Next, he walked back to the doorway then closed and locked the sturdy outside doors.
Strange. Shouldn’t the doors be left ajar so customers knew the saloon was open for business?
“Would you like a cup of coffee, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you.” Although she was protected against the chilly March air, she didn’t feel warm enough to remove her cloak. “Stuart, are you here?” No answering response came, and she slumped. Then a footstep scraped the floor, and she looked up with her heart in her throat. Stuart! But a taller figure appeared in the hallway.
Ralph returned with two thick ceramic mugs in one hand and a bowl with a spoon in the other. “Here you are.”
Dulcina nodded her thanks and let the sugar fall from the spoon in a white curtain. She stirred the coffee until she heard no more grittiness at the bottom. Three fortifying sips started warming her insides.
“I’m real sorry, Missus Crass.” Shaking his head, he pulled a hand down his face.
The rasp of whiskers made a vague impression. Mostly, she focused on the acute stab in her chest of his too-sympathetic tone. “Why do you speak to me in that way? Have you done something wrong here at the saloon? Broken a brandy decanter, perhaps?” Why was she striking out at their employee?
The skin around his blue eyes wrinkled, and after his gaze searched her face, he gazed away.
That pitying look. Blood pounded in her ears, and she wrapped her fingers around the mug to hide their shaking. “Were you at the Gold King? I didn’t see you on Moose Mountain.”
His head shook before he lifted his head. “The first explosion rattled me right out of my bunk at the Loftin’s boardinghouse. By the time I pulled on clothes and headed there, I heard the second explosion. Doc told me what happened.” He cleared his throat. “I can only extend my condolences on your loss.” His brows pinched together. “I’ve never been good with fancy words at times like these.”
“My loss?” She stiffened and glared. “But Stuart wasn’t in the mine. My Stuart has a good head for business and never has to get his hands dirty to provide for us.” If she kept extolling his virtues, would she somehow conjure him in this spot? What she wanted more than anything was to see him walk in the door relating how he and a few others found a side shaft and were heroes by providing an exit. Her fingers tightened on the mug handled until they ached.
Then the reality of the morning’s tragic event slapped her in the face. Sad and foreboding images—the mound of overturned dirt, the blocked mine entrance, the devastated expressions on Cordelia’s, Thalia’s, and Priscilla’s faces, the dejected form of Doctor Spense—tossed around her brain like they rode animals on a spinning carousel. Moaning, she slumped over the tabletop and pressed her cheek to the scarred wooden surface. “He’s gone.” Sobs welled in her throat and belched forward with the vehemence of being too long suppressed. “I’m all alone.”
Chapter Two
T he following days and nights ran into one another, seemingly without beginnings or ends. Sleep consumed Dulcina, no matter if sunlight seeped through the lace coverings at the windows. She barely dragged herself out of bed long enough to use the chamber pot or take a drink of water. More than once, she surfaced from her grief ready to face what came next—only to discover a faint moon hung in the sky with no evidence of another person awake in the entire town. During her fitful slumber, she didn’t remember hearing sounds from the saloon.
Stuart’s nightshirt had lost the citrus scent of his No. 4711 eau de cologne and now smelled like musty body odor—hers. She could collect the bottle decorated in a garish gold and green shiny label and dribble some over the cloth. But smelling his familiar scent wouldn’t bring back the man. Strands of hair clumped at her temples, and she rolled over to her back and swiped them away, oily residue coating her fingers.
Enough. She sat upright, noticing sunlight bouncing off the rooftops across the alley. Her moping had to stop. First order of business today was a bath—even if someone else had always done the hard work of drawing and heating the water. If all she did today was accomplish this one chore, she’d be happy. Putting on clothes was better than she’d done for the past… Dulcina scrubbed a hand over her face, and bad breath from unbrushed teeth filled her nostrils. Yech. She had no idea what day of the week it was or how much time had passed since the mine disaster.
