by E. E. Burke
Hank again turned before he’d reached the front door. “No need, we can go it alone.”
Jolie took a step back. He might as well have said he was ashamed to be seen with her. “Oh. Of course. That would be best. I’ll say goodbye then.”
“Wait, Jolie.” He caught her by the sleeve of her robe, so she had no choice but to stop, or surrender it to him. Then he took hold of her arm, drawing her to him, and gave her an unexpected hug.
“I only meant I don’t want you to rearrange your morning any more that you already have on my account. I appreciate everything you’ve done, and I don’t want to be more of a burden than I’ve already been.”
She wrapped her arms around him, then thought better of it and stepped out of his embrace. It was best for both of them if they didn’t continue to act like friends, which they couldn’t be. “Goodbye then.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Hank lifted his hat to her and left.
Jolie watched from the door as he and Bear moved slowly across the porch past the hitching posts and into the slushy street. This cold couldn’t be good for the dog’s health. “You will send word to let me know how he’s doing?” she called out.
Hank glanced back. “I will.”
Jolie spun around and hurried upstairs to her bedroom. Everyone else was still asleep, but she couldn’t go back to bed. For one, she couldn’t get her mind off Hank long enough to shut it down.
From a table near the bed, she picked up the Valentine card he’d given her and ran her fingers over the lace. She would treasure it forever, and he’d probably forget all about it, if he hadn’t already.
She pulled out a drawer and slipped it inside. What she needed was a distraction...and she had one! Her business was under attack, and it was up to her to defend it. If those crusaders could start a petition, why, then she could go round up support for her own crusade—to keep La Maison open.
Going through her dresses in the wardrobe, she selected a green velvet gown and lifted it off the hook. Not exactly a day dress, but it looked good on her and might stir up some appreciation. The new publisher in town offered printing services. She could purchase leaflets and hand them out to the miners and the other men in the community who would rally behind her.
An hour later, she entered a new building that had recently become home to the newspaper office.
Joseph Hurst, Esquire, had arrived last month and had started the Noelle Gazette. The first thing she noticed was the strong smell of paper and ink, and then the mess. The small space was knee-deep in newsprint, with leaflets and posters scattered all over and stuffed into cubbyholes. In the back, a boy in an ink-stained apron ran the printer, producing clatter, and even more clutter.
Behind one of the stacks of newspapers, she found Mr. Hurst hunched over his desk, furiously scribbling. Smoke curled from the thick cigar firmly clenched between his teeth. She found it interesting that he had his spectacles pushed up onto the top of his head, instead of wearing them, as most people would do, to help him read.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hurst?”
“Yes, what is it?” he replied, without looking at her.
Had he seen her enter and decided she wasn’t worth his time? Her money was as good as anyone else’s.
“I would like to order some leaflets to be printed. A hundred should do.”
He placed his pen back into the inkwell and looked up, as if he’d just taken notice of her. “A hundred leaflets. For what?”
Jolie stiffened at his rudeness. “Are you always this impolite to customers? If so, I’m surprised you remain in business.”
The editor’s intense gaze remained on her a moment longer, then he stood and made a slight, belated bow. She caught the spectacles as they fell off his head and handed them back to him.
He tucked them into his vest pocket without even a thank you. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”
Jolie considered offering him her name, then changed her mind. He hadn’t bothered with introductions, so neither would she. “One hundred leaflets, Mr. Hurst. And I’ll need help with the wording.”
“We can write and print whatever you need.”
“Good. How much will this cost?”
His gaze flickered over her. Not with interest, as she knew that look. It seemed more as if he were trying to place her. He wasn’t a customer at La Maison, and they’d never met, so perhaps he didn’t know who she was. If he surmised she was one of the local newlyweds, this made his boorish behavior all the more puzzling.
“Five dollars,” he stated.
He must’ve recognized her after all. Or thought she printed her own money.
“That seems steep.”
“Not for writing and printing both.” He gestured at a chair. “Have a seat.”
She removed her cloak and draped it over the back of the chair when he didn’t take it.
The editor had sat down and pulled over a clean sheaf of paper on the desk in front of him. “What is it you want to advertise?”
Jolie firmed her lips to keep from laughing. Oh, that was rich. How would he react if she listed the parlor house’s available services? He seemed dour and unlikely to appreciate a joke. “I’d like to publish a petition, not an advertisement.”
“What is the petition concerning?”
“Preserving La Maison...as a cultural treasure.” She’d just come up with that, and thought it sounded pretty good.
Mr. Hurst leaned back in his chair. He didn’t actually smile, but the stern expression shifted enough to imply amusement. “You want to publish a petition to preserve a whorehouse as a cultural treasure?”
“That’s right. And you might put something in there about how it provides a necessary refuge for hard-working men, who have no home to go to after spending long days in the dark and cold. Do these good men not deserve a place where they can go to relax and find respite from their toils?”
The editor held out his pen. “Maybe you should write this. You’re doing a better job than I could.”
She’d been rehearsing what the petition might say, but she wasn’t sure he couldn’t add something more to spice it up. “Didn’t you write the other petition being circulated by Mrs. Hammond and Miss Rathbone?”
