by Judy Duarte
It was definitely time to finish his story and get the hell out of Dodge.
The Thunder Canyon Museum was located on two acres of land on Elm Street, in a barn-red clapboard structure that had been a schoolhouse in the late eighteen hundreds. Originally, it had been built in the classic, one-room style, with a foyer/mudroom and big closet in front, the schoolroom in the center and a kitchen/workroom in back.
But over the years, outbuildings had been added until the community outgrew the facility. And when the new schools were built on the other side of town, the historical society had taken over the original structure and created a museum.
From what Juliet understood, townspeople had donated money and different artifacts over the years, which allowed the museum to include various exhibits that showed how the early settlers lived. And the biggest contributor had been Caleb Douglas.
There was also a roped-off area that displayed clothing, accessories and toiletries that once belonged to Lily Divine, the Shady Lady.
Juliet had always found that particular display to be the most interesting. Or maybe it was the woman’s occupation as a saloon owner and possibly a madam that set her curiosity soaring. She wished she could have met Lily. And that she could have lived in the late nineteenth century.
That period in history had always fascinated her, which was why she’d spent so much time at the old schoolhouse museum.
And on each visit, she’d enjoyed her many chats with the various docents, all volunteers and members of the Thunder Canyon Historical Society. In fact, she’d even thought about joining the interesting group.
As Mark parked the sedan on the side of the building, Juliet spotted the old shed-style barn in back. It didn’t look like much now, but on her last visit one of the docents had mentioned a plan to make it into a blacksmith exhibit. Juliet thought it would make a nice addition.
She got out of the car, and as she opened the passenger door to take Marissa from the car seat, a soprano voice sang out.
“Yoo-hoo! Mark Anderson, is that you?” A heavyset woman in a yellow, floral-printed dress wiggled her fingers in greeting.
Mark made his way toward the smiling matron. “Yeah. It’s me, Mrs. Eagleston.”
“Why look at you. All grown up. Of course, I would have known you anywhere, even if your mother hadn’t told me you’d come into town on that big assignment. She’s so proud of you.”
“You’re looking well, Mrs. Eagleston.”
“Well, thank you, Mark.” She fingered the side of her lacquered hairdo, where mousy-colored strands had been swept into a beehive. “But after all these years, you’ll have to drop the formality and call me Gladys.”
Mark smiled, yet his iceberg stance convinced Juliet that he wasn’t happy about seeing his mother’s friend.
Juliet pulled Marissa from the car seat and adjusted the blanket, blocking the sunshine and the cool breeze from her face.
“I’ll bet your folks were tickled pink to see you,” the older woman said.
Mark didn’t respond.
Because he had yet to visit them, Juliet suspected. And apparently, the Andersons hadn’t told their friend that he hadn’t. Were they all pretending that a falling-out hadn’t occurred? That everything was fine? And that their family interactions were normal?
“I hope that new medication helps your father’s arthritis. It’s a shame that he’s had to quit bowling. He and your mother used to enjoy the Wednesday evening Gutter Busters. And I gotta tell you, we all miss them. Jess and Anne-Marie were a hoot to bowl with. Of course, they still come watch. But it’s not quite the same.”
Mark maintained a detached smile.
Juliet wondered if Gladys knew about the family rift, if she’d noticed the lack of warmth and affection in Mark’s voice or if she suspected his discomfort when talking about his parents.
It broke Juliet’s heart to think Mark was going to allow that estrangement to continue. Especially when she’d give anything to have her family back.
Mark didn’t appear to appreciate what he had—two parents, Jess and Anne-Marie Anderson, owners of the Big Sky Motel. A couple who enjoyed bowling on Wednesday nights, a man and woman whose friends thought they were a hoot.
Had Mark even known that his mother was proud of him? Or that his father suffered with arthritis?
“Well, it was good to see you, Gladys.” Mark placed a hand on Juliet’s shoulder. “But we’d better get the baby inside.”
“The baby?” The older woman brightened and edged closer to Marissa. “Oooh. Can I take a little peek?”
