by William Gear
“I’m lost here, Aggie. What do you want to do?”
She stood again, walking around the desk to place her hands on his chest. Looking up into his eyes, she said, “First off, for you, and only you, call me Bridget. Second, I won’t marry you. I won’t be your mistress, either. But I will…” She frowned. “Oh, hell.”
“What?”
“My God, Bridget, you fool,” she said to herself, “you’re smarter than this!”
“Smarter than what?” Doc cried.
She looked up at him, indecision in her normally self-possessed eyes. “I got where I am by being smart. Every instinct tells me this is a mistake, and it ain’t gonna end well.”
“Ag … Bridget, what are we talking about?”
“I don’t want to hurt you, Doc. And I sure as hell don’t want you to hurt me, either!” She took a breath. “Can we just … I mean, I don’t want to be your mistress, but maybe…”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t, either.” She vented a lusty laugh. “I could really love you, you fool. I like being with you, watching you. I like looking into your eyes, and talking about all the things we talk about. I don’t want to lose that.”
“Listen, Bridget”—Doc set the biscuit down—“why do we have to lose anything? We can just continue on as we are. You do the books, learn to be my medical assistant. You’ve shown a natural aptitude in the surgery. I will pay you a wage. Not for your body, but for your skills and talents.”
“You just make it worse for me, don’t you?”
“How’s that?”
“Because I want you in a way I’ve never wanted a man.” She laughed at herself. “So, who’s the bigger fool? You, or me?”
Doc took her hand, coming to a decision. “If you’re willing, come. We’re locking the surgery and going home. We’re going to lock the door and draw the blinds. You and I are going to spend the day together, in bed, and out of it. And some way we’re going to figure a way through this.”
Her smile displaced the scars as she pulled his head down. “I’m going to do something I’ve never done with any man.”
“What’s that?”
“This.” She placed her lips on his, kissing him with depth and feeling.
86
June 20, 1867
Sarah stared up at the tall, two-story red-brick building. Unlike its fellows, which were cramped wall to wall, the house stood on two lots, leaving it freestanding. Some of the window frames needed paint. From what she could see, the roof looked good. Bay windows stuck out on either side of the porch-covered entry. The door had a glass window and a big brass knocker.
Behind her, traffic passed to and fro on the street.
“One hell of a house,” O’Reilly said beside her. “’Twas a bit of a mess inside, but I’ve had word from Heatley that he had it cleaned. Still, there’s no tellin’ what we’ll find when we go in.”
Sarah glanced sidelong at him. “Well, Pat. Let’s see.”
He handed her a key, doffing his homburg and bowing. “Yer pleasure, Mrs. Anderson.”
Sarah glanced back at the brougham that had brought them; her trunks were strapped on the back. To the driver, she said, “If you would place the luggage inside the door, I would appreciate it.”
“Ma’am,” the driver replied, touching his hat brim.
Sarah climbed the dressed-stone steps, O’Reilly a half step behind. She inserted the key and opened the door. To her surprise the air smelled of soap and wax. The foyer sported hangers and benches. Doors opened on either side into two spacious parlors, each lit by the bay windows.
“Spruce floors,” O’Reilly called positively as he stepped into the eastern parlor.
Sarah followed, her heart lifting at the engraved and fitted woodwork, the marble fireplace. “Not the sort of construction I’d have anticipated in a mining camp.”
“’Tis said Phillipa hired wagon wrights for the trim work.”
She fingered a couple of scars in the wood. “Parmelee didn’t care for it well, did he?”
“He’s not a mon to take care of things, lassie. Apparently he caught word that George and I were after ’im. There’s not been hide nor hair of him seen.” O’Reilly glanced around. “We’ll have men to stand guard for the toime being in case he comes back.”
She laid her fingers on the shoulder bag she carried, feeling the Colt’s hard outline. “It is inevitable, you know.”
“Eventually”—O’Reilly turned serious eyes on hers—“ye’ll have to broker yer own arrangements with Heatley, Ed Chase, and the rest. A word of advice. I’d not mention George t’ Big Ed. There’s bad blood there. Smart as ye are, ’twon’t be a challenge.”
