by Ann Parker
“What nonsense!”
He shrugged. “Don’t bother me none, Inez. I just figure for you, it’s like spring cleanin’. Some women hang out the rugs and give them a good beatin’, you throw out the old beaus and find new ones.” He squinted at her. “I got just one request: When you take on a new sweetheart this time—specially if it’s this railroad man—point him out to me so I don’t rile him by mistake.”
“Reverend Sands and I are just fine.”
“You’re sure a fool for sweet-talkin’ men, Inez.”
Before she could form a retort, Abe picked up the crate and said, “I’d put the jacket back on if I was you. Unless you’re looking to start a riot when you walk into the saloon proper.”
Inez glanced down and was reminded of the revealing properties of wet flannel. She blushed, reshrugged into the jacket, and held it tight to her neck as she followed Abe into the barroom.
“Honestly, Abe. You get married and all of a sudden you’ve got a holier-than-thou attitude that won’t quit.” She also thought, but didn’t say, that Abe had gotten considerably testier since he’d announced earlier that spring that Angel was expecting. When Abe had first informed her of Angel’s condition, Inez had burst out, too startled to hold her tongue, “But Abe! Who’s to say the child is even yours!”
He’d glared at her in a way to freeze her feet to the floor. It was a stare she’d seen him direct at serious troublemakers who were heading for serious trouble. After a long pause, he’d said, “Angel’s my wife.” He said the words as if they were straight off the holy tablets of the Israelites, words penned by God himself. “Any child born to Angel is a child of mine. And I don’t want to ever hear you say different.”
Abe set the crate on the near end of the bar and began unloading the bottles. Struggling for a less confrontational tone, Inez continued, “Furthermore, I find it strange that you continue to defend Mark to the bitter end—he was the smoothest talker of all. Why, Mark could charm the aces to the top of a deck, we both know that. But you won’t give Reverend Sands a chance.”
Abe shrugged. “Sands handles trouble and a gun like he was born to it. Then, he turns around with the Good Book and preaches ’bout the heavenly spirit. I don’t believe your reverend quite knows his own self. Either that, or he does know and he’s foolin’ everyone, includin’ you. You’re damn right I don’t trust him.”
“Yet he saved your life last winter as much as Angel or I did.” She glanced around the room. “Is Angel still here?”
“I was waitin’ on you before takin’ her home. Didn’t want to leave King Solomon alone.” Abe nodded toward their recently hired bartender, Solomon Isaacs. Sol’s red hair shone like a copper-colored beacon behind the bar.
Inez spotted Angel crossing the room, heading toward a crowded table. Clothed in a dark skirt and gray shirtwaist and further armored with a white bib apron, Angel looked the proper young matron. However, no proper Leadville matron, no matter what the age, would be using the swell of her pregnant belly to balance a tray of whiskey bottles and shot glasses.
A booming voice at the table caused Inez to pause. “Is that….”
“Yep. Chet Donnelly’s back from the hills,” Abe said shortly. “He and some boys’ve been playin’ cards for drinks since we opened. Angel don’t cotton much to him and neither do I. So soon’s you’re ready, I’m takin’ her home.”
Inez nodded and started toward the stairs leading to the second floor. She inclined her head at their piano player, Taps, who was warming up on the upright at the foot of the stairs.
He tipped his hat, grinned, “Evening, Mrs. Stannert,” took a good look at her attire, and swung into an upbeat version of “Buffalo Gals.”
Patrons turned and stared. Regulars called out greetings. The expressions of strangers ranged from curious to shocked to lascivious. Inez decided to take the high road and waved with dignity as she mounted the stairs, feeling like a frontier version of the Queen of England. The cacophony faded as she slammed and locked the office door behind her and dulled to an indistinguishable roar as she entered her private dressing room behind the office.
Once in her inner sanctum, she shucked off the damp clothes and splashed water into a washbasin. Although why I bother after the soaking I got.
After a quick cleanup and a dash of rosewater, she layered on clean undergarments, fingers flying through the laces and ties. Inez opened the door to her seven-foot wardrobe, inhaling the cedar scent as she confronted her better dresses alongside her husband’s abandoned frock coats, waistcoats, and trousers.
