The Dove

by Kristy McCaffrey

  Troubled by the recent drop in customers, Claire frowned at the cash receipts and disbursements, unable to determine a cause from the numbers penciled into each column.

  “Why has business been so bad?” she asked.

  Louisa and Betsy paused in their cleaning.

  “Perhaps the men are staying away because Maggie’s been gone,” Betsy offered.

  Claire nodded. It was a distinct possibility. Her mama personally entertained a select clientele. But didn’t such attention create loyalty? Apparently not.

  “We compete in this town,” Louisa said. “Someone else, they compete better.”

  Claire looked at her. “Southern Charm?”

  Louisa shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe no.”

  Was Belle Mason taking advantage of Maggie’s absence? It was common knowledge the two of them publicly feuded and intensely disliked one another. The exact reason why had never been clear, at least not to Claire. Her relationship with her mama had never been one of intimate secrets, or of trust. It was disheartening, her lack of confidence in her mama’s intentions. A sudden yearning overtook Claire—she could simply leave. She’d already done it, when she’d gone to Texas with Molly. But it hadn’t taken long for her conscience and strong sense of obligation to pull her back to Las Vegas. But her time with the Ryan’s had given her a taste of life as a normal person, and now a small part of her longed for the simple things—a real home, respectability, a man to love. Unbidden, an image of Logan’s handsome face came to mind.

  She was already nineteen years old. The longer she stayed at the Dove, the more likely she’d soon be serving drinks and climbing the stairs to a room on the second floor.

  Alice May entered from the kitchen, stopping abruptly when she saw Claire, surprise evident on her face. Dressed conservatively in a dark skirt and white blouse, it appeared she’d just returned from town.

  “Is something wrong?” Claire asked.

  Alice hesitated and flicked a glance to Louisa, who had halted her table cleaning once again.

  In her mid-thirties, Alice was, as Claire had heard her called, a career girl—serious about moving on to bigger and better things. With a pretty face framed by strawberry-blonde curls and a figure more well-rounded than most of the other girls, Alice had made no secret that Las Vegas was just a stop on her way to Denver.

  “Well,” she said slowly. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, Claire, but I’ve just come from a visit with Belle.”

  Claire had a feeling what was coming next. “She’s made you an offer?”

  Alice nodded. “I’m grateful to Maggie, but who knows when she’s coming back. I can’t turn my back on more money. And Belle’s refurbished the Southern Charm. I hate to say it, but it’s a step up.”

  At one time, the White Dove had simply been a brothel. To increase profits, Maggie had expanded it to a saloon, catering to men who wanted drinks and gambling as well as those who desired something more from the women who served them.

  “Why do you think Maggie isn’t returning soon?” Claire asked.

  “Belle told me she’s not been seen in Cimarron.”

  “But I thought that’s where she took Jimmy. You yourself told me.”

  Alice threw her hands up in defense. “Don’t blame me. That’s what Maggie told us before she left. But if she’s not in Cimarron, and she’s not here, then where is she? Look, I know she wasn’t herself after you disappeared, and since we all feared you were dead I’m sure that’s what she thought too. I don’t blame her for trying to get away. But it seems to me more and more each day that she’s abandoned the business but forgot to tell the rest of us. Maybe Ellie might step forward and buy it, but I’m not getting that tied down. I just need a few more months of consistent work then I’ll be able to pack my bags and move on.”

  An uneasy suspicion settled over Claire. “Where have Griffin and Sandoval been seen lately?”

  Alice sighed. “Well, Rusty Simmons told me the other day they’ve been in Cimarron. You think there’s a connection?”

  She did, but Claire had no desire to share her thoughts with Alice or any of the other girls. She hadn’t told them Sandoval had been the one to attack her, and none of them had indicated any knowledge of what had happened, so Claire had concluded that Maggie hadn’t told them. Obviously Maggie hadn’t told anyone since Sandoval was a free man. Her mama must have had a reason for not bringing Raul Sandoval to justice for what he’d done; she had to believe that. The alternative made Claire’s heart race with panic—that her mama simply didn’t care.

  “I don’t know,” Claire replied. “I was just curious.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be hiding,” Alice said. “Maybe if Maggie found out you were here, she’d return.”

  “Possibly.” Claire wasn’t sure what to think anymore. If her mama was involved with Griffin and Sandoval then it probably wasn’t good. In the end, Claire knew she couldn’t influence Maggie Waters, but there was Jimmy to consider. Too young to decide the course of his life, it was up to Claire to look out for him because God knew Maggie had never done a great job at it.

  Claire stood and collected the ledger. “I’ll be in my room.”

  “There’s one other thing.” Alice wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Belle wants Louisa, too.”

  Claire glanced at the sultry Mexican, but Louisa’s face remained impassive. That’s when Claire knew that Belle hadn’t contacted the two women—they had taken an offer directly to the Southern Charm.

  “I understand.” Claire moved past Alice, aware the business had just fallen apart. She went out the back door and crossed the yard to her cabin, feeling shock. Alice and Louisa were the only prostitutes currently working at the White Dove. Ellie was in no shape to resume her duties, and unless Betsy could suddenly be convinced to disrobe and spread her legs—Claire grimaced inwardly from the crude imagery. The only one left to maintain the business was Claire herself.

