by Ann Parker
Jed stared down his straight nose at her, cards gathered loosely in one hand. His studied carelessness was one clue to her, among others, that he was bluffing. If his hand was good, he’d clutch the cards tight and close.
The gold and silver coins piled on the table glimmered. Without looking at her penciled tabulations of wins and losses, Inez knew the house was ahead. She could afford to be generous, and, more importantly, profit from Jed’s ensuing good mood.
With a sigh of resignation, she folded. “It’s yours, Jed.” She added a slight lift of the shoulders and a small smile of surrender.
His edgy posture relaxed, and he pulled in what she figured must amount to a hundred and fifty dollars. “Poker,” he remarked airily, “is a man’s game. No offense, Mrs. Stannert. But to play successfully requires the same skills as fighting a battle. One must know one’s opponent, and have nerves of steel, a sense of when to strike, when to retreat. Knowledge of tactics, strategy, an ability to calculate the odds. Not part of the feminine sphere.”
“Fancy that,” she murmured. “And I thought poker was about money.”
Bob Evan, owner of Leadville’s largest mercantile, adjusted his steel-framed glasses and laced his fingers over his sober brown waistcoat. “Dunno about that, Jed. Some of the so-called weaker sex who come into my store drive the hardest bargains. The kind of ferocity I see displayed over a bolt of calico or a collection of broomsticks is not something I’d want to face on a battlefield.”
David Cooper, one of Leadville’s most successful lawyers, specializing in claim disputes and mining law, said, “Don’t underestimate our hostess, Jed.” Always polite, always the gentleman, Cooper handled claim disputes and other mining-related legal matters. Eyeing the new diamond stickpin in his cravat—tasteful, but obviously very expensive—Inez thought that, of all the businesses that had suffered from the miners’ strike, Cooper’s was not among them.
Cooper continued, “If she threw a hand to you, I’ll bet she had good reason.”
“The best of reasons. I don’t believe in backing a lame horse, a questionable assay, or a busted straight.” Inez scooped up the cards lest someone have the bad manners and overwhelming curiosity to turn over her discards.
As she shuffled, Inez’s gaze lingered on Jed’s shiner. She refrained from adding a pointed comment about the masculine tendency to pugilistic stupidity. His face was not the only aspect bruised. His ego, she knew, would still be smarting from his recent, very public altercation with the Rio Grande’s chief engineer, John A. McMurtrie.
For the past year, Jed had regularly lambasted the Rio Grande and its board of directors, including founder and president General William Jackson Palmer, in the editorial pages of The Independent. Not surprising, Inez thought, considering Jed’s family fortunes rode the rails of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe—the competing railroad company. Jed’s vendetta had taken a physical turn in an unplanned encounter with McMurtrie in the brass and crystal smoking room of Leadville’s Clairmont Hotel. Onlookers maintained that Jed never stood a chance against McMurtrie, who, having successfully faced down the likes of Bat Masterson, was not one to pull his punches.
After the ignoble skirmish, Elliston was persona non grata with the Clairmont and the Rio Grande. The Independent suffered accordingly. Leadville’s other newspapers reported on the railroad’s progress, augmented by interviews with McMurtrie and right-of-way lawyer Lowden D. Snow. The Independent was reduced to paraphrasing stories from its competitors on one of the most visible and important topics in Leadville.
Inez nodded once to herself, watching Jed count and stack his winnings. Jed and the professor could profit from each other: the professor could leave off running errands for the railroad’s lawyers, Jed could get the inside story on the Rio Grande. Having two such gentlemen beholden to me could prove useful.
Doc bustled in, hooked his silver-headed cane over the back of his empty chair, and shed his overcoat. “Good evening, good evening all. Apologies for my tardiness. All of my patients at the hospital seemed to need the assistance of a physician at the same time this evening.”
Inez rose from her seat and followed him to the burdened coatrack. “We decided something that like must be the case,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. Then, in a low voice, “Miss Carothers—?”
He searched in vain for an empty hook for his coat. “Miss Carothers will recover with a prescription of rest. Which will be better received away from that hospital, by the way. I’ve arranged for her to be taken home in the morning.”