Hurst withdrew the pen. “No. I learned about it from Mrs. Stiles and Mrs. Sharp. Seemed a thing I ought to be reporting.”
Jolie sat up straight, surprised. ‘The railroad officials’ wives told you about the petition? I assumed the two women named in the article had approached you.”
“Mrs. Hammond and Miss Rathbone haven’t been available for an interview,” Hurst grumbled.
This certainly shed a new light on the situation. Jolie recalled Felicity and Ophelia hadn’t mentioned the petition when challenged, and in fact, had talked about other things. It was possible—even probable—the older ladies had started it and were hiding behind the younger women’s names to avoid a battle with their husbands. Dick and Sol certainly didn’t support closing down the parlor house—they were two of La Maison’s best customers. That didn’t mean they’d publicly oppose the preacher’s wife. Their jealous spouses had come up with a good scheme.
Jolie sat forward, holding the editor’s gaze. “I spoke with Mrs. Hammond and Miss Rathbone, and they seem more concerned with addressing women’s plights than starting petitions. I now question whether they even wrote the petition. You might’ve talked to them first to get your story straight.”
Hurst set the pen aside, frowning at her. “They’ve been too busy with a slew of suitors vying for Miss Rathbone’s hand.”
A slew of suitors were after Ophelia? Jolie suppressed a flare of hope, but she tamped it down. That might not be good news for Hank, and it didn’t necessarily mean good news for her either. He needed an acceptable bride, which she was not. Regardless, it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting her petition written and circulated before the other one gained too much momentum.
She pasted on a polite smile. “Will you finish my petition and print the copies? I�
��ll be back later today to collect them.”
The editor leaned back and crossed his arms over this chest. “Won’t be able to get to them that fast. We’ve got other orders.”
He might not want to get to it at all. For all she knew, he supported the efforts to close down La Maison. He never stopped by, not like the previous newspaperman, Horatio, who’d been a regular. Mr. Hurst couldn’t be more different from the pale, fussy man who’d worshiped tidiness and believed in the liberal usage of pomade. Hurst’s unkempt mane curled over his collar, and he resembled a logger more than a newspaper editor. Aside from being rude, he looked like the type Felice would enjoy. Would he be amenable to helping them if she offered him a discount?
Jolie presented her card and made an introduction. “Miss Jolie LaFemme, proprietor of La Maison. I might be able to come up with an added incentive, if you could get to my job right away.”
Mr. Hurst took the card between his first two fingers, as if considering the bribe. Then he dropped it onto the messy desk, much to her disappointment. “Five dollars is the charge and they won’t be done until tomorrow...if you decide you still want them after today, that is.”
“Why wouldn’t I want them?”
“Have you looked at today’s paper?” He reached out, picked up the newspaper, and handed it to her. On the front page was the headline: More Brides For Noelle?
Jolie breathed faster. Oh no! It was starting again! More brides, more wives...more women like Felicity Hammond and Ophelia Rathbone.
Jolie’s gaze fell to the smaller type just beneath the headline, and she began to feel lightheaded.
Certain House Soon Put To Better Use
Chapter 10
Hank spent the weekend in his room over the Golden Nugget, nursing Bear back to health, and contemplating his future...without Jolie. He hadn’t seen her since Friday, and he still needed to send word to ease her worries about Bear, as she’d asked, but it was time he stopped thinking there might be some future for them together.
Who could blame her for refusing to leave behind her hard-won position and relative security? He’d offered her nothing in return for his demands she treat him differently from other men. She didn’t trust he was all that different. She’d been betrayed, broken, and in all likelihood, abused. And the losses she’d suffered—first her lover, then a baby? God, it broke his heart to imagine how alone and scared she must’ve been.
Though she’d never admit it, she craved true affection, which he longed to give her. But choosing Jolie meant giving up his pursuit for acceptance in the community, and his dream of becoming an investor in what was being hailed as Colorado’s biggest silver mine. If he lost this chance, he still couldn’t give Jolie a nice home and fancy clothes. He could give her another Valentine card. She needed security, not sentimentality.
He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, and downed the whiskey he’d ordered along with his breakfast, then got up from his table near the window. Once more, he’d let his heart get ahead of his good sense. He shouldn’t forget what Jolie had told him. She had made her choice, just as he had to make his.
After cleaning up at the washbasin, brushing his teeth, and running a comb through his hair, he put on his best suit. His family depended on him. Once he’d married and gotten settled, he could send for Maggie, Davy and Kathleen. They’d all be together, and he would be content.
“C’mon boy,” Hank called to Bear.
The dog jumped from the bed to the floor and his nails ticked on the planks as he trotted over to the door. Hank had been faithfully changing Bear’s bandages, which could stay off the next day. The stitches would be removed in another week.
“That healing salve Mr. Hardt sent over worked wonders. You aren’t even limping.” Hank attached the dog’s leash and rubbed Bear’s ears. “Let’s go find out if Miss Rathbone is still single.”
Hank made his way downstairs with Bear in the lead. The noise coming from the saloon sounded like an army of honking geese or braying donkeys. As he passed through the darkened doorway and into the lighter room, the noise got even louder.