  No…No. She couldn’t do it.

  Where the hell are you, Maggie?

  Once inside her cabin, she slammed the door shut in frustration.

  * * *

  “Are you from Texas, Señor?”

  Logan glanced up from his plate of smoked ham, potatoes, and carrots to see an older Hispanic woman addressing him. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m Señora Chavez.”

  Logan cleaned his fingers with a napkin and stood before taking the hand she extended in greeting. Dressed in a fine black gown with gold buttons reaching to her neck and black hair twisted into a neat bun atop her head, she smiled politely at him.

  “Logan Ryan.”

  “I am sorry to interrupt your dinner, Señor Ryan, but I was speaking with my friend Señora Baca just down the street and she said that a gentleman had been around today asking about the Griffins.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Please have a seat.” He gestured for her to take the chair opposite him.

  He’d spent the day searching for information about Dee and her brother but had turned up only the basics. They lived here most of the time, but weren’t in residence at the moment; Frank had several business ventures around town, but was generally not held in high regard; and there was a sliver of sympathy for Dee since her husband had died suddenly after the Christmas holidays. Stopping at the Graaf City Bakery and Restaurant to eat, Logan was considering whether he really wanted to pursue Dee or not. Thoughts of Claire lingered in the back of his mind and the desire to see her again was strong, although he could think of no legitimate reason to return to the White Dove except to drink and gamble. Perhaps he’d do well to pick up a few vices.

  “Are you a lawman?” Señora Chavez asked.

  “Used to be. Now I help my pa raise cattle in Texas.”

  “Do you have business with Señor Griffin?”

  “No. I’m an old friend of his sister’s. I was hoping to say hello.”

  Señora Chavez nodded and drummed her fingers on the table. A young girl approached the table to take the woman’s order but
was promptly waved away.

  “I was hoping you might be here to investigate him. I will be blunt—Señor Griffin ruined my husband financially. And Dee Luttrell, or Griffin, or whatever she calls herself these days, is no better than the harlots that work the saloons and disgusting bordellos in town.”

  Logan took note of the woman’s disdain of the seamier side of town.

  “You’re saying Miz Griffin is a prostitute?” he asked carefully.

  “Oh, I do not know. Probably no, she does seem to love her little boy. But she has no mind of her own. Is it not the same thing?”

  Dee had a child? The knowledge that she’d moved on with her life, with never a backward glance, stung.

  “Are you certain you do not hold any jurisdiction in these parts?” Señora Chavez continued, her earnest expression dragging Logan back to the conversation.

  “Quite certain, ma’am. Didn’t you take your concerns to the local officials?”

  She glanced around before answering, her voice lowered. “Señor Griffin controls them, do not ask how, that I do not know. It was useless to go to the sheriff.”

  “What about Raul Sandoval? Is he involved somehow?”

  A look of horror flashed in her eyes. “¡Póngote las cruces!” She crossed herself, then whispered, “El maldito.” Shaking her head, she added, “The devil.”

  “Do you know where Frank and Dee Griffin are right now?”

  Señora Chavez shrugged, her shoulders sagging in defeat. “Cimarron, maybe. But I do not care what becomes of them. Perhaps you will consider what I have told you. Perhaps you can bring justice to those of us who are undeserving of our fate.”

  A tall order. Tell your husband to stop trusting dishonest men, he wanted to tell her. But he’d trusted Dee at one time. Misplaced faith could happen to anyone. “I’ll keep it in mind, ma’am.”

  * * *

  Claire’s eyes skimmed the shelf above her bed as she sat in the one-room dwelling. During the past few years she had collected several books on math and Latin after hearing talk that army doctors were tested on such things. Many a night she had read until her eyes ached and her head hurt trying to understand the many symbols and formulas that often frustrated her but which she eventually fathomed. For a moment she considered muddling through a page of calculus, but her mind was hardly focused enough to make the effort worthwhile.

  Her thoughts returned to Logan as she wondered if he’d already left town; her mind filled with images she had no business thinking. Never before had she been so drawn to a man, his presence unsettling her from the moment they’d met in Texas. In the darkness of his bedroom he’d startled her, naked from head to toe, triggering an automatic response in Claire to get away from him. But now, with so many endless nights to dwell on the encounter, her dreams had twisted the scene into one where she doesn’t scramble for cover and demand he leave. Instead, she allows him to stay, and without words he obliges. In the shadowy scene she struggles to memorize every inch of him, her body’s response both frightening and exciting. But always she awakens before he touches her…

  She shook off the dream, and reminded herself again of her situation. She lived in a saloon. Her social standing equaled the droppings from a horse. Extending herself, even in friendship, would only bring heartache. And to engage in more was not something she could tolerate. She’d seen firsthand what sex, outside of marriage, could do to a woman.

  Knowing this, however, didn’t lessen the almost oppressive sadness she felt in knowing Logan was leaving town today. The man had succeeded in scattering her thoughts, and she wondered if they would ever be in order again.

