Once again, she'd surprised him with her knowledge of the world. He was still not of a mind that all women were so well informed, though. His own mother had never even mentioned anything remotely political, and really had seemed content with her sewing, washing and cooking.
"Enough about my view. As a man, you ought to know what's going on, since you've got the vote. The main issue of this election is tariff policy--"
He cut her off. "That much, I know. Noah and I read an AP article about it in the Sacramento paper. Cleveland favors lower tariffs and Harrison favors them higher. Aside from that, Cleveland is against pensions for veterans of the war, and Noah and I don't cotton to that."
Her eyes widened, and a faint smile lifted the corners of her full lips.
"See? I'm not such a dullard on these topics as you thought." He felt the satisfied smirk creep over his face, and did nothing to hold it back.
Her smile broadened in response. "Aren't you something? There may yet be hope for the male race."
Seeing her beautiful smile and hearing the humor in her voice made him chuckle. "I guess I can say the same for the female race."
A peal of laughter erupted from her mouth.
Perched on the bench, laughing as if she hadn't a care in the world, she was as beautiful a creature as he'd ever seen. She threw her head back, the dark waves of hair falling away to reveal the lovely contours of her chocolate-skinned face. Her pert bosom, the round tops revealed by the flouncy lace collar of her blouse, bounced in time with her giggles.
He was enraptured. The lovely, mirthful lady before him bore precious little resemblance to the angry faced snapping turtle he'd arrested earlier. Now that he'd had time to survey her, from the crown of her dark hair to the flat soled brown leather boots on her small feet, he couldn't ignore her lush, dark beauty. He'd never spent this much time regarding a woman of color, and this one seemed to possess a certain quality that made him wonder why.
She managed to tamp down her laughter, and drew a deep breath. "What time is it?"
He pulled the pocket watch out of the inner pocket of his buckskin vest and glanced at it. "Half past noon. Got somewhere to be?"
She shook her head. "No, and I'm sure Lupe can handle things at the saloon until I'm bailed out. I know my aunt Myrna will be upset about all this, though, and I'd like to see to her as soon as possible."
"Ah, I see." He was quite familiar with her aunt, who often played piano at the Crazy Eights. Myrna was over the age of sixty, and a retired stage actress. From everything he'd seen, Angel loved her aunt very much, and made caring for her a high priority.
She leaned forward, propping her elbow on her knees and resting her chin in her upturned palms. Her eyes mirrored the concern in her voice. "I hope she remembers to take her medicine. If she gets wrapped up in a book, she'd forget all about it, and next thing you know I'll be taking her down to Doc Wilkins' clinic."
He remembered Lupe's promise to bring bail money to the jail later in the day. Nothing in his interactions with her made him think her dishonest, so he made a decision. Removing the ring of keys from the waistband of his denims, he searched through them for the key to Cell #1. "Tell you what, I'll prove I'm reasonable by letting you go a bit early, so you can see to your aunt's care."
She perked up, scooting to the edge of the bench. "Truly? You would do that?"
He nodded, locating the correct key. Inserting it into the lock, he turned it. "Yes, but there are conditions. You must pay your fine no later than five o'clock this evening, and you must give me your solemn vow not to let your protests interfere with traffic again. Agreed?"
Already on her feet, she waited near the door. "Yes, yes, I promise. Will you get into trouble with Noah for this?"
"Long as the fine is paid by day's end, all's well." He opened the door, and as it swung open into the hallway, she stepped out into the narrow corridor.
The door swung shut behind her, and she took a single step backward.
The movement, along with the tight space of the hallway, caused the back of her body to make contact with the front of his. Her back grazed his chest, and her comely, round bottom pressed against the front of his denims.
His body reacted to her closeness, and the sweet floral scent floating up from the bare column of her throat. Heat filled him, and it seemed every bit of blood running through his upper body took a southward turn. His hands, of their own accord, came up to rest on her hips. His palms burned, his mind wandering to all the scandalous things he could have demanded in exchange for her release. But he was not that kind of man.
The contact lasted several long moments before she gasped. Her body tensed against his, her back becoming stiff; rigid.
