance toward a door set into the saloon’s rear wall, then lowered his voice. “I got one boardin’ with me right now, won’t never let me live down being a po-e-try reader.”
Smiling, Amelia set her satchels atop a scarred round tabletop and opened one to withdraw his book. “That’s perfectly fine with me,” she told him, squinting to see within her satchel. “Although if your friend likes books, perhaps he’d like to see my book catalogue. J.G. O’Malley and Sons has an excellent variety of reading material for all tastes and—”
“Oh, no, ma’am!” Mr. Hand interrupted, looking plainly horrified. “He, ahhh—he don’t see many folks these days.”
He snapped his mouth closed, his gaze wandering toward the back door again. Amelia could see well enough now to realize there were no other customers in the saloon, and the tightness in her shoulders eased a bit.
“I see,” she said, pulling out the slim volume of romantic poems Mr. Hand had ordered. “That’s too bad.”
“Ain’t that right,” he muttered, shaking his head. “And that ain’t even the half of it, ma’am,” he added, his face brightening as he acce
pted the book. “My friend, he’s had a bad turn of luck lately. Wife passed on not too long ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Amelia said, watching as Mr. Hand licked his fingertips and began turning pages in the book. If his expression of delight was anything to go by, the rest of her afternoon could be quite profitable, indeed.
“Would you like to view our latest catalogue?” she offered, drawing it from her satchel and extending it toward him. At least talking with Mr. Hand would keep her mind from her other troubles. If only for a little while, it was a respite she needed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Damn, it was hot.
Sunlight pushed at his eyelids, making Mason’s head throb painfully. Even his scalp felt hot, like a poker growing ever-hotter in the fire—especially in the places where Curly Top had cut his hair short.
Scowling himself awake at the thought of her, he cracked open his eyes. Whitewashed adobe and tilting blue sky filled his vision, then the stench of fresh manure hit him. Swearing, Mason shut his eyes again. The glimpse he’d had—and smelled—was enough to remind him of every sorry detail of last night.
The alley beside Hand’s saloon was a hell of a place to sleep.
Gradually he became aware of the prickly adobe wall at his back biting through his shirt, the sounds of horses plodding and wagons clanking on the streets nearby, and the bells of San Agustín tolling what sounded like a funeral dirge. It clanged through his head, setting his teeth on edge.
Grimacing, Mason opened his eyes and pushed his hands into the rocky soil to lever himself further upright. In his lap, the whiskey bottle tilted and then rolled sideways, the last reminder he needed of the night he’d just spent. He grabbed it, scowling at the liquor sloshing inside, and something inside him got even madder than before.
He’d come out here last night meaning to forget everything. Meaning to drain that whiskey until oblivion took him. He’d held the full bottle in his hands and stared it down, daring himself to take the first drink.
Now Mason turned it, raised it to the light and gazed through it into a world turned amber. Whiskey brought no peace. No peace that lasted anyway. And still he kept it always nearby.
He’d kept a flask in his coat pocket until Maricopa Wells and a bottle in the wagon since then, and spent a night watching James and Manuel drink while he sat by thirsting. Not a drop had passed his lips since they’d taken Ben away. Still Mason kept the whiskey nearby, ready to take the ease it promised and the forgetfulness he tortured himself with.
Not anymore.
Still holding the bottle, he hauled himself to his feet, blinking at the blinding sunlight overhead. What the hell time was it, anyway? He needed to get busy looking for Ben. Looking for the Sharpe brothers. Looking for vengeance.
He’d been too long grieving over losing Amy. It had been his own damned choice to leave her behind, the only choice he’d had. No use crying over it now, Mason told himself, propping the whiskey bottle atop an old beer barrel from Levin’s. A woman like Amelia O’Malley didn’t belong in the west, especially not in Mexico. She didn’t belong with him. As many times as he’d told her they’d go their separate ways once they reached Tucson, she’d never said a contrary word.
A man could only conclude Curly Top had wanted clear of him, wanted to get on with her own life.
Stepping back a few paces, Mason drew his Colt and leveled it. He’d only hastened the inevitable with leaving her behind in Picacho Peak. Never mind the pain of losing her, he told himself, squinting toward the whiskey bottle. Never mind loving her.
It was over. He had to move on.
He cocked the hammer. Sunlight glinted off the whiskey bottle, hurting his eyes. Squinting, he sighted it again.
“I win,” Mason said, and pulled the trigger.
The red brick, square-faced Palace Hotel was the most welcome sight Amelia had seen all day. Shadows had already begun lengthening across the street when she headed toward it, looking forward to the clean lobby and the temporary haven of her room after a day spent slogging through the muck-filled Tucson streets and talking with one customer after another.
Now the streets were nearly deserted, except for the occasional horse tethered in front of a shop or saloon. The vendors had retreated—for siestas, Mr. Hand had informed her—and the ladies had apparently finished their calls and gone home. Stepping beneath the Palace Hotel’s porch, Amelia carried her much-lighter J.G. O’Malley and Sons satchels easily, now that nearly all of her books had been delivered.