She passed the stairway in the rear and walked into the bar, finding four tables and—a rarity—matching chairs. A large mirror hung behind the bar. Some stock had been left, but she supposed that Heatley would have taken most of the quality drink.
The kitchen was in the rear, the stove satisfactory to begin with, but when the trails opened, she would have to order a larger one. Looking out back, she found a trash-filled small yard open to the alley and a four-hole privy. Room to expand the kitchen?
Opposite the bar was a paneled room with lamp sconces. Dining room? It sat right off the kitchen with a door leading to the other parlor.
Walking into the west parlor, she found it covered with velveteen wallpaper. Scars on the floor showed where a piano had been moved out.
“It’s better than I imagined, Sarah,” O’Reilly said, turning as he took in the room.
“Let’s see what’s upstairs.” She led the way, hiking up her dress as she climbed the steps. The two front bedrooms with bay windows were slightly larger. She immediately chose the one on the east. No doubt it had been that bastard Parmelee’s, but the wallpaper was a brighter light blue. Aggie could have the one across the hall.
The girls’ rooms lined the hall, six of them, perhaps eight by ten, with small windows. In the rear was a washroom with a pitcher stand, sink, and drain. The hall was carpeted; dark pine wainscoting rose halfway to the ceiling.
“What do you think?” O’Reilly stuck his thumbs into his waistband.
“I think once it’s furnished, I can make it pay. Come on. I’ll buy you a drink in the bar.”
She led the way, almost enjoying the sound of O’Reilly’s heavy boots clumping on the stairs behind her.
He pulled up a chair as she slipped behind the bar, found two glasses without spots, and studied the selection. Overlooked in the back was a bottle with a real label. She pulled the cork, sniffed, and decided it might actually be Kentucky whiskey.
Pouring, she set the bottle on the table, and seated herself opposite Pat. “Well, here it is.” She waved around. “My life’s dream come true. As a girl I prayed I’d be in charge of a beautiful two-story brick house with expensive furnishings in the city. That I would orchestrate fine parties and gala events. I would be in charge of servants, dress in splendid clothes.” She paused, smiled. “And then I damned myself: I promised God I’d do anything to get it.”
She shook her head, lifting the whiskey and sipping. It was real Kentucky whiskey.
O’Reilly took a hesitant drink, ran it over his tongue, and took a bigger one. “Why’d ye do it, Sarah?”
“Do it? Dream of a big fancy house and—”
“George Nichols. Four days ye spent up t’ yer cabin with him. Four days. And when ye come oot, lassie, ye set fire and burned it all to the ground.”
“It was just business, Pat.” She stared absently at the brown liquor, letting the aftertaste linger on her tongue.
“If you needed money, ye could have come t’ me.”
“I had to bury Bret. Bury him deep and forever. And not just in the ground. I couldn’t stand the pain, the empty aching hole. I had to punish myself. Abuse myself. And then wall it off. Brick over it with something else.”
She shot him a hard look. “During the war bushwhackers came to our farm in Arkansas, Pat. T
hey killed Maw. They took me, staked me to the ground, and one after another, they raped me for two days. My brother got me out, and a couple of days later I killed the man who took me. I listened to him squeal, looked into his eyes as I cut pieces of him off with a Bowie knife. He’s still one of my nightmares.”
She tossed off the rest of her whiskey and poured another. “I couldn’t stand the way my brother looked at me. And then he brought a friend, and I got a glimpse of what life would be like. Everyone knowing I’d been … So I left, floated. Did what I could and tried to hide my shame. Then I met Bret.
“Hell, Pat, he just kind of worked his way into my soul, loved me, held me. We saved each other. Lived in each other. For that one brief, shining time, he and I loved like you couldn’t believe.” Wistfully she added, “It was a mythical, magic sort of love. The kind the bards would write and sing of.”
“Doesn’t mean—”
She waved him off and poured another glass for O’Reilly. Setting the bottle down, she snapped her fingers. “Like that, Bret’s dead! I’m beaten and raped, Aggie’s mutilated, and her house is gone.”