  There was also the more pressing problem of Maggie’s whereabouts and the fact that beginning tomorrow morning Claire would be forced to close the White Dove, or at least run it without entertainment.

  She thought of Jimmy. She’d mothered him as if he was her own child and not her brother. If nothing else, she needed to find him.

  And to do that, it was becoming apparent she couldn’t keep hiding.

  At nightfall, she would leave for Cimarron.

  * * *

  Dusk settled over the plaza as Logan leaned against a hitching post. He ran a thumb over the dove carving he held in his hand.

  Why did the idea of leaving Claire behind bother him so much?

  “You look like a man not certain where to go.” One-Eyed Jack appeared beside him.

  “Just thinking, that’s all.” Logan shook the man’s hand.

  “I’ve been known to do that, from time to time. Tia claims that’s when I usually get a headache.” Jack settled against the post and crossed his arms.

  Together they watched the movement of men and women, freight wagons and buggies, horses and an occasional dog.

  Enclosed on all sides by one and two-story commercial adobe buildings, the plaza was the main thoroughfare for the Santa Fe Trail, which entered and exited via easterly and westerly outlets. The perimeter buildings comprised several merchants, two hotels, a hardware store, the Graaf City Bakery and Restaurant, and a bank. There was also a billiard saloon right next door, but only one saloon interested Logan in this town.

  A large, odd-shaped windmill stood at the center of the plaza, comprised of two platforms, one above the other, which gave the structure an incredible height. Rumor was it had been used more than once to hang a man. Logan didn’t find that too hard to believe—he’d come across a lynching or two in his time. Although in both cases he’d been too late to save the man at the end of the rope.

  His gaze swept the plaza once more. Porticoes surrounded all the ground level storefront facades, as well as some on the second level. The columns that supported the porches were whitewashed which lent an endless unity among all the dwellings.

  Logan glanced across the street and watched the crowd moving back and forth before the blackened remains of several buildings.

  “Romero Building,” Jack said. “The fire started there then burned the other two places. Happened a few weeks ago.”

  “Any injuries?” Logan caught sight of a man atop a horse, wrapped in a large Mexican blanket and wearing a wide, floppy sombrero.

  “Thankfully no.”

  Not a man, a woman.

  “Sonofabitch.”

  “I think they’ll rebuild,” Jack said. “The Romero’s have always done well in town.”

  “Is that Claire?” Logan asked. The horse was definitely old Reverend. He’d returned the animal to the saloon that morning.

  Jack squinted in the same direction. “Now, why would you say that? Tia told me she was hiding until her ma returned. I was sworn to secrecy.” Jack made a humming sound in his throat. “That hat seems a might too big.”

  “Where’s she goin’?”

  “That’s the way out of town. The soldiers use it to and from Fort Union. It’ll also take you up to Cimarron.”

  “She’s leaving.” Logan realized he might never see her again. He didn’t like it.

  “Hmm. Claire’s a strong girl, I’ve always thought so.” Jack looked at Logan. “But she’s stubborn, too. All females are, really. Tia and me looked after her as much as we could, but we’re getting old. If you’ve a mind to help out, we’d be much obliged.”

  “You think she’s in trouble?”

  Jack eyed the darkening sky. “I think night comes.” His gaze met Logan’s. “Go after her, son. You want to anyway. Would it help if I kicked you in the ass?”

  Logan’s mouth turned up at the corner. “Maybe.”

  “Stop talking and get out of here.”

  Logan adjusted his hat. “Yes, sir.” He nodded toward Jack as he hurried to retrieve his gear from the hotel and Storm from the stables.

  Chapter Four

  Claire knew the most logical course of action was to wait until morning to head out, but decided she needed the cover of night. Despite this, however, she still donned a new disguise.

  The sky faded to black as she left the outskirts of town and headed north along the well-worn S
anta Fe Trail. The path forged a noticeable rut, several wagons wide, across the open plains, yellow grama grass on either side. To the west, the distinct outline of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains marked the horizon. Unusual Hermit’s Peak was also visible, a prominent landmark just outside the town. Jutting from the ground, the peak was a pale contrast of sheer rocky cliffs and flat expanse, slanting upward at an angle as if the earth had tried to shove it out of its interior in one huge geological burst. Serving as a visual beacon, it reminded Claire of the last fourteen years she’d spent living in this place, of memories good and bad, of dreams and hopes that had filled her head when reality became too much to bear.

  Despite her dedication to the business, there were times when Maggie would—out of the blue—take Claire, and Jimmy after he was born, into the wilderness. Her favorite spot was at the base of Hermit’s Peak. If happy times existed in Claire’s childhood most of them had occurred during these breaks from being the outcasts of society. She and her mama would build a fire, make a stew of rabbit and potatoes, and sleep under the stars. Only then had Maggie ever spoken of the life she’d led before Claire was born, of her own childhood in Charleston and the family that hadn’t approved of her out-of-wedlock pregnancy.

  “The sunsets are different back east,” Maggie had said more than once. “Not like the ones here, all orange and red with an endless sky. My pa used to take me into the mountains, and I remember those times at dusk when God would paint the world with lavender and violet.”