"To London?" Geoff laughed at this notion. "Hardly. I'm made of sterner stuff than that—and so are you! Now then, I suggest that you have a seat while I go into this pub and have a word with the barman." He watched Manypenny perch on the edge of a large trunk, then walked the few yards to Purcell's Saloon.
Now that they had reached Cody, Geoff was more aware than ever of the uncertainty of this undertaking. A vague sense of danger danced over his nerves, and he reveled in each erratic sensation. Each minute that lay ahead promised to be unlike any he'd experienced in the previous three decades; it was exactly what he'd longed for. Manypenny would be aghast to learn just how willing his master was to throw off his old ways, including every stitch of his splendid wardrobe.
Stepping into the raucous, smoke-filled saloon, Geoff smiled with irony and thought, It's nothing like White's—thank God. He felt the keen scrutiny from other patrons and looked back calmly. At the bar, he ordered a whiskey and bided his time.
"New in town?" the bartender inquired laconically.
"Very observant of you," Geoff said with a smile. Extending his hand, he added, "My name is Geoffrey Weston. I've been admiring your town."
"Glad to meetcha." They shook hands. "I'm Tom Purcell; this here's my saloon."
From a nearby table someone hissed, "Geez-us! It's one of them sissy limeys!"
Geoff finished his whiskey, then turned and stared evenly at the man who had spoken, immediately identifying him by his reddening face. No further action seemed necessary, and Geoff's gaze wandered to another pair of eyes that he'd felt burning a hole through his back. To his surprise, he found himself looking at the least-likely cowboy imaginable. He turned back to the bartender.
"Who, may I ask, is that very slight, bizarre-looking fellow seated in the corner?"
Purcell bit back a grin. "Seems to be a relative of Ben Avery's who's passin' through. Ben's the big sandy-haired cowpuncher next to him; he has a fine ranch south of here. The cousin wants a card game."
No sooner had Geoff digested this information than he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder. Turning his head, he found himself looking down at the very person he and Purcell had been discussing. The fellow was even more peculiar-looking at close range, featuring a small head dwarfed by a five-gallon white Stetson hat, the strangest mustache Geoff had ever seen, an outlandish pair of angora chaps, and oversized cowhide gloves.
"Howdy, stranger!" the odd-looking cowboy said in a hoarse voice. "The name's Coyote Matt."
Geoff blinked, but shook the glove extended toward him and felt the daintiness of the hand it concealed. "I beg your pardon." He leaned closer. "I'm not certain I heard correctly—"
"Coyote Matt! Yep, I trapped a passel of them critters in my day. More'n four thousand, I reckon. Don't s'pose they got coyotes in England."
"I'm not an authority, but no, I don't believe there are any coyotes in England." A wry smile flickered over Geoff's mouth; he was fascinated by this intensely odd and amusing character.
"You got poker over there?"
His brows lifted slightly. "After a fashion."
"Wanta play? Fancy dude like you could prob'ly win a lotta money from a scroungy coyote killer like me."
Coyote Matt's voice was so raspy that it was difficult for Geoff to make out exactly what was being said, and he also found that he was constantly distracted by the fellow's physical appearance. "Sir, I suspect that you are trying to draw me into a game of chance because you believe you would be the winner, and that might well be the case. In truth, I cannot afford the time, having just arrived in Cody—but I am willing to give you a half hour in the interest of cultivating good will among the townspeople. You see," Geoff explained, glancing back at Tom Purcell and then over the crowded tables of the saloon, "I intend to remain here for some time."
"Yahoo!" shouted Coyote Matt. "Cut the cards, Ben! I got me a game!"
* * *
"What extraordinary good fortune," Geoff remarked with convincing surprise as he glanced down at the winnings stacked on the table before him.
Ben kicked Shelby's shin and she flinched. "Maybe you lost enough, Coyote Matt," he said in menacing tones.
"It's my deal," she replied, nearly forgetting to lower her voice. It was beginning to hurt her throat, talking like that, and the clouds of smoke in the saloon didn't help any. "You in, Ben? Titus?"