Inez took his coat from him and pushed the forest of outerwear aside to reveal one bare hook buried beneath. “I worried about the injury to her head—”
“Classic symptoms of a concussed brain. Confusion, headache, sleepiness, inability to remember events prior to the injury—”
“When I found her, she talked about two men who argued and died by the tracks. And I found two riderless horses by the river—”
“Yes, yes.” Doc nodded absently, gaze pinned on the sideboard laden with decanters and bottles. “She said something of the sort to me. Anxious as well. Another symptom. Now, don’t worry about Miss Carothers, my dear. The vigor of youth is on her side.” He switched his gaze to Inez, and the worn and weary creases in his face uplifted into a tired smile. “Don’t think me hard-hearted, but with all I saw tonight, Miss Carothers’ injuries—a knock on the head, a twisted ankle—could be considered a blessing. One fellow suffered from a most dreadful accident at a prospect hole in Empire Gulch. A premature blast.”
He shook his head. “Would you mind getting this old man a brandy, Mrs. Stannert? That old war wound in my leg is reminding me of my age. I’m looking forward to sitting down, playing a few hands of cards, catching up on the news. And I’ve some news of my own to share with everyone.”
Inez moved to the sideboard, relieved, but not entirely removed from worry about Susan.
As she carried a full brandy glass back to Doc, now seated in his usual chair, Doc said, “It’s not generally known about town, but….” He paused to sample the brandy and give Inez time to sit, then leaned across the table, taking them all into his circle of confidence. “The Union Veterans Association received word that the ‘Hero of Appomattox’ is seriously considering our invitation to visit Leadville during his trip to Colorado.”
“Ulysses S. Grant?” Jed’s counting ceased. “When would that be?”
“Since I was the one who, er-hem, penned the missive, I expect I’ll be among the first to know his arrival date.”
Jed’s expression sharpened, a hungry man scenting a hot meal. “You’ll be sure to notify The Independent first when you hear, right, Doc?”
“Of course, of course. We know that he’s planning on staying with General Palmer in Colorado Springs. I imagine that Palmer, being the generous and honorable fellow that he is, will encourage Grant to add a visit to our city in the clouds to his itinerary.”
Jed’s expression reminded Inez of a child forced to hear a detested sibling being praised. “If Palmer did something like that, it’d be for the good publicity and to wash off the mud that he accumulated in bullying the Santa Fe.”
Doc harrumphed.
Inez inwardly groaned. Oh Jed, don’t. Lately, every Saturday night, it was the same. Jed would throw a jab at Palmer and the Rio Grande. Doc, a staunch supporter of all things and persons Federalist in the Civil War, would harrumph and rally to Palmer’s defense. Inez tolerated the verbal fracas only because the other players seemed to find it entertaining and because the battle of words never transformed into a physical fight.
“How old were you when the War between the States ended, young Elliston?” boomed Doc.
Jed squinted at him. “I was eight. And well schooled in mathematics.”
“But not, apparently, well schooled in the great events of your own time. Did you have a brother, father, relative who fought in the war?”
Jed, looking bored, shook his h
ead.
“Well then, I’d wager you have no experience with the courage and valor of men like Palmer. When he was about your age right now, it was ’61, and he raised an entire cavalry unit of educated, fine young men like himself from Pennsylvania. Less than a year later, he raised a regiment of twelve hundred men.”
Jed sneered. “Palmer’s a Philadelphia Friend, right, Doc? So why was such an educated, fine young Quaker in such a rush to spill blood? I’ll tell you why. He was after the glory and the power, just like now, with his railroad. And I’d wager he didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger in the name of might and right.”
Doc, ignoring the verbal bullets whistling about him, charged on. “It was a time of grave and perilous danger to the country and all she stood for. We all struggled with conflicting principles. No one wants to shed blood. But obedience to conscience tipped the scales for many good men, and thank God for that.”
“Face it, Doc. Palmer’s ambitious, plain and simple, whether it’s war or railroads. He once said, and I quote, ‘amidst all the hot competition of this American business life there is a great temptation to be a little unscrupulous.’” Jed rubbed his chin meditatively. “I think he was with the Kansas Pacific at the time.”