“Of course.” Juliet unfolded the blanket to reveal her daughter’s face.
“Well, bless my soul. What a beautiful baby. And such a tiny one. A preemie, it looks like. How much does she weigh?”
“Four pounds, eleven and a half ounces,” Mark said. “And we really ought to get her inside. It’s a bit breezy out here.”
“Of course.” Gladys studied Juliet. “I’m afraid I haven’t met your wife, yet.”
Mark’s hand, which had warmed Juliet’s shoulder, dropped to his side. “She isn’t my wife. This is Juliet Rivera. A friend.”
“Oh,” Gladys said, her eyes growing wide. “You’re the waitress at The Hitching Post, aren’t you?”
Juliet nodded.
“It’s nice to meet you dear.” The breeze whipped a strand of hair from Gladys’s upsweep, and she batted it away. “For a moment, I thought I’d have to get after Anne-Marie for not telling me she was finally a grandma.”
Mark threw back his shoulders like a Buckingham guard with hemorrhoids. “Take care, Gladys.” Then he ushered Juliet and the baby out of the parking lot and to the museum.
Juliet opened her mouth to complain, to tell Mark that he could have been nicer to the lady, but she bit her tongue, deciding to put some thought into her comments, especially since she intended to help him mend fences.
Mark had made his parents sound like ogres. But after listening to Gladys, that hardly seemed the case.
Juliet would do whatever she could to help him make things right. After all, it was the least she could do. Mark had proven to be a good friend.
A very special friend.
Or was it more than that?
The kiss they’d shared crossed her mind, as did the night he’d slept by her side, arms holding her as though they’d become much more than friends. But as pleasant as that thought was, she shoved the possibility aside.
The kiss as well as the embrace had only happened once.
Mark hadn’t ever kissed her again. And the morning after they’d slept together in her bed, he’d moved back to the Wander-On Inn as soon as the sun rose.
No, Mark wasn’t into families and commitments. He loved his job and traveling on assignment. And he’d made no secret that once his work was through he’d leave Thunder Canyon for good.
Before long, he’d leave Juliet behind.
Just as he’d left Jess and Anne-Marie Anderson.
Chapter Nine
As Mark and Juliet entered the building through the front door and stepped into a reception area that had once been the old mudroom, he caught a musty whiff of worn fabric, old paper and faded memories.
They continued to the central part of the museum, which had been the original schoolroom. The windows had been closed up and walled over. And two rooms had been added to each side.
Through the open doorway on the left, Mark could see a display of gold panning equipment and what looked like Native American relics.
He ought to head for the gold mine and prospecting display, but his feet didn’t move. Instead, he studied Juliet.
With the baby in her arms, she moved slowly through the room, browsing various display cases and wearing a smile that only a history buff could appreciate—or a man who found the beautiful young woman intriguing.
Mark might not share her interest in antiques and dusty exhibits of outdated memorabilia, but he enjoyed watching her run a hand lovingly over a glass case, seeing i
nterest light her eyes.
“Folks, I’ll be with you in a minute,” a man’s voice called from the back. A familiar voice?
“All right,” Juliet responded. “We’ll make ourselves at home, Ben.”
Ben Saunders?
Mark’s old high school teacher? Now there was a real history nut. And just the guy Mark needed to talk to.
“Why, Juliet Rivera,” Mr. Saunders said, making his way from the back room to the center of the museum. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon after your baby’s birth. The last time I stopped by The Hitching Post, Martha Tasker told me you had a little girl and were on maternity leave.”
Obviously, Juliet hadn’t been kidding about spending a lot of time in Old Town. And at the museum.
“Did you bring that little baby to get her first taste of Thunder Canyon history?” Mr. Saunders asked.
“I sure did.” Juliet cast a loving smile on the baby she held in her arms. “But she’ll probably sleep through it.”
Mr. Saunders laughed, still unaware that Mark was in the room, and peered at Marissa. “I heard she was a few weeks premature, but I had no idea she was so small. Or that she was just as pretty as her mama.”