They both shook their heads, and Shelby stubbornly dealt the cards for five-card stud to herself and the Englishman. It had to be pure luck, him winning nearly all the five hundred dollars she'd brought for this occasion. They didn't have real games like poker in England. Shelby had read her share of Jane Austen novels, and in them the only card games were faro and whist. Certainly not poker! One more hand, she told herself, and the tide would turn in her favor, and then she would win it all back and then some!
Shelby looked at her cards and discovered that she was holding a pair of nines. They had each put in an opening bet of fifty dollars, and now she felt even more hopeful. Watching her pigeon, who had begun to appear more hawk-like as the game progressed, Shelby saw that he had discarded only two. She frowned and dealt him replacement cards, pretending to turn her attention back to her own hand but in fact studying his expression under her thick lashes. There could be no mistake to the practiced eye of a girl who had grown up in Deadwood, where gambling was the favorite sport: this fancy Weston character had definitely looked relieved when he saw his cards. At the very least, he must have three of a kind!
Shelby pondered her own pair of nines, discarded three, took three, and found that she had an even worse assortment than before. "It's your bet, sport," she said in her best casual cowboy voice.
Geoff nodded slowly, sipped his whiskey, and added two twenty-dollar bills to the pot.
Clenching her teeth with fear, Shelby capitulated and tossed down her cards. "I fold."
"Do you indeed? What a relief. I only had a pair of threes, but I felt I ought to give you a chance to win back a little of your money...." He shrugged. "Sorry."
Shelby felt as if she were going insane. How could this be happening? Now Ben's big hand disappeared under the table and found her thigh, squeezing right through the chaps until her eyes watered. "Time to go home," he growled.
"One more hand," she said gruffly, and gave the cards to her opponent. "Your deal, Weston."
The fifty dollars that Shelby placed on the table was the last of the money she had... and also represented a large chunk of the funds her father had given her to keep in reserve. If she lost it all, not only couldn't they buy farming equipment and more horses, but they wouldn't have enough money to make ends meet past summer. When the new cards lay before her, Shelby held her breath before picking them up. Her heart soared at the sight of two magnificent kings. This was her chance, and she meant to take it!
Shelby discarded three cards, and she nearly whooped with joy when she saw the new trio. One of them was another king!
Across the table, Geoff discarded two cards, but left the replacement pair lying facedown. Without looking at them, he gazed soberly at Coyote Matt. "Will you bet, sir?"
"Uh-huh. Titus, give me fifty."
"You are nuts!" Ben declared.
"You shut up!" she hissed, then turned burning blue eyes on Titus. "I'll pay you back."
The little gnome of a man appeared crestfallen. "I don't like it... but..." He pulled some bills from his pocket and handed them over. "All I have is thirty-five."
Shelby put it in the pot. "That's my bet."
"I'll meet you... and raise you a hundred," Geoff replied quietly.
Suddenly, she noticed that he had apparently forgotten to look at his new cards. An habitual bluffer! Flooded with elation, Shelby said, "I'm outta cash, but I'll make a deal with you, Weston. I have a ranch I can put up that's worth at least ten times as much as your pile of winnings. Whatta you say—how about my ranch against, oh, say, five thousand dollars? That's a deal, sport!" She kept her tone husky and offhand, but next to her she heard Be
n's stunned intake of breath, while voices began to buzz around the big room. Cowboys who had been gathered around the other card game had by now drifted over to watch.
"Now wait just a minute," Ben shouted. "Titus, you aren't gonna allow this!?"
Titus Pym looked dejected. "I fear we have to, lad. What you don't know is that Fox sent me the deed to the ranch for safekeeping... and it's been signed over to—uh, Coyote Matt."
Ben turned on Shelby then. "Did you know?"
Panic began to well inside her. "No, but I had to do this anyway, and it won't matter about the deed because I am not going to lose."
Speechless with rage, Ben jumped up and stormed out of the saloon, disappearing into the blinding sunlight. Shelby tried not to think about him, or about Titus's words. It had almost been easier to make the bet when it hadn't been real; now the ranch was really hers to lose. She stared into Geoffrey Weston's rich brown eyes and waited for his response, her heart thundering.
"I accept," he murmured, "on one condition. If, as you say, your ranch is worth much more than five thousand dollars, I could not accept more than half ownership of it should I win. I won't cheat you."