She entered the lobby, breathing deeply of the roast-beef scented air wafting from the hotel’s kitchens. The success of her book agent ventures today was almost more than she’d dared hope for. Capped off with Mr. Hand’s generous order, Amelia’s log book fairly bulged at the seams with order-filled pages.
“Miss O’Malley!” called a masculine voice from someplace beside her.
She glanced up to see the hotel’s fat-jowled, bewhiskered proprietor at the lobby desk, waving an envelope in her direction.
“Oh, Miss O’Malley!” he cried again, leaning across his gleaming polished-wood counter without a care for its condition. “A wire’s come for you, delivered only a few minutes ago.”
A wire? It could only be from Jacob, Amelia thought, her stomach sinking with dread. No one else knew she’d come west. No one else knew she’d booked a room at the Palace over a week ago, before setting out on her illfated stagecoach journey from the railroad’s terminus at Gila Bend to deliver her book orders to Tucson. No one except Jacob, who’d instructed her in all those things before his planned elopement with Melissa.
The news couldn’t be good. Amelia dragged her feet across the carpet. Fingers trembling, she accepted the telegram from the proprietor.
Thanking him in a voice turned whispery with apprehension, she glanced down at the envelope. The wire was addressed to her, all right. There’d be no escape via that route. Crunching it in her fist, Amelia turned down the hall leading to her room, her heart thumping. Either her scheme to act as a book agent had been discovered, or something even more awful had happened.
Either way, Amelia didn’t want to open it and find out.
By the time she got inside it, her room seemed less a sanctuary than she’d hoped. She sank onto the ivory coverlet-covered bed, staring sightlessly at the telegram. What reason could Jacob have had to contact her—and why now, when she was due to return to Big Pike Lake in little more than a week?
Her stomach flip-flopped as she ripped open the telegram and slowly unfolded it. Addressed to her from her father—her father?—the message was only a few lines long. Barely able to breathe, Amelia scanned the text.
‘Have learned all from Jacob,’ it read. ‘More gumption than I expected from you.’
Sighing, Amelia let the telegram, still in hand, drift to her lap. A small part of her felt pleased at her father’s acknowledgement—however backhanded and grudgingly given. The rest of her ached at the knowledge of how little he must have thought her capable of, to have said such a thing.
More gumption than I expected from you.
As an admission of admiration for his daughter’s qualities, it lacked much. But as an expression of her father’s disappointment, it was wholly typical—and far more familiar than she wished. Fingers trembling, Amelia raised the telegram again.
‘Come home immediately,’ she read further, feeling her heart sink as she imagined her red-faced, infuriated father bellowing those words to the poor telegraph clerk. ‘I shall have your commissions waiting. Regards, your father, J.G. O’Malley.’
Her commissions? Amelia sat up straighter, quickly rereading the message. Yes, that’s what it said—her commissions. Stunned into stillness for an instant, she could only stare at the telegram. A forgery? she wondered suddenly, flipping it over to examine it. As quickly as she had, Amelia turned it right-side up again. No, not that—the message bore the unmistakable imprint of her father’s impatient nature. The message had to be genuine.
&nb
sp; I shall have your commissions waiting. Why, that meant he’d…that meant he was offering her the commissions from Jacob’s sales!
Clutching the telegram, Amelia leapt from the bed feeling as though she might soar through her open hotel room window at the news. She jigged over to the glass-topped bureau, grinning at her own exuberance, and propped the telegram behind a perfume bottle. Then she skipped back a few paces to admire it.
She’d done it! There, in print, was the proof she’d longed for, the proof that meant her father would allow her to join J.G. O’Malley and Sons officially. The proof that meant he believed she could do the job as well as her brothers did—maybe better! After all, she was the one with gumption.
Amelia hugged herself, leaning closer to reread the telegram. Things would be different when she returned home. J.G. O’Malley and Sons employed book agents all over the United States and its territories. She’d have accounts of her own, an income of her own—maybe her father would even turn over Jacob’s book accounts in the Arizona Territory to her.
The customers she’d dealt with already had treated her with nothing but kindness and respect. The Territory itself was beautiful and wild, so unlike everything back home. Amelia could easily imagine herself setting up housekeeping in Tucson or nearby, maybe opening a small bookshop of her own. Skipping back toward the bureau, she rummaged inside for clean clothes, tossing undergarments onto the bed behind her as she located them.
She thought of the shops she’d seen since arriving in Tucson, and decided a book and news depot might do quite nicely. Her father would likely finance the venture, too. She’d persuaded him to appoint her an official book agent, after all. It seemed quite likely, now, that she could persuade him to help her with other things, too. Smiling, Amelia took her nicest pale blue baize gown from its peg in the wardrobe and shook it out. Such grand plans called for a celebration.
Luckily for her, such a celebration was about to begin. With her books almost entirely delivered, and her agent’s position and her father’s respect assured, Amelia was in exactly the mood to join in it.
