by Lynn Donovan
The chuckles escalated into belly laughs. “Sounds like you got yourself a real keeper.” Handlebar mustache slapped another of his friends on the back. That slender man nodded agreement, but coughed from the hard impact to his back. The laughter waned.
Daniels drew his brow into a scowl. “So… you are here scouting for your missus to find whiskey suppliers for them saloons out west.” His mouth curled into a disgusted grin. “Pardon me for saying so, but don’t that make you her nancy-boy.”
Smith took a step back and snapped his colt .44 out from under his jacket. He pressed it into the man’s nostrils. All eyes went wide with surprise. The saloon fell silent.
“Do I look like anybody’s nancy-boy to you?”
The gun’s barrel bent Daniel’s nose upward and his nostrils blanched from the pressure. The man tried to shake his head and not move at the same time. “No sir.”
Smith lowered his gun, but kept it handy. “I told you fella’s my wife comes from an extremely wealthy matriarchal family. That means the women are in charge of the purse. Just because I brought her back with me to America, don’t change none of that. And perhaps it’s a good thing, because we all know how French men squander their treasures on loose women and fancy wine.”
Smith laughed. The tension in the bar relaxed and the men laughed along with him. People went about their business.
“You know, that’s not a bad idea your missus got there. Distributing to establishments that you also own is like a double-dip into the profits.” Handlebar-mustache looked impressed with the idea.
“Yeah. That’s a mighty good plan.” Another man rubbed the back of his head, perhaps he was relieved he hadn’t been shot for Daniels’s rudeness.
“Well—” The tall lanky man, who had received the brunt of Mustache’s jovial slap on the back, tipped his chin to the bartender who brought a green labeled bottle to the table. “If you won’t play poker with us, have another drink… on us.”
Smith laughed. “That, gentlemen, I can do!”
The men joined him in his mirth as glasses were filled with the new bottle.
“Look here.” Daniels slammed his empty glass down on the table. “You need to meet with some of the distillery owners.”
“Yes.” Smith intentionally acted excited by greedily rubbing his hands together. “That’s why I’m here. I’m hoping to arrange a meeting for my wife and I.”
“A meeting, eh? Well,” Daniels looked around the table. “You just had one!”
The men erupted in laughter as he slammed his hand on the table. The others tossed their heads back laughing with him.
“So… you fellas own a distillery?”
“Yep.” Daniels shook Smith’s hand again. “My name’s Jasper Newton Daniels, but folks call me Jack.”
Mustache stood. “I’m James Beauregard Beam.”
The lanky fellow leapt to his feet and put his hand toward Smith’s. “My name’s Alexander Walker.”
They went around the table introducing themselves. Smith committed each to memory.
“We don’t like to do business while playing poker, so why don’t you and the missus meet us in the morning down on the docks. We got warehouses down there. Just look for this black label” —He held up the bottle. Smith read the label, Jack Daniels— “it’s painted on the side of my building.”
The others nodded. Walker grinned. “We all got our warehouses painted with our labels down there. Beam’s nephew is a painter. He did it for us.”
Beam chuckled. “We can supply your establishments, no problems there, I tell ya.”
“Good. Thank you, gentlemen!” Smith shook each man’s hand in turn. “My wife and I will be there first thing in the morning.”
“Yeah, and if you and the missus appreciate a double-ended profit, we got a great system for—”
“Shut up.” Beam smiled, but he didn’t look happy. “All in good time, my boy. All in good time. Let’s meet the man’s business partner and see if she’s even interested in purchasing our cooperages. Then we’ll tell them how it all works down there on the docks.”
Smith raised his brow. Did Walker nearly reveal their system for tax evasion? He lifted his glass that had been refilled while he had shaken their hands. “Gentlemen, I’m sure with this fine example of your products, my wife will be thrilled to do business with each and every one of you.” He laughed, and they did too, then downed the whiskey.
Smith staggered a little as he left the bar and turned at the first opening between buildings. He bent at his waist and vomited.
