As if giving voice to her thoughts, Lilly proclaimed, "It's as if men think that if they give us any rights, we'll immediately overthrow the government and banish them all to work camps in some dreadful place. I just can't make heads or tails of it."
Prissy quipped, "Or maybe their simply afraid they'll be forced to mend their own damn shirts, or heaven forbid, cook for themselves."
A few chuckles met that flip remark. Prissy could always be counted on to call it as she saw it.
Lilly sighed. "It's a shame, really. And what makes it worse is that we couldn't even get the commitment of all the women here in Ridgeway. Some of them refused to join us because they don't care about political matters, and others refused to be an integrated group."
Angel looked around at the women gathered in the shop. There were women of many races and backgrounds present, but the truth of Lilly's words still stung. Some of the ladies of this town just didn't give a damn, and she could almost understand that. What she couldn't understand was the women who turned their noses up at the idea of marching alongside their counterparts of other races, or those who didn't have enough money or social standing to meet their high standards. If it weren't for those foolish prejudices, the Crusaders would likely number in the hundreds instead of the forty or so currently serving.
From among the women, someone asked, "What are we going to do now?"
Lilly, her jaw set, raised her fist. "I'll tell you what we're going to do. We're going to keep right on protesting until we get our rights."
Angel jumped to her feet. "Lilly's right. I've already survived being arrested and thrown in jail. I say we give 'em hell till they give in!"
Even the usually stoic Prudence Emerson, wife of the town's minister, seemed riled. "The men of this town owe us! We've cooked their meals, scrubbed their floors, and borne their babes. They are gonna do right by us, whether they like it or not!"
A rousing burst of cheering and applause filled the dress shop.
Angel joined in the revelry, a smile spreading across her face. She imagined Mr. San Francisco Reporter would be none too pleased to learn that his snide article had only encouraged the "demanding women" of Ridgeway to redouble their efforts. "And if they don't like it, tell them to direct their complaints to Mr. John T. West, care of the San Francisco Chronicle!"
The women spent a little while formulating their strategy for the next protest, before saying their goodbyes, and parting ways.
Later, with a dampened cloth in her grasp, Angel wiped down the bar surface at night's end. The midnight hour neared, and she was bone-tired from what had proven to be an exceptionally busy Tuesday evening at the Crazy Eights. Sweeping the remnant of peanut shells and popcorn hulls into the refuse bin at her feet, she blew a lock of hair out of her face. From the shelf below the counter, she grabbed the tin of polish she used to maintain the bar's wooden surface, then set to work polishing it.
While she worked the polish into the grain of the hand carved mahogany, she thought of Gary Greenfield, the previous owner. He'd commissioned a craftsman from San Francisco make the counter, and had lovingly preserved it for the two decades he'd run the place. Just a few months ago, Mr. Greenfield had retired to Los Angeles, leaving the ownership of the saloon to her, his most trusted employee. Greenfield, over twenty-five years her senior, had always treated her with kindness and respect, and she had a very high regard for him. She thought of him in an almost paternal sense; he'd been the only such figure to ever enter her life. While she missed him dearly, she didn't begrudge him his well-earned retirement, and they kept in contact through letters and the occasional telegraph.
"Angel? Angel, are you still up?" The familiar voice came from her apartment, built onto the rear of the saloon.
Hearing her aunt's call, she quickly finished her task. "Yes, Aunt Myrna. Do you need something?"
"Yes, I need you to go to bed and get some sleep!" came the reply.
With a chuckle, she set the rag and polish aside. Her aunt could be rather insistent at times, but she knew Myrna Lane Corcoran loved her fiercely, and the feeling was mutual. So, she called back, "Yes, Ma'am." Making sure all the lanterns on the bar, the tables, and the window ledges were doused, she dusted her hands off on her denims and strolled through the door to her apartment.
The door led to a short corridor, on the end of which was a second door that opened into the apartment. Due to the occasional lost visitor to town, or confused patron who'd imbibed too much, that door was kept bolted. Unlocking the door with the key hanging around her neck, she entered and closed the door behind her, throwing the latch to secure it.