“It didna mean ye had t’ turn to Nichols.”
“I had to teach myself, one more time, who men are, Pat. What kind of creatures they are. Had to build that wall between Bret and everything we shared. It had to be impregnable. Right down to the cabin. I had to burn it to snuff out every last trace of happiness.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek, and sniffed. “And I did. I put Bret in the ground in a way that he couldn’t come creeping out to stare at me with those loving brown eyes. Couldn’t allow myself to imagine his fingers caressing my cheek.”
“And Nichols did that fer ye?”
She chuckled without humor. “Who? George? You bet he did. I didn’t just have to kill Bret, I had to kill me. George is as cold and unforgiving as a steel drill, and I had to prove to myself I was worth a thousand-dollar fuck.”
She fingered her glass, frowning. “But after that first go? How did I maintain the value once the fruit had been bitten into and tasted? Was I smart enough? Talented enough? Could I keep the honey sweet?” She paused. “I used every bit of ingenuity I could imagine. By the end of the fourth day, you couldn’t have hung a flag from George’s pole, let alone played taps over it.”
“George says…” Pat seemed to think better of it and looked away.
She cocked her head, wondering at the smile that fit so easily on her lips. “Does he say I was worth it?”
“Aye, lassie, he does.” O’Reilly took a breath. “But t’ burn yer cabin?”
“It was tearing me apart. A secure womb of tender love and happiness one second, a prison filled with grief, death, and degradation the next. It had to go. Like cutting the last rope.”
“So, ye’re fixed on yer future?” He lifted the glass in his fingers, eyes thoughtful. “But for a handful of us, yer still Mrs. Anderson. Ye don’t have to do this. You can be a silent partner. Let Aggie run the house. I know you’re grieving, lass, but yer life’s not over. There are those of us who care fer ye.”
“Get to the point, Pat.”
“If ye’d take a while. Grieve fer Bret. There are those of us who’d like to see if we could bring a smile back t’ yer face. Perhaps prove that not all men are like Parmelee and Nichols.” He gave her a level gaze. “I’d like that chance meself.”
“Marry the grieving widow?”
“After ye’d had a chance to foind yerself.”
She reached across the table and took his hand. “You’re a good friend, Pat O’Reilly. A hard man, but a kind one. I would only bring you to ruin. If you want me in your bed, you can have me. But it will cost you a thousand dollars.”
“Sarah…”
“I had my one love. A love of a lifetime, and one the likes of which you and I could never approach. And if we did, God would strike you down as a way to punish me.”
“God? Punish ye?”
She held his gaze. “It was preordained from the moment the war started. I had to watch my home destroyed, be broken of all my dreams and hopes. Become a sullied pariah. God used Parmelee to drive me from Fort Smith all the way to Colorado. God put Bret in my bed so I could learn all the ways a woman can use her body with a man. Aggie showed me how to run a house. I showed her how to make it pay. And then, finally, God sent Parmelee back to give me that last violent slap and humiliation.”
“Lass? To blame God? He’s not—”
“Oh, come on, Pat. As I look back over my life, I can see that God has been driving me toward this house as surely as if He had a whip in one hand and reins in the other. I’m going to call this the Angel’s Lair because this is God’s will. And I’m exactly as He made me.”
87
June 22, 1867
Sarah met Aggie at the door, pulling it open, enjoying the slanting afternoon sunlight as it shone in Aggie’s red-blond hair. She’d been alternately aching for and dreading this moment. How did a woman apologize?
“Aggie?” she asked, seeing her friend’s familiar face through the veil she wore. Pat O’Reilly had told her the surgeon had performed miracles, but that Aggie would never be the same.
“Hello, Sarah. Dear God, it’s good to see you.”
Aggie stepped in and wrapped her arms around Sarah, hugging her tightly. “God, I’ve missed you.”
“I’m so sorry, Aggie. So very, very sorry. It’s my fault. Bret’s and mine. You shouldn’t have come that day.”
“He’da kilt you both, you fool!”