What would Mamά say about her current state? Sweet Mamά, who believed in starting the day early and who was always busy with one chore or another. Would she clap her hands and encourage Dulcina to rise and face the morning? Her mother’s dear, round face and compassionate dark eyes flashed through her mind. What Dulcina wouldn’t give for the warmth and strength of her mother’s arms around her right now. But, when she married Stuart against her parents’ wishes, she’d created a rift in their relationship. A rift she didn’t have the energy to think about.
Today would be about getting herself clean. First task was to walk the chamber pot carefully downstairs and dump the contents in the privy. She reached for Stuart’s favorite red quilted smoking jacket, cast aside last night on his side of the mattress, and shoved in her arms. His rabbit fur-lined slippers completed her outfit.
On the walk downstairs, she shivered. Stuart had always set the fires in their wood stoves, and she’d never felt the need to pay attention. Heck, she hadn’t even watched while he built them. Learning how would be her next task. Headed toward the kitchen, she noticed light streaming in around the edges of the back door. That door should have been locked.
Once she took care of her personal needs and rinsed out the chamber pot at the back porch faucet, she walked to the storeroom. A puddle darkened the wood under the moonshine still Stuart kept in the corner. Odd. Even odder was how loose the doorknob felt when she turned it. Not that she knew anything about fixing things, but the door wasn’t latching like it used to. She’d have to talk to Mister Driscoll about being sure to lock up.
From the floor of the kitchen pantry, she hauled out the metal washtub and dragged it across the floor. When she started this chore, she’d thought of bathing in the privacy of her room. Now, she figured the alcove between the stove and the pantry wall might suffice. Three pails of water should do. By the time she climbed upstairs to collect her clothes, soap, lotions, and hair brush and carried them down again, she was winded, and her legs shook from exertion. Lying in bed took no strength, but moving around sure did.
Halfway through the bath, she realized she’d forgotten a second towel for her hair and opened her mouth to call Stuart. Then she snapped it shut. My husband is dead. Heat prickled the backs of her eyes, and as she scrubbed a wash cloth over her skin, she let the tears flow.
Lots of women in this town were in the same situation. Maybe now was the time to move outside the bubble she’d created with Stuart. She needed to talk with someone else to learn how other women coped with such tragic losses. Barely twenty-six years old and a widow. Widowhood was for older women like her tía Palmira and her wrinkled and hunched abuelita. Their husbands had been dead since Dulcina’s childhood, and the women back on the rancho still dressed in black.
Sucking in a deep breath, Dulcina gripped the sides of the metal tub, shaking her head. People would expect her to wear dull and boring black clothes. The color did nothing to highlight her olive-toned skin. Weren’t those dreadful dresses called “widow’s weeds”? For how long would she have to wear the same color every single day?
Glancing at the saffron-colored blouse folded on the top of her clothes pile, she sighed. Thirty minutes later, she descended the stairs, her damp hair held in a twist along the back of her head with an array of ornate tortoiseshell combs. At the bottom of a trunk in a spare bedroom, mixed with miscellaneous items of cast-off clothing, she’d found the black dress of Parramatta silk she’d worn to a neighbor’s funeral years ago in Questa. The fact her garment, with jet buttons and stiff crape lining the edge of the collar and cuffs, still fit evidenced she’d lost weight through this ordeal.
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sp; She wandered behind the bar and glanced at the top shelf of liquor bottles. Stuart showed her how he gauged the amount being served in a night by the liquid levels compared to the spirals in the shelf’s wood accents. She supposed she’d have to go into Stuart’s office and see if she could understand the saloon’s ledger. In school, arithmetic had been her worst subject, and Papά rarely made her study hard to get good marks, because he swore she’d never need to know numbers. Ha! Well, look at me know, Papά.
A tapping at the front door drew her attention. She glanced at the clock in the kitchen and saw the time was half past eleven. Thirty minutes until normal opening time. She moved to the front window and edged aside the dark drapes.
A pudgy man in a plaid suit and wearing a derby waited on the front stoop.