Heart pounding in his ears, he dragged his hands away, knowing such boldness wasn't proper between a man of the law and an unmarried woman of town.
She sidled away, putting a bit of distance between them. When she looked up at him, her face cheeks glowed a rosy flush of heat. "Why, Deputy. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were being a little bit fresh."
He stammered a bit as he searched for the right words. "I... forgive me....my apologies, Miss Lane. That wasn't appropriate."
She blinked a few times. "It's quite alright. Thank you for allowing me to leave, Deputy."
He gave a solemn nod. "Sure. Just remember your promise."
She showed him her back as she walked up the corridor, into the front office and toward the door. As she stepped to the threshold, the afternoon sun casting a brilliant glow on her dark halo of wavy hair, she paused. "Good day, Deputy."
"Good day Miss Lane. Please, call me Gregory. And again, my apologies for my behavior."
The golden, feline eyes locked with his. "Apology accepted, Gregory. And just so you'll know, it wasn't altogether unpleasant."
His mouth fell open.
A ghost of a smile crossed her face, then she turned and walked out, soon disappearing into the gaggle of townsfolk moving up and down the plank walk.
Shaking his head in the wake of her brazen words, he sat on the edge of the desk and looked out the door for a long while.
* * *
Chapter 2
Gregory sat back in the wooden chair he occupied, taking a sip from a tin mug of coffee. Today was his first day off in nearly two weeks. Instead of sleeping in, he'd risen early to make his way here to Buck's Barbershop. He ran a hand over his shaggy hair as he waited for the chair to open, and lamented again at how overdue he was for a shave and haircut.
Edward "Buck" Buckner, the town's barber, snipped the ends of hair hanging in the face of his patron, a man Gregory didn't recognize. "Be done in just a minute, Greg."
He offered a nod, then cast his eyes toward the door. Propped open by a large stone, the doorway acted as a portal for him to view the goings-on outside the shop. The day had dawned misty and foggy, and remained that way now that the breakfast hour had passed. The citizens of Ridgeway went about their business as usual, undaunted by the cloud shrouded, gloomy conditions.
He watched Prissy, the librarian, sweep up the walk in front of Ridgeway's small library. Bernard, the retiring mayor, tidied the bins of vegetables and dry goods displayed outside his mercantile. Folks greeted each other as they moved in and out of the building housing the telegraph and post office.
Buck's voice interrupted his observations. "Alright, Greg. Pony up to the chair." He slapped the backrest of the leather chair with his towel, emphasizing his words.
Standing, Gregory moved from his waiting spot to the barber's chair. As he settled in, he realized he'd been so focused on what was happening outside, he hadn't even noticed the previous patron's exit.
Buck spread a large canvas cape over him, securing it around his neck by doing up the long ties attached to it. "So, how goes the law keeping?"
"About the same as ever." He couldn't help thinking of Angel as he answered Buck's question, and wondered what she might be doing at the moment. She was a saloon owner; an unorthodox career for a wo
man. Odds were she was still in bed at this early hour.
"I bet. Heard you arrested our saloon keeper yesterday." Buck used his shears to trim away some of the overgrowth atop his head, and the clipped hairs began to fall down on the shoulders of the cape like dark snowflakes.
He cringed, though he wasn't surprised Buck knew about the incident. In a town as small as Ridgeway, there were no secrets, at least not for long. "I did. She and her troublemaking friends were blocking traffic, not to mention disturbing the peace with all their shouting and carrying on."
That drew a chuckle from Buck. "I gathered as much. One of my customers walked in here claiming to have left his horse and buggy in the middle of the street."
He wanted to shake his head, but refrained so as not to interfere with the haircut. "She went quietly, mostly. Once she was actually in the cell she wouldn't button her lip for nothin'. "
"She's a sassy one, ain't she? Just like the girls back home in Buffalo." Buck often spoke fondly of his hometown back East in New York. "If I hadn't grown accustomed to these mild California winters, I'd move back there."
He recalled his conversation with Angel in the jail, and felt a slight smile creep over his face. "Sassy doesn't begin to cover it. She's stubborn, mouthy, and a shrew. Still, she's smarter than most females I've seen around these parts."