“One can be tempted by ambition and not give in. But in war and business, to succeed, one must have a strong character. And Palmer has that. I’ve been privileged to hear him talk about how, in the Battle of Chickamauga, he and his men stood brave and drove back fugitives when the line before them broke. He scouted and fought guerrilla bands in the Saquatchie Valley, harassed Longstreet in the French Broad River Valley, raided and camped in the saddle during the long winter—”
“I know what ‘raided’ means,” interrupted Jed. “Burning bridges. Destroying stores. Taking from country folks who don’t have two sticks to rub together and leaving them to starve so the army could be fed. You see, I did my homework too, Doc.”
“He was trapped behind enemy lines during reconnaissance and thrown into Thunder Castle—”
“He was a spy. Traded his uniform for civilian clothes and gave a false name.”
“Chased Jeff Davis into Georgia, captured his supply trains, and drove him into the arms of the Tenth Michigan Cavalry.”
Jed rolled his eyes.
Inez, wearying of the argument, said, “Gentlemen, shall we play?”
The door opened. Music spilled into the card room as Sol poked his head tentatively around the corner. “Ma’am? Fellow out here wants a word with you.”
Inez raised her eyebrows, annoyed at the interruption.
“Says he’s a railroad man. Mr. Hold, Holt, something like that.”
She glanced at her watchpin. “A break, gentlemen? Say, ten minutes?”
Once outside the private room, Inez spotted Preston Holt straight away, standing a full head above the crowd.
Sol leaned close and shouted above the noise, “Over there, Mrs. Stannert,” and pointed toward Holt.
Crossing the crowded room gave Inez time to compose her opening. “Mr. Holt, what a pleasant surprise! So, are the railroad tracks open tonight?”
Holt tipped his hat in greeting. “Delaney decided tomorrow’s soon enough after all.”
His words were a sober reminder of the bodies lying beneath the rubble.
He continued, “Came to fetch my jacket. Gave me an excuse to visit sooner rather than later.” He glanced around the crowded saloon—the papered walls, varnished wainscoting, new coal oil lamps. His sky blue gaze returned and swept her from the toes of her satin shoes to her hazel eyes. “Nice outfit, Mrs. Stannert.”
Her pulse began to throb in her throat. “Thank you.” She looked around the room and decided to reply as if he were referring to the establishment. “We’re refurbishing the saloon. Leadville’s coming up in the world, and we’re just trying to keep up with her.” She became aware of Abe not five feet away, eyebrows raised. “Mr. Holt, allow me to introduce my business partner, Mr. Jackson.”
The two men measured each other over a brief handshake.
She continued, “Mr. Holt, allow us to pour you a drink on the house for your trouble—”
“Next time,” Holt interrupted, not unkindly. “The jacket?”
“Of course. It’s in the kitchen.” Inez led the way. “I do appreciate all your help today,” she said over her shoulder as she pushed open the passdoor.
“No problem, ma’am.” The door closed behind him, plunging them into the near twilight of the kitchen. A lamp, turned low, hung by the back door as a signal to those seeking the alleyway for relief.
Inez pulled the jacket from the chair and turned, nearly bumping into Holt.
She laughed in surprise, then stopped, feeling ridiculous. “Well, it was much appreciated all the same.” She clutched the jacket a moment longer. “By the way, I discovered the name of the man riding the other horse.”
Preston Holt nodded once, encouraging her to go on. His eyes in the dim room were nearly invisible in the shadow of his hat.
“Elijah Carter. He owns, ah, owned a livery in town. On the corner of Twelfth and Poplar. North end of town.” Thinking of Hollis and his snarly face, she added maliciously, “His partner Hollis could tell you more, I’m certain.”
“Much obliged, Mrs. Stannert.” He reached for the jacket, his fingers briefly touching hers in the dark.
She felt the wool, worn soft by time and use, slide through her hands as she continued, “I can’t help but wonder what business Eli Carter had by the tracks. It’s curious. And then, there’s the business of the generals.”