Her body stiffened. That odious, little Mortimer Crane. Stuart had acted friendly enough to the man who owned the vast majority of businesses in Wildcat Ridge. But she’d always disliked the short man’s haughty attitude and stinky cigars. After turning the key in the lock, she swung open the door several inches and moved into the space. “Good day, Mister Crane.”
“Missus Crass.” His narrowed gaze swept her body from head to toe. “I’m paying condolence visits on all the widows.” He shouldered the door farther open then stepped into the saloon.
“How kind. And thank you.” Her grip tightened on the brass knob until an impression of the design pressed into her palm.
After a quick glance around, he stalked to the windows and pulled the drapes from the middle along the metal rods, clanking the rings. “Not at all. Just being a good neighbor.” He waved his hat in the air against the released dust. “Missus Crass, you must let some light into this place. Why, I couldn’t even tell if you were open for business. Not with the closed drapes and the black band around the saloon sign.”
“What band?” She leaned her head through the doorway and saw a strip of black cloth had been tied around the middle of the sign. Probably to demonstrate the household suffered a loss. She remembered cloths being put on mirrors and a wreath with black ribbon hung on the front door to mark her abuelo’s death. For a solid year, the fireplace mantel clock remained stopped at the precise time of his passing. “I’m sure Mister Driscoll put up that band to allow me my privacy.”
Footsteps crossed the floor, and he ducked out of sight behind the counter.
“What are you going, sir? Could you come around to the front, please?” Hurrying to the end of the polished bar, she stood on tiptoes to see what he was doing. What right does he think he has to act this way?
He used an ungloved hand to move around the glasses and pat along the shelf lengths.
What is he looking for? “Really, Mister Crane, I must insist. Owners and employees of the Last Chance are the only people allowed back here. As a businessman yourself, I’m sure you understand about boundaries.” Biting back her irritation at his attitude, she gave him her most conciliatory smile. The morning’s activities, as brief as they’d been, had already sapped her energy. She was not recovered enough for a confrontation.
He stood and brushed a hand over the knees of his trousers. “Well, as the owner of the town, I must inspect my holdings.”
His holdings? She straightened. “But you don’t own this business. Stuart and I bought it outright.” Or am I remembering the bank transaction wrong?
“I’ve come to discuss another matter.” He leaned back and looked toward the far end of the room. “Perhaps we’d be more comfortable in your hus—I beg your pardon, your late husband’s office.”
Dulcina gritted her teeth. Her life was supposed to be choosing gowns and sheet music, not discussing business matters. No matter what this man had to say, she’d didn’t want him anywhere but in the public space of her building. “We can conduct our conversation right here.” She waved a hand toward the closest round table with the chairs stacked upside down on top. Were they arranged in this manner on that awful day? Did everything she did have a base in that disaster? She pulled down two chairs and slumped into one. “What would that matter be?”
He sat and positioned his hat on the table before facing forward. “I believe you should come and perform at the Gentlemen Only saloon. I will compensate you well. My patrons will appreciate your lovely voice…” His gaze lingered over her curves. “As well as your other charms.”
Refusing to reveal the apprehension running through her body, Dulcina gripped her hands together under the table. Over the years, she’d learned precisely when to smile and scoot out of the reach of customers’ grasping hands. But she’d always had the knowledge of Stuart being nearby and ready to step in, if needed. A pang stabbed her chest. “I appreciate the generous offer, Mister Crane, but I have performances to present in my own establishment.”
“And how long do you think that situation will last now that the majority of your regular customers are dead?” A smirk quirked his thin lips then he leaned forward and squinted.
His gaze roaming her figure produced a shudder. Her mind reeled. Mourning Stuart hadn’t left her time to think about how the explosion impacted her business.
Mister Crane stood, ran pinched fingers down the front creases of his trousers, and collected his derby. “Just remembered I offered. And nicely, this time.”