Buck ran a comb through Gregory's hair, and brushed away the loose strands left from the trimming. "Smart females can be a handful. Maybe that's why I'm past forty and still a bachelor. Just haven't found the one worth the trouble yet."
Gregory gave a dismissive wave. "Pshaw. You're probably better off on your own. Women are more trouble than they're worth."
Buck chuckled. "Maybe, but being coupled up has its benefits, if you get my meaning."
He did. A man had needs, needs that he himself kept tucked away so he could remain focused on his work. "I want a woman like my ma. She's quiet, docile, and always there to see to my Papa's needs." Truly, Marie Simmons was the model after which the female race should have been patterned.
"That may be so. But a woman like Angel will keep you young and spry for a good long while. She may be mouthy, but she's a beauty." With the leather strap mounted to the counter pulled taut, Buck began sharpening his straight razor.
"Ain't no disputing that." Gregory leaned back in the chair and let his eyes close.
In his mind, he could see Angel as she'd been yesterday at the jail. He recalled the sparkle in her dark eyes, the way she'd gestured and pointed as she spoke. She'd made it clear that shyness and being reserved were not qualities she possessed. Nothing about her that reminded her of his dear mother, yet her dark beauty intrigued him. A few short years ago, he'd ribbed Noah about being attracted to Valerie. Times were changing, yes, but the change was slow going. A lot of folks still didn't approve of mixing the races.
Noah hadn't let Gregory, or anyone for that matter, dissuade him from pursuing Valerie. Now, more than two years later, Noah happiness could not be denied or ignored. His whole world was his wife and young son, and he'd never seemed more content or fulfilled.
Gregory realized that now, he found himself fascinated by a jewel of the darker race. While he didn't know how to handle it, he did know better than to dismiss it completely because she was a woman of color.
Soon, he felt Buck spreading the cool shaving cream over his face with the soft bristled brush. With smooth, long strokes, Buck moved the razor over his skin, sweeping away the wiry beard he'd grown. "Enough about women. This is a barbershop, where men talk about manly things. So, tell me, what's next for Noah's campaign?"
While grateful for the change in topic, he couldn't say he was thrilled to be talking about Noah. The sheriff had been his most trusted friend for years, but lately he seemed so distracted with the election, Gregory rarely even saw him. "I don't know what he's up to. If he's not busy with some political duty or another, he's spending his time at home with Valerie and little Abraham." He didn't begrudge Noah his family or his career, but he did miss his friend.
"Hmm." Buck uttered a contemplative groan as he made a second pass with the razor. "He's got my vote. Can't abide that Nathan Greer, myself. Man's so racist his name oughta be Jim Crow."
Gregory had to agree with his friend's assessment. More than once, he'd been in the saloon and overheard Greer's latest diatribe about how the Negro race was inferior to the white race in every way. Greer held much the same low regard for anyone else of color, be they native, or Hispanic, Asian, or otherwise. Anyone who tried to disagree with Greer would be met with his ire, along with another long speech about why Greer's opinion was the only one that was right. Gregory never got into such arguments, because he believed them to be foolish. He'd known Buck five years or more, and he couldn't reconcile the image of the lazy, nary-do-well Negro painted by Greer with the true nature of his hardworking, honest friend. "I don't know who he's expecting will vote for him, with the mean, hateful nonsense he's spouting all over town."
Buck's answering chuckle held no humor, only bitterness. "Oh, some folks will vote for him. Folks that share his opinions about how worthless Negros are." He made a small adjustment to Gregory's sideburns, then tossed the razor into a basin of water and vinegar he kept nearby.
Gregory ran a hand over his newly clean shaven jaw, his brow furrowed. "I just can't believe folks still holding on to that mess in this day and age. The damn war's been over for twenty years now."
Buck didn't look up from wiping the blade of the razor with a clean cloth. "Rational folks know that, but the old Rebs, and the old ways, die hard."