A throat cleared. The sound bounced off the narrow alley walls. Smith touched his colt and whirled around, drawing the gun level with his waist. A slender hourglass figure stood, hands on hips, silhouetted by the moonlight. “Are you alright?”
“Fina!” Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he slipped the gun back under his jacket. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I— what are you doing here? Without me. Your partner?”
His eyes roved over her curves. She had changed into men’s trousers and a long sleeve shirt, but she looked every inch a woman. He swallowed his sudden arousing fervor. “I-I… had to set up a meeting for tomorrow… with the distillers.”
She moved, whipped something from her corset, and threw it at his head. He jerked aside but heard the object whiz past his ear.
“And you couldn’t do that with me?”
He spun around to find a small, thin knife without a handle, protruding from the building slats. He held up his hands in surrender. “No, honey. I really could not have.”
She moved her other hand. Smith leapt toward her. “Wait!”
Anger drew her brow down over her inflamed eyes. “And why not? We are partners!”
He grabbed her wrist just as she whipped out a twin blade. “I know, but some things have to be done by a man.”
She jerked, not freeing herself from his grasp, but flipped the knife around. She strained to press it inches from his throat. He tilted his head and inhaled, silently warning her to stop.
Her eyes popped open. “Oh really?”
Smith whispered, “Oui, tu dois me croire.”
His French seemed to give her pause. “I… do… trust… you.”
He released her wrist and she slipped her knife back where it had come from. How did she keep from slicing her delicate skin? He walked to the wall and retrieved her matching weapon. Admiring its slight but effective size, he handed it to her.
It too went back into hiding. He forced his eyes away from where the knife disappeared. “Okay then. Let’s go back to the hotel and I’ll tell you all about my meeting.”
He laid his hands on her shoulders and turned her to walk in front of him. “You nearly killed me.”
She giggled. “Not even nearly. I never miss.”
“By the way, they bought the idea that Sarah Green is from nobility… French nobility and you manage all our financial endeavors.”
She turned to look over her shoulder with a grin. “Really?”
“Yes. And so you have to speak with a French accent when we meet them.”
Her smile widened. “That won’t be… how you say… difficult.” She said heavily ladened in her natural-born Louisiana-French accent.
Smith smiled as he steered her through the back streets to their hotel.

“So, are you really going to bed this time?” Serafina paused at the bed chamber doors. “To sleep?”
“Oui, ma chérie.” He smiled and removed his jacket and shoes then sat down. He looked haggard. “Are you alright?”
“Oui, ma chérie.” He flopped over on his side.
She tsked her tongue, walked over to him, and pulled the blanket to his shoulder. Tempted to lean in and kiss his forehead, she ran her hand over the top of his head instead. “We have about four hours before our breakfast is delivered.”
He mumbled something that sounded like, “Thank you, ma chérie.”
Even if she misun
derstood, his words set a hot ember to blaze in her heart. She sighed. “Good night, mi corazón.”
Tonight she spoke Spanish, tomorrow she’d speak French. In either of her natural languages, she knew her heart was falling in love. When she had risen earlier from a restless sleep and found him missing, her heart dropped to the floor like a stone. She had to find him.
Relief washed over her like a waterfall when she did find him even though he was sick in an alley. Or had made himself sick on purpose? Ridding his stomach of the alcohol was an excellent idea. She was impressed. But then she remembered how frightened she had been when he was not in the hotel room and lashed out at him.
Whatever would she do when this case was solved and she had to go home to Mexico… without him?
Mulling those thoughts over in her mind, she dragged her feet as she returned to the bed chamber. Less than four hours, she had to look her best. A rich noble French woman, Sarah Green. Mrs. Samuel Green. Looking for a financially beneficial business opportunity.
She could do this.
Disrobing and sliding back into her nightgown, she slipped under the covers. Smith snored in the common room. Her head sunk into the pillow and she closed her eyes.