As soon as she heard the door latch click, she dropped her head into her hands. Her pulse raced too fast, and her limbs felt too heavy for her body. She didn’t have to like the slimy little man, but she couldn’t refute the truth of what he said. How could her business survive without customers?
g
April 12, 1884
The mass funeral for the people lost in the mine disaster had to wait until the ground partially thawed from winter’s freeze.
Dulcina stood off to the side of those gathered, because the women, single or married, of Wildcat Ridge had never been very friendly. When she and Stuart first moved to the town, she figured the ladies were just jealous because of her flamboyant and higher-quality clothes. The fact that men, oftentimes their beaus and husbands, were hungry for her songs every night could also have caused upset feelings.
After Stuart’s name was spoken in the roll call of the dead, she let her thoughts drift. Performing on a small stage in a saloon in a northern Utah mining town was not the showy career Stuart promised. But she’d held onto hope that once this saloon made enough money, he’d arrange for her to perform at a fine theater in Denver or San Francisco.
But that scenario never happened. When sadness threatened to swamp her, she thought of what she would like for her career. Since making her decision that singing was her future, she pined for the acclaim enjoyed by Jenny Lind or Henrietta Sontag. Although she was the first person to admit her voice would never stand up to the rigorous operettas those international professionals sang. But a transcontinental tour like Belle Cole performed last year with the Theodore Thomas Orchestra demonstrated the notoriety she wished for.
Or perhaps being offered a similar opportunity to the one Blanche Roosevelt enjoyed. Imagine being chosen as the American singer to create both the roles of Josephine in H.M.S. Pinafore and Mabel in The Pirates of Penzance on Broadway five years earlier. Oh to have people associate her, Dulcina Angelique Miranda Crass, with a particular popular role. Her face would have appeared on printed programs and handbills…and think of all the wonderful costumes.
That lifestyle was what Stuart promised when he wooed her away from her father’s rancho after a brief courtship. He’d come to purchase a pair of matched horses, and she’d been enthralled with his stories of traveling across the United States with his various business ventures. Only after they were married had she learned those ventures involved buying rundown saloons, installing a singer or accomplished pianist, building up the value before selling the enterprise and moving on. The Last Chance Saloon was their third such business in eight years. Each location brought them closer to the original promised destination of Denver, Colorado, but never fast enough for her tastes.
A
woman’s wailing brought Dulcina back to the here-and-now of this somber occasion. Although she thought she’d cried every tear her body could possibly produce, a few more trickled down her cheeks. With a black lace handkerchief pulled from her sleeve, she dabbed them away.
Poor Stuart, cut down in his prime while going to the aid of others. She looked at the distraught women around her dressed in horrible, cheap black bombazine mourning clothes. Her own purple velvet gown with deep swags and silk rosettes had received a few frowns when she stepped into the church earlier. To avoid giving further offense, she kept the side of the accenting reticule embellished with fancy lilac embroidery turned toward her body.
But Stuart always loved her in this dress. She wore it today as a final tribute to the man who took her from the pastoral experience of a horse-breeding rancho to a world of performances. Even if the actuality wasn’t what she truly hoped for, she credited him with widening her horizons.
After another glance around at the blotchy faces of the distraught widows—some with children in tow, others graying and wrinkled—Dulcina acknowledged a basic truth. Very few people got what they really wanted in life. If she held on to the saloon long enough to find the right buyer, she still had a chance to live her dream.
Across the way, she spotted Mister Driscoll, with his head bowed enough to display the shiny, balding spot on top. How nice of him to come to pay his respects. With a start, she realized he was just about her only friend. And now he would be her ally in figuring out how to draw business into the saloon.
Last night, while she tossed and turned before finally falling asleep, she’d come up with the idea of adding something unique that appealed to the women and children who represented her new customer base. The problem was, what could that offering be? A pain started at her temple—a condition that occurred almost every time she set her mind toward business matters.
Around her, the crowd started moving. Some women wrapped arms around each others’ waists as they turned toward town, heads close together. Others stomped away without a glance back. Mothers called out children’s names to kids who dragged their feet along the rutted road.
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