He saw the truth in Buck's words, and while it pained him, he knew there wasn't much he could do to change it. California had never been a slave holding state. Even prior to its admission to the Union in 1852, when the area was Spanish territory, slavery had not been the law of the land. But from the attitude of some of the folks in town, especially those who migrated west after the devastation visited on their Southern homes by the War Between the States, one wouldn't know that black citizens were essentially equal under the law.
He remembered those days of war. He'd been back home in Sacramento then, just a boy coming of age. No one he knew personally had gone to fight, but he recalled the misty mornings he spent listening to his father read accounts of the battles from the newspaper. He'd heard of the tragedies, such as the massive losses on both sides at the Battle of the Wilderness, and the feats of bravery, such as those performed at Chickamauga by Major General George H. Thomas, revered as the "Rock of Chickamauga." Some of the reports had made him and his brothers cheer boisterously, while others described things so grisly, his mother's face had gone pale and white as milled flour. If he, someone who'd been only a child with no real connection to the war, still felt the gravity of those days, he couldn't imagine how it must have affected someone like Buck.
Buck's dark eyes held sadness. "Lot of my classmates and neighbors fought in the war. Some never came back."
He recognized the melancholy that talking about the war often brought on in Buck. Wanting to lighten the mood, he reached for his wallet. "How much do I owe ya, Buck?"
Buck stood silent for a few moments. Then, he seemed to break free of the memories. Placing the newly cleaned razor in the velvet lined case on his counter, he gave a slight smile. "That'll be three dollars. Same as always."
He handed Buck the payment, then slid out of the chair and stood. "Well, I best be getting out of here. I've got morning patrols to do."
Tucking the money into the cash drawer built into his counter, Buck nodded. "Good luck out there, friend."
In the doorway, Gregory stopped to place his Stetson atop his head. He touched the brim, looking in Buck's direction. "See you later, Buck."
With that, he stepped out of the barber shop and onto the plank walk outside.
***
Angel sat in a chair inside Lilly's Dress Emporium, half-listening to the conversations happening around her. The shop had closed an hour ago, but she and
many of the other women who'd dubbed themselves Crusaders for the Vote were gathered inside. They’d taken up seats in chairs, on overturned barrels; some even sat on the floor between the dress forms and shelves bursting with Lilly's latest fashionable creations. Lupe had stayed behind to work the bar at the saloon in order to let Angel attend the meeting, and she'd slipped away only a few minutes ago.
Lilly Benigno, proprietor of the shop, stood atop a crate and called the women to order. "Good Evening, ladies. As you know, the Ridgeway Tribune has been reporting on our activities as we agitate for our voting rights. Catherine McCormack tells me that her husband, our illustrious journalist, has even been submitting our news to the Associated Press."
Chatter rose among the women on the heels of that announcement. Angel smiled, pleased to hear that news of their efforts was being spread beyond the borders of their small town.
Lilly extracted a folded paper from beneath her arm, and continued. "I'd like you all to hear what was printed in today's San Francisco Chronicle about us, written by a Mr. John T. West. And I quote, 'The talk of suffrage has been around for a long time, with little progress. However, that hasn't discouraged a group of particularly demanding females, in the small enclave of Ridgeway, near Oakland, from abandoning their duties of washing, cooking, and tending the home in favor of protests and marches that disrupt traffic and create problems for their menfolk.' Can you believe that?"
Angel's brow furrowed, and she raised her voice to speak. "Why, that's a male superior view if ever I heard one. McCormack always reports the story objectively. How could that brigand twist the story to make us sound like a bunch of nary-do-wells?"
Prissy Parker, the town's librarian, scoffed. "It seems this Mr. West has his own agenda in mind, and means to perpetrate it, even if it means insulting us."
With a shake of her head, Angel sighed. If this Mr. West couldn't keep his personal opinions separate from his work, then journalism wasn't the field for him. His antiquated attitudes were a detriment to his ability to report the news as it was, rather than as he saw it. She'd love to meet this Mr. West, and give a good-sized piece of her mind. For every woman like her, working hard to gain her rights, there were two or three stubborn, bull headed men like him trying to undermine her efforts. She wondered what men thought would happen if they just gave in and let women be equal citizens. What were they so afraid of?
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