A gentle knock at the door caused both of them to sit up at the same time. She in the big bed. He on the divan.
“Room Service!” The bell boy called out. He sounded frustrated. Had he been knocking and calling out more than the one time? Serafina tossed her dressing gown over her shoulders as she entered the common room. Smith leapt to his feet, pulling his shirt from the back of the divan.
She halted in her stride toward the door. His bare chest was the most beautifully hard, muscled form she’d ever seen. Forget the breakfast tray, she longed to run to him and throw herself into his arms. Forget the annulment, she yearned to give herself to him, body and soul.
“Just a minute!” Smith hollered as he ran his hand through his hair to subdue it into place. Bringing Serafina back to her senses. Smith looked at her with questioning eyebrows. Was she ready to have the door opened?
She looked down and realized her dressing gown was gaping open. Quickly wrapping it around her waist and securing the tie, she nodded.
Smith closed the gap to the door and opened it. “Come in.”
A bell boy pushed a brass cart into the room and paused. “Will there be anything else, Sir, Ma’am?”
“I don’t think so.” Smith shoved a coin in the boy’s hand. “Thank you.”
He jerked a nod and scurried from the room.
Serafina sighed and rushed to the coffee pot. “What time are we meeting your friends this morning?”
Smith bit into a sweet danish roll and spoke around the bread. “I told them first thing.”
“Good. Nothing specific.” She took a roll and the coffee cup, and disappeared into the bed chamber. Quickly brushing out the braid plait, she twisted and positioned her hair, half up and half gathered behind her left ear and wound around her finger, to let it fall over her shoulder in a single curl. Splitting her trunk open, she rifled through her selection of gowns until she located the sensible olive green walking gown. Without the long train of a ball gown, and breathable fabric of the silk taffeta, she would be able to manage the dirty dock walkways and sultry temperature of Missouri’s summer heat. All the while maintaining a proper professional appearance of a keenly sharp business woman. Such as Sarah Green had been portrayed to be.
Pleased with her reflection in the oval mirror, she took one last sip of now cool coffee and touched her little finger to the rouge pot and then her lips. Rubbing her lips together, she gazed once more in the mirror. She was ready.
She had grown fond of Todd’s reaction when she threw open the chamber doors and walked into the common room. Today was no exception. He literally gasped at the sight of her and she loved him even more.
“I am ready.” She shook her head slightly as she let a lacy French accent curl off each syllable.
“Yes.” Smith swallowed. “I see that you are.” He put his coffee cup on the brass cart and walked to her. “Let’s go find us some tax evaders.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Smith stepped out of the horse drawn taxi and turned to assist Serafina. She emerged and stood beside him, her heart-stopping beauty contrasted the sleazy, dirty docks. Smith drew in a deep breath. He couldn’t be more proud to have her on his arm as he turned to scan the buildings. The black Jack Daniels label, painted on the warehouse they were supposed to meet in, was just two buildings over from where the taxi driver had let them out. Smith took her hand, kissed the knuckle of her gloved finger, and tucked it into his elbow.
The men he had met last night were gathered just inside the large barn doors. Rows and rows of whiskey barrels were stored in a staggered pattern three high and a long way back into the warehouse. The oak barrels gave off a distinctively musty, sweet smell. Serafina inhaled deeply and smiled.
Jasper Daniels laughed. “Most women wrinkle their delicate little noses at that smell.” He inhaled and let it out with a sigh. “I think it smells like pure gold.”
Her smile widened as her eyes met his. “And you are…?” Her French accent prevalent in her speech.
He wiped his hand on his pants and stuck it out to her. “Name’s Jasper Daniels, Ma’am.” Then he hesitated and bowed slightly, awkwardly. “Yo-Your Majesty.”
Serafina lifted her chin with an amused grin. “That is not necessary, but merci. I am Sarah Green. This is my husband, Samuel Green. But you already know my husband, from your rendezvous last night.” Turning to Smith, she waggled her finger, teasingly. “You naughty boy, you went out last night to gamble.”