Ben Saunders hadn’t changed much, Mark decided, even though the former high school teacher was probably pushing seventy. He’d grown a bit heavier, and his hair had turned white. But he seemed just as friendly with those who shared his interest in history.
In the classroom, Mark hadn’t been one of them.
When Saunders finally scanned the room and spotted Mark, recognition flashed in his eyes. “Why if it isn’t one of my old students. Mark Anderson. The cocky kid who used to sit in the back row and shoot spitballs when I wasn’t looking.”
Mark grinned. He’d never been caught in the act. But he’d had a feeling Mr. Saunders had figured out who the culprit had been. “How do you do, sir?”
As they shook hands, Mr. Saunders beamed. “You know, it didn’t surprise me when I heard you became a reporter.”
“Why’s that?” Mark asked.
“You wrote a heck of a paper on the devastating effects gold rushes have had on some people, especially the Indians and the Chinese. It was more like an exposé than a report. And I knew you had real talent putting your thoughts into words.”
So, his former history teacher had remembered his work. Mark couldn’t help a soaring sense of pride in a ten-page paper he’d thrown out years ago. “I’ll admit full responsibility for the paper, sir. But not the spit-wads. I can’t remember anyone in my class doing something so tacky and disrespectful.”
“Well, I can. Sometimes I’d go home and find one stuck in my hair.” Mr. Saunders chuckled. “Would you like a private tour of the museum? Or do you want to wander around on your own?”
“Juliet may want to wander, but I’d like the tour. I have some questions I’d like to ask you about the Queen of Hearts.”
“I’ll tag along, too,” Juliet said, holding the sleeping baby in the crook of her arm. “It’s always so interesting when you share those tidbits of Thunder Canyon history.”
“Great.” Mr. Saunders took them through the museum, stopping at each roped off section. They saw a typical parlor, the replicated interior of a one-room pioneer home and a fancy bedroom suite made out of mahogany, complete with a heavy, four-poster bed, matching bureaus, chairs and a vanity. A velvet patchwork quilt covered the mattress.
“This bedroom set was donated by the Douglas family,” Ben said. “Notice the fine workmanship, the detail in the pineapple finials.”
“It’s beautiful.” Juliet stroked the grain of the wood.
“This furniture belonged to Amos and Catherine Douglas,” the older man added. “And it once graced a guestroom at the Lazy D.”
Mark paused, not ready to move on. “Speaking of Amos Douglas, how did he really acquire the Queen of Hearts?”
“Well,” Ben said. “There are several legends, none of which has been proven. Most people believe Amos won the property in a poker game from a prospector with a drinking problem.”
“And what about you?”
Ben smiled. “I favor the story about him winning it from a renegade outlaw.”
That one was new to Mark. “Which outlaw?”
“A redheaded fellow folks claimed was as crazy as a patchwork quilt.” Ben chuckled. “Of course, in this day and age, we’d probably say he suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome, caused by cruelties of the Civil War.”
Mark’s interest piqued. “Tell me about him.”
“Crazy Red Phelps was once a Confederate soldier who fought alongside the Rafferty brothers, a couple of natural born hell-raisers who didn’t care whether the war was over or not. They formed a ragtag outfit of renegade soldiers and vigilantes, but that didn’t last long. They soon moved on to robbing trains and banks in Colorado.”
“I’ve heard of the Rafferty gang,” Juliet said. “They weren’t as big or well known as Frank and Jesse James or the Daltons, but they did their share of robbing and killing.”
“That’s right.” Ben tugged at the waistband of his slacks. “Crazy Red and Bobby Joe Rafferty, the head of the gang, fell for the same woman, a widow named Sally McKenzie who ran a stage stop about fifty miles outside of Denver. The fight over the woman created some bad blood between the two, and a shoot-out resulted.”
“Who won?”
“Sally, if you ask me.” Ben chuckled. “When Crazy Red shot Billy Joe between the eyes, she pulled out her shotgun and blasted Crazy Red in the shoulder, then ran him off. He went on to pull a few armed robberies by himself and eventually ended up in Thunder Canyon, looking for gold and a piece of the action.”