The owner's apartment was not palatial by any stretch, but was certainly larger than any room to let in town. Even the cabin she'd lived in before, on the edge of a neighboring town, had not been much larger. One large room served as kitchen and parlor, while two smaller rooms were her bedroom and the bathing room. Aside from the convenience of living just steps away from her business, the bathing room, with its fancy plumbing system and claw footed bathtub was her favorite part of living here.
Opposite her room, on the far end of the parlor, Myrna had erected an ornate bamboo screen. The screen had been a souvenir from her younger days, when she'd acted in a production company that toured up and down the Pacific coast. She'd picked the screen up on a trip to Chinatown in San Francisco, and now it served to separate her private space from the rest of the area.
Now, Angel went to the screen and peeked around it. Her aunt reclined on her low, cot-like bed, her silver hair wrapped in the blue silk scarf she wore to protect it at night. She sat propped against her many pillows, copper-rimmed reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, with an open book on her lap. The Lane family quilt, sewn from the scraps of baby clothes, wedding gowns, and other significant pieces of fabric from the family's history, was draped over the lower half of her body.
Myrna looked up from her reading, offered a soft smile. "Good, child. So, you're finally going to bed?"
"Yes ma'am." She leaned down to kiss her aunt's brow. "What are you reading?"
"The Canterbury Tales. Written by a Geoffrey Chaucer. A bit dreadful and crass in places, but still not a bad read."
"Ah." She knew of her aunt's love of literature from all over the world, and was not surprised to find her reading at this, or any hour.
"So, what happened today while you were incarcerated?"
The question caught Angel by surprise, and she blinked. "Well, not much. I did try to sway Gregory to our side, though. I'm not sure I succeeded, but at least I showed him not all females are daft doxies whose interests don't extend beyond the latest designs in the Godey's Ladies Book."
Her aunt's expression changed, a silver eyebrow arched. "Gregory, is that the deputy's first name? I never knew it. When did the two of you become so informal?"
She felt warmth creeping into her face. "Today, I suppose. He asked me to call him that."
Myrna said nothing, but offered a knowing smile.
Aware of her aunt's thoughts, she shook her head. "Now, Aunt Myrna. Don't start your mental matchmaking. I'm a saloon owner-the deputy and I are not suited."
The older woman gave a soft sigh. "Yes, yes, if you say so. You know the only two things I wish to do before I leave this life are to cast a ballot, and to see you married. Don't begrudge an old woman her hopes."
With a half-smile, she touched her aunt's cheek. She loved her mother's elder sister with all her heart, and knew her meddling to be well meaning. "I'm going to bed."
"Sure, you are." Myrna looked down at the volume, turned the page. "As soon as I finish 'The Wife of Bath's Tale,’ I'm off to sleep myself. Goodnight, dear."
"Goodnight, Auntie." She walked around the screen and left her aunt to her reading. In the bathing room, she washed her face in the basin and glanced at the tub. As much as she wanted to enjoy a hot soak, her tired body cried out for the bed.
That isn't all I'm crying out for. The thought of Gregory met her as soon as s
he slipped beneath the covers. He was so handsome, it almost hurt her eyes to look at him. Dark hair grazing his neck, the shadowy beard along his strong jaw, and the assessing, coal black eyes. The brief contact of their bodies when he'd freed her from the cell earlier had sent sparks shooting through her. Heat seemed to radiate from every pore of his well-muscled body. It was why she'd sent Lupe around to pay her fines; she wasn't sure she could keep control of her faculties if she had to be in his overwhelming presence twice in the same day.
A yawn escaped her, and she rolled over onto her side. The night breeze lifted the ends of her white lace curtains, and the chill made her get up to close the swinging pane of glass. That done, she slipped back beneath the bedding atop her bed, and closed her eyes.
Before sleep could claim her, her aunt's laughter broke the silence.