"Durned right you won't, 'cause I'm gonna win! But, okay, them terms sound fair enough." Shelby took a deep breath and lay down her cards. "Three kings, Weston. I doubt you can beat that, seein' as you ain't even studied the new cards you took!"
"So I haven't," he remarked. "Well, let's see what I do have." Geoff displayed the pair of aces and queen of hearts in his hand, then turned over the unseen cards to reveal yet another ace and one more queen. "Egad. What do you call it—a full house?"
Shocked tears stung Shelby's eyes. She nodded blindly, unable to look at Titus or this Englishman who now owned half her father's ranch. Perhaps this was all a nightmare and she would wake up in another moment....
"Well-played," Titus was saying to Weston. "I'll take Coyote Matt and fetch the wagon, and what do you say we meet you in front and take you out to the ranch? That'll give you a minute to gather your winnings." He wanted, above all, to get Shelby out of the saloon before she forgot herself and everyone saw that Coyote Matt was really Shelby Matthews. It was enough that she'd lost all that money and torn the ranch in two, but if the rest of the story got out, she'd never be able to show her face in Cody again. Let them think a crack-brained cousin was responsible.
"It's kind of you to offer, but I'm afraid that I have some trunks... and a manservant who is waiting with them outside. Perhaps we ought to hire a separate vehicle."
Titus had taken Shelby's arm and was guiding her toward the doorway, past the dozens of curious cow-punchers. "No, no, we'll make room...." Scared to death she'd faint on him, he called back, "See you outside, then!"
Geoff sat still for a minute, thinking. He felt strangely overwhelmed, a bit guilty, and reckless with anticipation for the adventure ahead. It didn't seem possible that he'd just arrived in Cody an hour ago and now he had a home—no, much better than that, a ranch.
Folding the large pile of currency, Geoff put it away and consulted his watch. Good God, Manypenny had been sitting on that trunk for nearly an hour! He paid for the drinks, added a generous tip, and left the saloon without a second thought for the cowboys and ranch hands who stared after him.
When Geoff returned to the mountain of baggage he discovered that Manypenny had not changed position or even unbuttoned his overcoat in the warmth of the April afternoon. Like a giant carved sentinel, he guarded his master's belongings, moving only to lift a folded handkerchief from time to time and blot the rivulets of perspiration that rolled down from under his derby.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, old man," Geoff said when he was beside him, "but I've found lodgings for us. I've been playing cards... and it seems I've won a ranch."
"Have you, my lord?" Manypenny replied mildly. "How very convenient."
"Yes..." He watched the little man who'd been with Coyote Matt drive toward them in a wide, rickety wagon with a seat for passengers raised up in front. "I should advise you that one of the other owners of the ranch, approaching now in that vehicle, is disguised as someone called 'Coyote Matt.' You may observe that he is actually a female, but up to this point, that fact has not been acknowledged." His mouth twitched. "The reasons behind this flimsy charade are a mystery to me."
The manservant blinked. "Are you quite certain you wouldn't prefer to lodge at a proper inn, my lord?"
As the buckboard rolled to a halt beside them, Geoff's only reply was laughter. It dawned on Manypenny then that he hadn't heard his lordship laugh like that in years... and that meant they wouldn't be going home to London just yet.
Page forward for an excerpt from Cynthia Wright's
Brighter Than Gold
Excerpt from
Brighter Than Gold
by
Cynthia Wright
Chapter 1
Columbia, California
June 21, 1864
Riding slowly down Main Street, the tawny-haired man on horseback reflected that the sleepy town of Columbia had certainly known better days. A dozen years ago, it had been heralded as the "Gem of the Southern Mines," the largest and most prosperous of all the towns that had sprung up during the rush for gold in the Sierra foothills. More than fifteen thousand boisterous people had lived here, making and spending fortunes in Columbia's thriving gambling palaces, saloons, fandango halls, theaters, restaurants, and bawdy houses. Stores were stocked with merchandise delivered by a constant stream of freight wagons from Stockton. Stagecoaches rumbled down Main Street morning and afternoon, dislodging a colorful variety of eager newcomers, including a French chef who charged outrageous sums of money for gourmet meals and imported champagne. The town's four theaters had hosted Edwin Booth, Lola Montez, and circuses with elephants and lions. Columbia even had a Chinese theater for the particular benefit of its immigrant citizenry.