Bagpipes.
He’d never learned how to play them, but he was certain he could do better.
Oddly enough, people were clapping, and some jeered with equal fervor. The saloon appeared as a moving sea, which meant it must be packed with people. Another scent mingled with the odors of whiskey and smoke. Perfume. There were ladies present.
A large, blurred figure appeared close within Hank’s line of vision. “Mr. Donovan? Hank? Would you care to sit with us?”
Hank recognized the deep voice. “Culver?”
“That’s right. My wife, Zee, is over there at our table. We’d be honored if you’d join us. You can meet our little Jem. She’s about done with all this noise.”
“What’s going on?”
“The town is holding a talent show in honor of Lincoln’s birthday. They even built a stage for the occasion. The winner gets a hundred dollars in gold.”
“Holy smokes. I’ll play the bagpipes for that kind of money. Come to think of it, I probably shouldn’t or I won’t win the prize for sure. But I could have Bear perform. Do we still have a chance to enter?” Hank doubted it, considering how poor his timing had been of late.
“Don’t see why not. I’m announcing the acts. Come with me; I’ll introduce you after these fellows are done with their screeching.”
Hank instructed Bear to follow, and as they passed tables, he heard his name called.
“Hank Donovan! Good to see you! Your cards are selling out.”
That would be Liam, the shopkeeper. Hank lifted his hand and looked in the direction where the voice had come from amidst the dark sea. “Great news, Mr. Fulton.”
“Morning, Hank. Glad to see your dog is up and around.”
The drawled greeting came from his left and Hank recognized the Texas accent. He was closer to this table and could make out the speaker had stood, and when he put out his hand, Hardt shook it.
“Thank you, Mr. Hardt. That salve you sent did wonders.”
“Woody made it. You two need to meet sometime.”
“I’ll make it a point.”
Culver was on the move, so Hank waved at the mine owner. “I’ll be back to talk to you after the talent show concludes.”
“Good. I’ll introduce you to the folks at our table.”
Was one of them Ophelia?
Hank made a mental note of where the table was located, and continued on after Culver. The bagpipe players had ceased their clamor, and the crowd was giving them a weak ovation. Bear’s howling would be an improvement over the previous performance.
“This here’s our table, right up front,” Culver said. “Looks like you have a chance to go onstage if you want. I’ll make the announcement.”
Go onstage...
Hank hesitated. A hundred dollars in gold was a lot of money, and he could add it to his investment. On the other hand, there was a very good possibility he’d make a complete fool of himself in front of the whole town. However, he’d never gotten anywhere worrying about embarrassment. Carpe diem.
He leaned toward Culver and said in a lowered voice, “Is Miss Rathbone sitting at Mr. Hardt’s table?”
“Looks like her.”
If he could think of a way to get Bear to retrieve something from her, it might amuse her and give them something to talk about later. “Do you have a stick or something my dog might fetch?”
“How about a baby rattle?”
“That’ll do.” Hank took the rattle and let the dog smell it. “Toy.”
Bear loved toys, and he’d do anything to get someone to play with him.
“Will you take this to Miss Rathbone’s table?” he asked Culver, handing back the rattle.
Culver chuckled. “Sure thing.”
Hank introduced himself to Culver’s wife and made small talk until the deed had been accomplished. When Culver returned, Hank followed him two steps up onto a stage. Gasps came from some of
the tables up front. His big dog certainly had that effect on people. More than a few folks had said Bear was ugly, but Jolie had called him beautiful. That had endeared Hank to her faster than any greeting she could’ve given him.
Culver cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome Hank Donovan and his amazing Bear!”
That sounded impressive. Now if he could just live up to the promotion. The clapping wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic as it had been even for the bagpipes. At least there were no jeers.
Hank lifted his hands and the crowd grew silent. First, he would establish a few things that might help him avoid any misunderstandings and keep them both out of trouble.
“Good afternoon, everyone. As Mr. Daniels said, I’m Hank Donovan, and this is my dog, Bear. We’ve been working together for five years. I say working, because Bear has a job. He acts as my eyes. That’s why he goes everywhere with me.” Hank put his hand on the big dog’s head. “He may look fierce, but he’s very friendly...as long you’re friendly.”
The last line got a few chuckles.
“Seriously, folks. Bear won’t hurt you. As part of this performance, I’m going to send him out into the audience to retrieve a toy, and then ask the person who has it to come up here and help me with a few tricks.”
This time the clapping was louder.
“Miss Rathbone?” he called out. “Would you stand and hold up the object Mr. Daniels gave you? Once you’re standing, please let me know.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A few men snickered. It seemed Miss Rathbone was taking her time about getting out of her seat. He hoped she wasn’t shy about being in the spotlight.
“Miss Rathbone? Are you standing?”
“What? Oh, I’m sorry. What is it you want?” Her voice sounded pleasant enough, but she apparently had been woolgathering. Was she a daydreamer, or just bored already with his performance?
Hank spoke over the titters. “Do you have the baby rattle Mr. Daniels gave you?”
“A baby rattle?”
More guffaws.