“I wish he had. You’d still have your house … your face. That mother-humping bastard killed Bret as it was, and part of me died with him.”
Aggie pushed back, staring up through the veil. “You sound hard, Sarah. Pat won’t tell me nothing. What happened while I was down here?”
“Come on in. Drink? I’ve got good stuff.”
“Well, hell yes.”
“Welcome to the Angel’s Lair.”
“So, this was Parmelee’s?”
“It was indeed. Seems while he was up in Central ruining our lives, his girls tucked and run. Then his professor took the cash box and fled. Left Parmelee without funds to cover a note owed to Francis Heatley. Pat pulled strings, I paid the note, and now it’s ours.”
“Ours?”
“Such as it is.” Sarah gestured to the empty parlor as she led the way to the bar. “On the few occasions it’s been working, I’ve been to the telegraph, wiring back East. With the Sioux and Cheyenne out raising hell on the trails, Denver might as well be an island. Might take a while to get furnishings like I want, but they’re on order.”
“What about Parmelee, Sarah? He could come back any time.”
“Both George Nichols and Pat have their people in Denver on the lookout. If he does make it back, he’ll want to gloat before he does anything. Make sure I see his face. Take up raping me where he left off.”
She reached around, slipping the small .36-caliber, five-shot Colt pocket pistol from the holster in her bustle. “This place has a cellar. I’ve been practicing down there every night. I can put five shots into the size of a playing card from eight paces.” She paused. “And I do it every night. I get faster and faster.”
Aggie took a deep breath. “What if he gets you by surprise? He done it before.”
“Maybe he’ll kill me, maybe I’ll kill him. Everything’s different, Aggie. I’m different. I’ve stopped fighting it.” She gestured to a chair in the bar, pouring two drinks from the Kentucky whiskey.
Aggie sat, her gaze taking in the room.
Sarah said, “Let me see your face, Aggie.”
Aggie took a deep breath, lifted the veil, and raised her head to the light. The thin lines were pink, little scabs here and there where stitches had been. Which didn’t make any sense. But all in all … “My God, Aggie, he saved your face.”
“And he’s still working on the scars,” she said proudly as she lifted her glass. “To life!”
“To the Angel’s Lair. And us.�
�� Sarah took a drink.
“Us?” Aggie asked, looking around again.
“I can’t run this by myself. Half of it is yours. That’s the least I owe you.”
Aggie’s voice dropped. “Sarah … I know you paid off what I owed Pat. And I’ll make it right with you. Somehow. Some way.”
“We are right,” Sarah insisted. “Look at this house. We can make money here that we couldn’t make in Central, even sitting on top of the mines.”
“How?”
“High dollar.” Sarah studied her friend. “Think a step up from what you planned in Central. Then think another step. Like the best of Chicago, or even New York, or San Francisco.”
“Hard to get the girls. That kind of quality? That takes money.” Aggie leaned back, a frown twisting her scars. “And Sarah, it’s short-term. High overhead. Limited clientele. Not many men around who can afford talented cunt, new and strange, or a trick.”
“A trick?”
“Make-believe. And it better be good. Like dressing a girl up like Helen of Troy. Fixing the room to look like Ancient Greece. Making the johnny part of a theater.” She was thoughtful. “If the money’s right, you could lure the right girls. But the local talent? They’re trained to get johnny in the saddle, get a squeeze on his cock, pull his trigger, then get him out the door and another one in.”
“That’s why I need you, Aggie.”
“Damn, Sarah! You’re talking like you’re in the business. You did something, didn’t you? With Pat? Is that why he’s so closemouthed about you?”
“George Nichols,” Sarah said softly. “He calls me the goddess. A thousand dollars a night. That’s some kind of record, ain’t it?”
Aggie shook her head. Green eyes on Sarah. “It won’t last. You’re novelty. Men will come just to see you. But there’s maybe ten men in the territory who would pay that much for a fuck, no matter how good.”
“Maybe I want to be exclusive.”
“Maybe you’re going to end up humping for what the traffic will bear when the cash runs out and the bills are due.”