"Angel! Come and read this part, its hilarious!"
Shaking her head, she dragged her tired body from the bed and went to see what her aunt wanted to show her.
* * *
Chapter 3
The following afternoon, Angel stood behind the saloon's bar, going over the alcohol inventory with Joel, the man who came by to take orders for the distillery over in Oakland.
"So, I'll need another case of whiskey, a case of rum, and about five bottles of vodka, please." She looked up from the small notebook she used to tally her liquor orders, and found the squat little fellow staring, as was his way, at her bosom. She supposed some of it had to do with his lack of height, but he was mostly just a pervert in her mind.
Joel noted her request, then tucked away his black leather bound ledger. His gaze rose, but still focused on her chest. "Yes, Miss Lane. No problem."
She wrinkled her nose in disgust, crossed her arms over her chest to block his view. "Joel, unless you expect my bosom to produce a wallet and pay for this, you'd best start looking me in the eye."
His beady eyes shifted, then lowered. "Sorry, Miss Lane. Plainspoken as always, I see." He made haste to jot her a receipt on one of the pages of his book, then ripped it out and handed it to her.
She took the paper, slipping it into the pocket of her denims. "I run a saloon, for Pete's sake. I gave up sweet words and fancy talk long ago. Have a good day, Joel."
The little man grabbed up his hat and case, and exited.
Not long after he left, Lupe entered for her shift. Wearing her barmaid's uniform of white blouse, red vest, and fitted black trousers, she'd bound her long black hair in a low bun. In the three years that Lupe and she Angel had tended the bar at the Crazy Eights side by side, they'd become good friends. "Just saw Joel hitching his wagon. Has he been here holding a conversation with your bosoms again?"
Chuckling, Angel nodded. She was amazed that even though Joel had been coordinating her liquor orders for months, he never seemed to tire of looking down her blouse. "Sure has. The man's got no manners."
Lupe echoed her laugh as she passed the upright piano sitting near the door. The sound of the pointed heels of her tall black boots echoed on the hardwood floors as she navigated the maze of tables and eased behind the bar. There, she stashed her handbag on a low shelf beneath the counter, and grabbed up her polish cloth and a glass from the rack. "They oughta hire a lady to take the orders. Give her a gun to take care of anybody who means her harm."
She agreed with Lupe, but still shook her head. "That ain't never gonna happen. You know how men are. They think we're too dumb to do much of anything that don't involve cooking, cleaning, or birthing and raising their babies."
Running the rag over a tall pilsner, Lupe sighed. "You're right, men don't think much of us. Like they're so smart. They get a sniff of perfume, or a look at our bosoms, and can't even hardly function." She jabbed a finger in the air, gesturing toward Angel's outfit.
Looking down at the ruffled, off the shoulder collar of her lavender blouse, she shrugged. "I don't dress for those fool men, or for anybody else. I just wear what I like. Those damn gowns and corsets are just too tight and uncomfortable for a woman running a business."
Lupe moved on to the next glass, shining it until it sparkled in the sunlight. "Agreed. I have a hard enough time moving about in this vest." She adjusted the jet buttons running down the center with a smirk.
Angel pulled out her uncle's old pocket watch from her denims, yet another thing that made the men of town call her 'unorthodox'. She made note of the time. "Open up the bar in about fifteen minutes, Lupe."
The barmaid nodded as she tucked the last glass back into the rack. "Will do."
Intent on making a few final preparations for the saloon's opening, Angel drifted away from the counter and moved out into the mass of tables. She used the cloth she kept tucked in her waistband to dust a few smudges off the wooden surfaces of the tables and chairs, made sure the spittoon was emptied and clean, and check the oil lamps set on each table to make sure their fuel levels were right.
At the last table, closest to the bar, she found a mysterious sticky, dark spot. Her brow furrowed, as she assumed it to be a bit of chewing tobacco, dribbled there by one of her patrons. Groaning, she whipped out her cloth again and began scrubbing the spot.