In the town's first decade, more than $87 million worth of gold had been discovered in its diggings. The scales at the Wells Fargo office weighed an average of $100,000 of gold a week, and in the heady decade of the 1850s, it seemed that the supply would never run out.
However, those days of unrivaled prosperity had passed.
On this dusty afternoon, the man on horseback rode into a town of fewer than five hundred people. Tucked behind hills that staggered down to the dramatically beautiful Stanislaus River, Columbia had acquired a haunting serenity lacking in its heyday. Delicate, locust-like trees of heaven lined Main Street, and many of the homes were embowered with climbing roses in full bloom. The clamor was over, yet the traveler felt a surge of respect and fondness for this tenacious community. Built initially in a haphazard, it had been ravaged by two fires, but the citizens had staunchly rebuilt with sturdy brick and sent to San Francisco for ornate fire engines. When water, essential for mining placer gold, had proved to be in short supply, a sixty-mile aqueduct was constructed. And finally, when the placer gold began to play out, Columbia introduced hydraulic mining, a controversial yet effective new excavating technique. Using nozzles to shoot the water at high pressure, the miners blasted loose the gold-bearing gravel and sifted out the gold, leaving behind peculiar-looking pinnacles and ragged rocks.
The man on horseback had to admire Columbia's fighting spirit. Unlike so many other gold towns, it simply refused to die. True, it had changed, but he found he preferred this peaceful atmosphere. Farther ahead down Main Street he spied MacKenzie's Saloon. Hot, tired, and in need of friendly conversation, the traveler decided to stop for refreshment.
* * *
At the far end of the polished mahogany bar, Katie MacKenzie was perched on a stool, drying glasses and reading at the same time. It was a quiet afternoon. The shafts of sunlight that streamed into MacKenzie's Saloon were mellow and golden, scented with roses. The corner tavern was large, with a magnificent carved mirror behind the bar and numerous tables ringed with chairs. Once upon a time, MacKenzie's had echoed with the laughter and raucous conversation of men from
all walks of life. Now, the place was an ornate mockery of a golden age long since passed. Katie looked up to see two lone, grimy miners, clad in red shirts and dungarees, who slouched at a distant table, dozing before their empty bottle. Farther down the bar, Brian MacKenzie poured a whiskey for his third patron, then approached his daughter.
"I'm thinking this is a fine way for you to celebrate your twentieth birthday," he murmured, his ruddy face and curly white hair reflected in the twenty-foot mirror behind them.
Katie gave him a sweet smile. "Nonsense, Papa! You sent all the way to Boston for this book and you gave me these beautiful flowers." Lovingly she fingered the vivid bouquet of blue larkspur and orange Humboldt lilies that filled a vase at her elbow. "It's a perfect birthday!"
Brian wrapped her in his bearlike embrace and smiled. "You're a blessing, Kathleen Elizabeth. Why don't you put away the towel and glasses and go outside? It's not a day for chores."
"I'm fine, Papa." Already her attention was wandering back to the first chapter of Wuthering Heights.
Sighing, Brian studied his daughter's profile. It was almost a shock to realize, daily, how beautiful she had become and how much Katie resembled her mother who had died eight years before. She had inherited Mary's lustrous ebony curls, her striking black-lashed azure eyes, her delicate features, and radiant smile.
However, Katie's temperament mirrored his own. If only Mary had lived to teach their daughter ladylike ways! Growing up in the rugged atmosphere of a mining town, Katie was used to working hard, but otherwise she dressed and behaved to please herself. Today she wore a faded rose calico dress with one petticoat, but she was just as likely to be clad in trousers and a shirt if the mood struck her. Worst of all, Katie had declared that she had no interest in marriage. And she did indeed seem to prefer helping him run the saloon or writing articles for the Columbia Gazette. Women were at a premium in the foothills, especially beauties like his daughter, and Brian prayed nightly that she would come to her senses one day soon and begin acting like a woman. Hadn't he a right to grandchildren?
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