She touched one of Mark’s waistcoats, tracing a pattern of gold threads weaving through silver and black, then smoothed one of her watered-silk dresses. The outfits hanging side by side reminded her of the day she and Mark had exchanged hasty vows in upstate New York. Only later had she realized that the silk dress—with its French lace, satin ribbons, and Paris cut—paired with her guilty defiance had betrayed her for what she really was: the runaway daughter of a wealthy man. Mark, handsome as could be with his laughing eyes and fast-talking charm, had wrapped his arm around her waist as if he owned her. No wonder the justice of the peace had balked until Mark doubled his fee. He knew we were eloping. Probably guessed that Mark was a sporting man, gambling on making his fortune by marrying me.
Yet even as she thought this, another inner voice insisted: Nonsense! We loved each other. Through all the hard times, all that conspired to part us, we stayed together. There was no reason for him to walk out last year. We were planning to sell the saloon and move to California, for William’s health. Something took him from me. Maybe he was bushwhacked by cutthroats and his body tossed down a mineshaft.
Inez shook her head and dismissed the tired argument. It rose regularly like a spirit, summoned whenever she thought of the day Mark had left the house to talk to a prospective buyer for the saloon and never returned. Not a whisper of his whereabouts had reached her ears after that, except for a tenuous tale of a sighting in Denver in December. And the teller of that tale, she reminded herself, was not entirely to be trusted in his motives. Yet, ever since January, she’d had a recurring dream in which she was awakened by the metallic sigh of a key in the lock. The front door bolt would slide open, footsteps sound in the hallway, and Mark’s silhouette would appear at the threshold to her bedroom. Recently, the dream had taken a new twist, ending with Reverend Sands rolling away from her in the sheets and reaching for his revolver on the nightstand as Mark drew his gun.
Inez shuddered and pushed the unpleasant vision from her mind.
She pulled out a figure-hugging navy silk polonaise and closed the wardrobe door, shutting her nightmare within. Smoothing her short hair back from her face with practiced fingers, Inez glanced once in the mirror, noting that her hair was growing out from the hasty shearing she’d given it that winter.
Grabbing a clean apron from the hook, Inez covered her dress, thankful that Leadville’s chill summer evenings kept her from stifling in her many layers of clothes. Her gaze landed on Preston Holt’s damp jacket hanging nearby, and she remembered her riding gloves. She hunted through the jacket’s pockets, finally unearthing the crumpled gloves, and laid the damp wad by the washbasin.
She carried the jacket downstairs and into the kitchen, where Abe labored over a second crate of bottles and the dregs of the Red Dog barrel. Inez hung the jacket over a chair, smoothing out the folds before pushing it closer to the large cast-iron stove, still radiating heat from the day’s cooking. “You and Angel can leave whenever you’re ready,” she told Abe as she left the kitchen.
She was halfway across the barroom when she heard Chet say, “Hell, Angel, ya were a sight more friendly when ya worked down the line. Come on over here and bring me some luck.”
Inez glanced over at Sol, trapped behind the long mahogany counter, his face draining of color as he fumbled beneath the bar for the shotgun.
Inez shoved her way through the crowd gathered around the back tab
le in time to see Chet, holding a deck of undealt cards, grab Angel and pull her onto his lap. Angel squirmed, moving faster than Inez could shout a warning.
Chet looked down. The handle of a slim knife quivered above the tabletop. The blade nestled between his forefinger and thumb, piercing the deck of cards and the tabletop below. He slid his hand away tentatively, as if half expecting to leave a finger behind.
Angel bounced off Chet’s lap, hissed at him, and yanked out the knife. Ruined playing cards scattered. She slapped the tabletop to get his attention. When he looked up, she held out her hand, thumb crossing her palm.
Inez pushed a gawker out of her path and hastened to Angel’s side, adding her own imprecations. “Chet, you fool! While you’ve been stalking silver in the Rockies these past months, Angel’s gotten married. She’s Mrs. Abe Jackson now. Comprende?”