“And you think Crazy Red got a hold of the Queen of Hearts?” Mark asked.
“An old newspaper quoted Crazy Red as claiming the mine rightfully belonged to him. And that he meant to have it, one way or another.”
“And you believe the claim of a thief who’d been dubbed with the nickname of Crazy?”
“Nope. But he was the kind of man who might have stolen the deed.” Ben slipped his hands into the pockets of his gray dress slacks. “And that could explain why Caleb Douglas can’t find it.”
Before Mark could respond, the telephone rang.
“Excuse me,” Ben said. “I need to answer that.”
Juliet, who held Marissa with one arm, tugged at Mark’s shirtsleeve, a habit that always amazed him. Why didn’t she just grab his hand or touch him?
“I want to show you something.” She led him to the small room with the Shady Lady display and pointed to a tall case that held a mannequin wearing a faded red satin dress with a scooped neckline and trimmed with black lace. “That dress belonged to Lily Divine, the original owner of the Shady Lady saloon.”
Several ropes of fake pearls looped around the mannequin’s neck, and a big black ostrich feather adorned the fake hair.
“I like the black fan the mannequin is holding,” Juliet added. “See the workmanship? It’s edged with chantilly lace and a purled braid.”
She sure knew her history of ladies doodads.
“And look at that.” Juliet nodded at the display case, where several colored bottles and a powder puff sat among other personal items once used by the notorious lady. “See the tortoise shell comb with a gold floral design and studded with rhinestones? Isn’t that pretty?”
“I guess so, but I think those black garters are more interesting.” Mark nodded toward the mannequin, who held up the hem of her red skirt, revealing red and black petticoats and a black silk garter with a gilt buckle and roses made out of ribbons. “The Shady Lady must have been one sexy woman.”
Juliet swatted at him, grazing his arm and making him yearn for more of her touch. When she laughed, the lilt of her voice settled over him like fingers on an angel’s harp. “You would find her undergarments intriguing.”
“You’re right about that. I don’t know why she didn’t wear those garters in the portrait that’s hanging over the
bar at The Hitching Post.”
Juliet smiled impishly. “She probably knew the men would find her more appealing with that bedroom smile and only that gauzy thing draped over her.”
Mark slid her a crooked grin. “Not me. I’m a black garter man.”
Juliet arched a brow, brown eyes glimmering.
Was she making note of that tidbit of information?
He hoped so, then admonished himself for allowing his thoughts to drift in a sexual direction. For cripes sake, she’d just had a baby. And even if she hadn’t, they were just friends.
“You know,” Juliet said, “Lily Divine was an enterprising woman in her day. And I find her fascinating.”
“Me, too,” Mark said. Because she ran a whorehouse and a saloon, profiting from a man’s lust. “But why do you find her so interesting?”
“Mr. Saunders told me that she was considered a troublemaker in her day. But I think that’s probably because she was involved in the fight for women’s suffrage.”
“Well, that makes sense. I’m sure she had an interest in women’s rights, especially since she was a businesswoman. After all, she owned the hotel, as well as the saloon. And then there was that private business she ran upstairs.”
“Lily was only suspected of being a madam, since the previous owner of the saloon had run a brothel,” Juliet argued. “No one really knows for sure. But I have a feeling that, more than anything, her forward-thinking caused folks to look down on her.”
Before they could continue the conversation, Ben returned. “I’m sorry for the interruption. That call was from Matilda Matheson, an elderly lady who has a trunk full of memorabilia in her attic. She would like to make a donation, if we’re interested.”
“Is she bringing it in today?” Juliet asked.
“Oh, no. Tildy has arthritis and doesn’t venture far from her house. And even if that weren’t the case, she can’t donate anything until her niece takes time to climb into the attic and go through the trunk.”
“What’s in it?” Juliet asked, obviously interested.
“Tildy can’t remember,” Ben said, with a chuckle. “Bless her heart.”