She was so engrossed in getting rid of the nasty stain that she didn't notice anyone entering the saloon. The first indication she had of Deputy Simmons's presence was the smell of him. The masculine scent of leather and cigar smoke filled her nostrils and she was nearly overcome. She didn't even have to look up to identify him, or to know that he stood mere feet from her.
"Evenin', Miss Lane." The deep timbre of his voice affected her, vibrating through her very being as he spoke. He'd removed his tan Stetson upon entering the saloon, and had it in one hand, resting on his hip. The absence of his hat revealed his raven dark locks. His hair was no longer touching the base of his neck, but had been freshly trimmed into a neater cut. Gone was the shadowy beard, allowing her the full experience of his handsome, angular face.
She ceased her scrubbing, and straightened up to her full height, which was still at least five inches less than his. As she angled her neck to look into his watchful black eyes, she felt her pulse quickening. "Evenin', Deputy."
He took another step closer, his wide, muscular frame obstructing her view of the saloon's interior. "Now, now. I already know you're a troublemaker; no need to be so formal. Call me Greg, like I said before." His tone held humor, as if he amused himself.
She recognized his attempt at goading her, and that helped to break the trance he'd put her under. Placing a hand to her chest and feigning offense, she released a dramatic sigh. "Honestly, Greg. I'm not a troublemaker. Just trying to get my message heard."
He nodded his head, gave her a small smile of appeasement. "Sure, sure. Just remember not to block traffic and you can spout your nonsense all over town if you like." He gave her a wink, and sidled over to the bar, taking up residence on one of the stools.
She rolled her eyes. He displayed the typical male point of view, and she wondered if they would ever abandon their wrongheaded way of thinking. Even though he annoyed her, she couldn't help admiring the sight of his denim-clad behind, perched on the brown leather padded seat of the stool he occupied. He might be arrogant, and even a bit insufferable, but his rear end was so nice, it almost made up for it.
Almost.
Lupe, who'd been silently wiping the same area of the bar from the moment the deputy strode in, plastered on a smile. "Howdy, Deputy. What's your pleasure?"
Laying his Stetson on the bar's top, he gave her a nod of greeting. "Howdy, Lupe. Get me a sarsaparilla, if you please. Duty tonight. Wouldn't want to be seen about with a brick in my hat."
"Comin' right up." Lupe filled a glass with the dark, bubbly liquid from the tap behind the bar, then slid the glass in his direction.
He caught it deftly, stopping its slide with the open palm of his large hand.
Angel could see the invitation in Lupe's smile, and she felt a twinge of irritation. She drew a deep breath, and mused on where the negative feel
ings could be coming from. She couldn't really blame Lupe for noticing how handsome the deputy was. Every sighted woman between here and Sacramento would probably agree that he was easy on the eyes. Beyond that, she had no claims on him, and therefore no right to be upset. Feeling she was thinking entirely too hard about a man, especially one with such backward views, she settled onto a stool next to him.
He'd downed most of the sarsaparilla, and was now looking at a notebook of some kind, which he'd opened and placed in front of him on the bar.
Curious, she leaned a bit closer, but found she couldn't make out the handwritten notes scribbled in the book. "What's that book, Greg?"
"We use it to keep up with our arrest records. Helps us point out repeat offenders, keep up with their whereabouts, and all that." He ran his finger over the page, then shut the book and tucked it away.
Hearing his explanation got her to thinking about what had happened the other day. "Is my name in there? Do I have a record now?"
He chuckled. "Yes. I did have to arrest you, so you're listed in it. As of now, though, we have no reason to believe you'll be a repeat offender."
She folded her arms over her chest. "You mean to tell me I've got a criminal record, just because I stood up for what I believe in, for what's right?"
"That's about the balance of it. But I certainly wouldn't say its 'right' to cause such a disruption to the town, especially in the name of such a silly cause."
She tried, without success, to keep the incredulity out of her voice. "Are you serious? After everything we spoke about, you still don't believe women should have the right to vote?"
Electing to Love Page 3