“Generals?”
“Generals,” she repeated, half to herself. “Susan said the two men argued about a general. General Palmer owns the railroad. Hollis mentioned General Lee when he raised a glass in Eli’s memory. Now, General Grant may be coming to town. Altogether too many generals.”
She stopped. And realized Preston Holt was also motionless.
Inez cleared her throat. “Did you, perchance, discover who’d been riding the Rio Grande horse?”
After a moment, Holt said, “I didn’t ride into town just for the coat, Mrs. Stannert. I spoke with McMurtrie and Snow of the railroad about what happened today on the Rio Grande right-of-way. Turns out, a siding and two supply cars were destroyed too. McMurtrie and Snow talked with the federal marshal in these parts. Everyone agrees, this problem—” the last sleeve slid from her clasp— “is railroad business.”
“Ah,” was all she could think of to say.
The passdoor flew open. Light poured into the kitchen, pinning their overlapping shadows against the stove. Any doubts Inez had as to the intruder’s identity were blown away by Taps’ rendition of “I’ve Got a Friend in Jesus.”
Reverend Sands stepped forward, an unreadable silhouette. “Everything all right in here?” The concern in his voice was threaded with the promise of danger. He stepped aside, out of the light. Inez saw him ease his overcoat back from his holstered gun as the door swung shut. Near darkness enclosed them.
Preston Holt stepped away from her, jolting the table and its tin washtub. Dirty glassware rattled, loud as an accusation.
Holt’s free hand dropped unobtrusively to the revolver on his left side, out of sight of the reverend.
Chapter Ten
Inez stepped between the two men. Forcing a matter-of-fact tone, she said, “There’s no problem, Reverend. I was returning a jacket lent to me during this afternoon’s downpour. This is Preston Holt of the Rio Grande railroad. Mr. Holt, this is Reverend—”
“Preston? Preston Holt?” Reverend Sands moved forward, his frown shifting to astonishment.
Holt pushed his hat back and scrutinized the reverend. He said slowly, voice laced with disbelief, “Justice ‘Jay’ Sands. Well, I’ll be.”
Sands grinned.
Inez watched in amazement as the two men engaged in an extended bout of handshaking and backslapping. “You know each other?”
San
ds turned to her, face shining with boyish enthusiasm. In the half-light of the guttering lamp, he looked younger than his thirty-odd years. “Preston and I were in the same regiment during the war until I….” He paused. Inez thought she saw a shadow, not due to the flickering kitchen light, pass over his face.
He finished with, “Preston saved my life. More than once.”
“And more than once I wondered why.” Holt’s hand engulfed the reverend’s. Inez could see he was smiling. “Never followed orders. Cussed arrogant. Should’ve court-martialed you for refusing to climb that tree—”
“If I’d listened to you, those Georgia boys would’ve picked me off like a squirrel—”
“Prit’near shot you myself for disobeying a direct order.”
“Guess I wasn’t cut out for the job,” Sands said, sounding regretful.
Holt released his clasp. “You had a sharpshooter’s eye and hand, Jay. But not the discipline.”
Sharpshooter? Inez raised her eyebrows at that bit of information.
Sands turned toward Inez. “I haven’t seen Preston since….” He squinted up at Holt. “It’s been seventeen years since the tree, hasn’t it. Seems like yesterday, sometimes.”
Holt’s voice took on a cautious quality. “Hasn’t been that long, if you count Nebraska.”
Now it was Sands who became cautious. “Nebraska? When was that?”
Holt scratched his beard, watching Sands closely. “I was working for the Burlington and Missouri River Railroad. Makes it ’72, thereabouts.”
“I…don’t recall.”
“Yep. Lowell, Nebraska. We stood each other drinks, talked over old times. Before things got ugly.”
“Ugly?” Sands sounded mystified.
“Over a—” Holt stopped. He glanced at Inez.
Inez crossed her arms, but kept her expression neutral. A woman. They fought over a woman.
“Nebraska,” Sands murmured. He touched a thin white scar that ran from his right temple into his wheat-colored hair. Inez saw comprehension dawn. “You were the one—”