“No, ma chérie, I met these gentlemen and arranged this meeting. I think you will be pleased to make their acquaintance. Just look at all these barrels.” He gestured toward the vast rows of wooden barrels.
Daniels gestured with a wave of his hand. “These barrels are the finest Kentucky whiskey you can buy.”
Beam stepped up to Serafina, yanking his hat down to his chest. “My name is James Beam, Ma’am. My warehouse is right over there.” He pointed with his hat. “I’ve got about the same amount o’ barrels. Shipped here from Kentucky, too, Ma’am. I make the finest bourbon east or west of the Mississippi River. Ready to be loaded up and shipped out west, ma’am.”
Serafina turned and looked where he indicated. She smiled, then turned to the other men. “And you? You have a significant supply of whiskey for the establishments I have purchased?”
Walker nodded. “Yes, Ma’am. But unlike these yahoos, me Scotch whiskey originally comes from me homeland, Scotland, Missus. I’ve got me own distilleries in America, here in St. Louie in particular. Me Scotch is available to you right there.” He pointed at his warehouse. “Won’t be no waiting for de boats to bring it from Kentucky.” He glared with one raised eyebrow at the other two.
She turned to Daniels with a pout. “Oh mon Dieu, you boys have everything our destinations need.” She hesitated. “I only regret how the American government has tied my hands with this ridiculous seventy percent tax on each and every barrel.” She turned to Smith, shaking her head. “I just don’t see how we can recover such an enormous burden at our points of sale. The buyers out west are thirsty, indeed, but there’s a limit to what they are willing to spend for their libations. Filthy shed-house stills are everywhere. They will drink that… how you say… rot-gut swill for much less. Your government has surely limited the number of barrels I can purchase from you.”
She walked away from the men. Smith darted his eyes from her to the men and back to her. “But darling, it’s not these men’s fault the government requires so high of a taxation. You cannot punish the distillers. I promised them we would be interested in buying most of their wares.” He watched her walk further away. “Ma chérie! Please let’s talk this over, in private.” Smith trotted toward her.
She swirled to face him. “No! Samuel! I don’t see how we can profit from such a greedy governmenta
l taxation. Let us go back to France and make our bargains with the vineyards. Even with the transatlantic shipping costs, we can make more money selling wine than this whiskey.” In order to emphasize her disgust with the tax prices, she let her French accent grow heavier as she spoke.
“Darling!” Smith ran to her.
Daniels approached them. “Uh. If I may… Missus Green…” He looked around the docks, licked his lips, and then spoke softly. “We have a system… a contact in the… he’s with the government. He lets us pay dues to him and his… operatives. Half as much as the whiskey tax, and he stamps all our barrels as paid in full.”
“No! I’m so sorry, but I no trust you. I want to meet this contact of yours, myself. I want to look him in the eyes and know he will pardon this outrageous taxation for my whiskey.”
Daniels turned to look at the other men. “We… can introduce you to him. You can make your own arrangements… to avoid, uh, to purchase your desired volumes without so much burden.”
She stared at Daniels. “How can this be?”
Daniels smiled. “It’s just a matter of an official tax stamp. Nobody’s gotta know what you actually paid for that stamp.”
Serafina stared at him longer. She let her eyes float to Smith, then back to Daniels. She turned to the other men. “Do you gentlemen have this … same…, how you say, system?”
They bobbed their heads in agreement.
She rolled her eyes toward the sky, touching her fingers to her thumb, calculating in her mind. Then she tilted her head as if she were considering their offer. “Introduce me to this… man. If he is willing to give me the same system… I will purchase all you have in all your warehouses.”
Eyebrows went high on foreheads as the men mumbled their agreement to take her to their contact.
She turned to her husband, speaking quietly through clinched teeth. “Now what?”
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Smith stepped around her. “We look forward to doing business with each of you. Now, when and where shall we meet your man?”