He blinked in whiskey-induced confusion. “What’re you talkin’ ’bout, Mrs. Stannert? Why, I think it’s great ya hired Angel t’ be a waiter gal here at your place. I always said Angel was the purtiest little thing that ever laid on her back an’—”
“Not any more,” Inez said coldly. “She’s a decent married woman now. And if that doesn’t make any difference to you, remember this. The next time you touch her, she says she’ll take off your thumb.” Inez glanced at Angel to see if she’d interpreted correctly. Angel nodded once, furious. She slapped the table again, then extended her middle finger to Chet and set her knife against the lower knuckle. Inez winced, thinking translation was probably not necessary, but continued, “Furthermore, Mrs. Jackson says, the second time you try anything, she’ll cut off your—”
“Won’t be no need for that.” Abe appeared, and his hands settled on Angel’s shoulders. “Next time he touches my wife, this man’s a dead man.”
Onlookers hastily melted away to the bar. Chet’s drinking buddies abandoned their chairs, leaving the prospector alone at the table, pink mouth forming a little “o” through his tangled gray beard. Inez thought that comprehension was, at last, dawning.
Inez said, “I think an apology’s in order.”
Angel glared at Chet, arms crossed above her swollen belly, foot tapping.
Chet stammered, “No harm meant. Just lookin’ for a little fun.”
Inez retrieved the empty bottles in front of him. “Time to be on your way, Chet. You know our rules: No drunks served a drink, no married men playing cards. You may not be married, but you surely are drunk. Frisco Flo is running the cathouse on the corner now. If you’ve got an itch in your trousers and money burning a hole in your pocket, go look for your ‘fun’ there or any of the other joints up and down State. But not here. Not in my saloon.”
Chapter Eight
After Chet staggered out, Inez joined Sol behind the bar. Sol, pale and apologetic, clutched the shotgun in one hand and a bottle in the other as if torn between defending the business and selling a drink. “I’m sorry I didn’t get the gun out faster, Mrs. Stannert. Couldn’t remember which end of the bar it was under.”
“That’s all right. Angel can take care of herself. I was more worried that she’d carve up Chet right then and there.”
Inez watched Abe and Angel exit through the new door to Harrison Avenue. Satisfaction percolated through her every time she contemplated the entrance. She and Abe had managed to complete the doorway and replace the floor and ceiling before the miners’ strike and the subsequent closing of saloons had called a halt to their renovations. With two entrances, clientele had the option of strolling in from Leadville’s up-and-coming new business district on Harrison or entering from State Street and the red-light district. Just one of the advantages, she reflected, of a corner property.
The new entrance seemed to draw a better class of men than those coming in from State Street. Even so, those entering from Harrison, once their thirst for liquor was slaked, still tended to exit on State. Not State, but Second, she corrected herself. Leadville’s city council had renamed the streets in January, banishing many of the street names reminiscent of Philadelphia—State, Lafayette, Park—and substituting a simple numbering system. Most townsfolk shrugged. The general consensus was that the council could tinker with street names all it wanted, but the red-light district would remain State Street until razed to the ground.
Inez returned her attention to Sol. “You’re new to town, so I wouldn’t expect you to know this. But just so you’re better prepared next time: Chet Donnelly’s a wild card, especially when he’s tight. Generally, he’s more trouble than he’s worth, unless he hits the big time with a silver strike. When that happens, he sells his claim to the highest buyer, goes on a spree, and throws money around like there’s no tomorrow. I don’t mind standing in his path at those times. As my husband used to say, ‘We’re in Leadville to mine the miners.’”
A voice behind her drawled, “The miners ain’t the only ones losing silver here. Seems like the house never loses on those fancy Saturday night poker games you run. So, what is it, Miz Stannert, marked decks?”
Inez pulled a bottle of Red Dog from the backbar and grabbed a heavy-bottomed shot glass before turning to face the ex-marshal. “Sour grapes, Hollis. It’s a private game, and I run it straight. None of the players complain. In fact, the only complaints I hear are from you. Which is fairly strange, since I don’t recall seeing your face across the table. Now, how’s your memory as to who took out the chestnut gelding this morning?” She poured.
Hollis tipped his head back to eye her from under his hat. The smell of the livery—horses, hay, and manure—clung to him along with the tobacco and the sour smell of a man in need of a bath. “You must want that name powerful bad. Wonder why?” He reached for the drink.
She gripped the glass. “Not until I have the name.”
“Lessee.” Hollis scratched his whiskered jawline. “B’lieve the name started with a…E. Yep. Eli.”
She released the glass.
He downed the shot and smacked his lips.
“Last name?”
“I’m havin’ trouble recollecting.”
She held the bottle up between them. At that proximity, the distinctive fragrance of Red Dog—suspiciously reminiscent of turpentine—stung her nose. Inez said, “I’ll pour when you remember.”
“And I’ll remember when you pour.”
Inez stared hard at him. The leathery skin around Hollis’ eyes wrinkled with his malicious smile.
Eli. Elias. Elijah. How many men answering to Eli are listed in the city directory, and how many more are passing through? I’ve no time to sort it out before I return Preston Holt’s coat.
She poured.
Hollis snatched up the glass, then grinned, his teeth yellow as a rat’s. He raised the whiskey in a toast: “To Elijah Carter, the South, and General Lee. The War for Southern Independence ain’t over and never will be.” The second drink went down in a swallow, the glass down on the bar with a bang.
“Elijah Carter? He’s your business partner!” Inez glared at Hollis, angry at being duped. “You expect me to believe that you forgot that he rode off this morning on that horse?”
Hollis turned his back on her and rested his elbows on the counter, surveying the room leisurely. “Memory’s not what it used t’ be, I guess.”
She took a deep breath to curb a nasty rejoinder and asked, “What was Eli doing south of town?”
Hollis spat and looked down at the resultant glob on the varnished wood planks. “You redid the floors.” He glanced up at the stamped tin ceiling, mirror-like in its newness. “The topside too. Heard you’re turning the second story into a first-class gambling hall. Wonder where you got all the money to do this. Got your fingers in the reverend’s collection plate?”
Inez bristled, but before she could speak, his gaze meandered back to her. “Why’re you so interested in Eli and his final hours in Leadville?”
“I’m just curious.”
He snorted. “Last time you got curious, I lost my job.�
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She pushed on, ignoring his barbs in her efforts to draw more information from him. “You don’t seem particularly despondent that his horse turned up without him. I thought you two were compañeros. That you go back to the war. And you’re business partners in that livery. And what do you mean, his ‘final hours in Leadville’? Was he leaving for good?”
Hollis scratched his chin. The sandpapery sound of fingernails on whiskers sounded over the clinks of glass on glass, random bits of conversation, the tinkling of Taps playing “Oh, Susanna.” Hollis finally said, “Story’s a long one. It’ll take the rest of the bottle to tell it proper.”
Inez retrieved his empty glass. “The next one you pay for.”
“The hell I will. Ma’am.” He mockingly tipped his hat as he shoved away from the bar. “If it weren’t for you, that reverend, and Harry Gallagher, I’d still be city marshal. You owe me more’n a free bottle of rotgut for what you did last winter.” He sauntered away.
“The nerve!” Inez banged the bottle on the backbar. The information is hardly worth the aggravation and the two bits I lost in liquor. So, of those two stray horses, one was Elijah Carter’s, the other was ridden by a railroad man. Hollis certainly doesn’t seem worried about what happened to his business partner. I wonder what business Eli had with a railroad man. And, if Susan’s recollection is right, who killed them and why.
Chapter Nine
The clock struck eleven in the card room, the evening still young by Inez’s reckoning.
She leaned back in her chair, the gathered flounces of her dress smashing up in a knot between her back and the velvet upholstery. She tapped her cards against her bottom lip and regarded Jed Elliston, owner and publisher of The Independent, seated across the table from her.
She’d maneuvered the last few rounds of betting toward this moment, driving out all the players except Jed. But now that the time had arrived to stage her own defeat, she felt reluctant to throw away what had become a better-than-average hand. Her queen-high straight would almost certainly outrank whatever Jed had. If I fold, I’ll never know.
