Dulcina

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Her isolation weighed heavy on her lonely heart. She glanced at Nissa Stillwell who walked to her left, hoping to catch the widow’s eye. But the slender, auburn-haired woman with pretty green eyes stared forward, chin up, walking with a determined step and towing a boy and a girl in her wake.

  Dulcina heard she’d been forced to work as a laundress in the yard outside the Ridge Hotel. Laundry chores for herself and Stuart had been disagreeable enough to learn, but a necessity. Stuart didn’t, uh, hadn’t believed in paying for tasks one of them could do themselves. She couldn’t imagine having to take in washing for others. Thankfully, the days were becoming warmer as spring advanced, which must make Nissa’s job easier.

  As Dulcina walked along the boardwalk, she marveled at the direction of her compassionate thoughts. Did such a horrible tragedy need to occur for her to remember all those lessons Mama taught about kindness toward others? Nearing the saloon, she reached into her reticule for the key.

  From the street, a long-legged man stepped up onto the boardwalk.

  Dulcina sucked in a breath then recognized the bartender. “Good day, Mister Driscoll.”

  “Didn’t mean to startle you, Missus Crass.” He pulled the battered felt hat from his head and held it in front of his body. “But I didn’t want to interrupt your reverie as you walked from the cemetery.”

  “Thank you for the courtesy. Idle and scattered thoughts were all that circled in my mind.” She pushed open the door and stepped inside, reaching up to remove the long pin securing her own hat.

  “Well, I have somethin’ I’ve been wantin’ to discuss, but I reckoned I should wait until after the funeral.”

  Uneasiness knotted her stomach. Was he thinking of quitting and leaving town? Where would the lack of a bartender leave the saloon? Running the saloon alone seemed impossible. She braced a hand on the closest table and turned to look his way. “Oh? What might that be?”

  “Let’s sit.” He hurried forward to set two chairs on their legs.

  Gratefully, she dropped into one and arranged her skirts to display even folds, just for something to do with her hands. Then she looked up and offered what she hoped was a go-ahead smile.

  “I know business hasn’t been anythin’ close to normal since the mine disaster.”

  Hearing the words spoken aloud made the situation sound worse. “That’s an understatement. With the loss of Herbert, I have no one to provide my needed music nor can the townspeople be comforted by his piano playing.” She rested her chin on an upraised palm and gazed longingly at the upright piano. If only her skills weren’t so rusty.

  “And I don’t like knowin’ you’re here in the place alone at night.”

  Sucking in a breath through her nose, she jerked and looked into his earnest expression. Dios mío, was he about to propose? The plain-faced man inspired not a single flutter of feminine response. Never once had she thought of Mister Driscoll as anything other than a reliable worker who poured drinks and kept the drunks from breaking up the furniture. “I’m getting used to the creaks this place makes.”

  “What if I moved into the storeroom off the kitchen? In the town’s heyday, when the mine produced well, I suspect this saloon provided lodgin’s for either the bartender or maybe a cook.” He tapped his fingers along the edge of the table. “Once those busted-up chairs and tables that Stuart thought he’d fix are cleared out, I could fit a cot and a small chest of drawers inside. I’m a simple man, ma’am, and don’t need much else.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” She would feel easier at night knowing someone else was on the premises. But two single people living under the same roof? What would the gossips say? She imagined herself having to explain over and over the actuality of the sleeping arrangements.

  Most long-time residents knew the upstairs contained three other bedrooms that former owners rented out to willing saloon girls to entertain their best customers. When Stuart bought the place, he sent away those girls, not caring if they ended up at the Velvet Kitten or the Gentlemen Only Saloon. One of the bedrooms they’d furnished like a parlor with armchairs, a settee, and a small writing desk for her use.

  “I’d promise not to ever come upstairs.”

  “And I appreciate that promise.” She looked down at her clasped hands. “You know almost two weeks have passed since…since…” Speaking the words of his death aloud always caused her to choke up. She swallowed hard.

  “If you’re gonna say anythin’ about my salary, don’t. I know these times are hard.” His brows crunched together. “And that’s why I’m suggestin’ the move. I won’t take nothin’ more than room and board until you can figure out what’s going on here.”

  “Oh.” She released a long breath. “Oh, Mister Driscoll, that arrangement would suit me very well.” At least, as long as the food held out.

  “We could be a bit less formal and use our given names.” A blush ran up his neck.

  “All right, Ralph.” She emphasized his name.

  “I’m real sorry to be takin’ away business from Missus Loftin, but when I explained the situation to her this mornin’, she understood. By the way, she sends her best wishes. I’ve been gnawin’ away on the matter of you being so vulnerable. I know Stuart would have expected me to make this offer. He was always so worried about your welfare. More than once, he mentioned that if a fight broke out, my first responsibility was to get you out of harm’s way.”

  “I knew he cared but didn’t know about your particular duty.” A lump lodged in her throat. This personal concern about her welfare and ensuring she was protected was what she would desperately miss in the days, weeks, and years ahead. But hearing someone else reaffirm Stuart displayed that attitude boosted her spirits. Dulcina realized this discussion contained the most words she had ever heard the bartender speak in one sitting.

  Now, maybe Mister Crane would think twice about visiting to pressure her to perform at his Gentlemen Only saloon. What she’d overheard from customers’ conversations was Crane’s high-class saloon was just a more expensive bordello than the Velvet Kitten. And that Crane’s favorite whore, Cady Winkle, was a mere sixteen years of age. She shook away those troubling thoughts. “When did you think you wanted to move in?’

  “Today. As soon as I get the storeroom squared away, I’ll collect my stuff from the boardinghouse.” He flashed a grin.

  Dulcina returned the gesture and felt the first natural smile cross her lips in way too long.

  A couple days later, Dulcina swept the saloon floor when Etta Fawks stepped through the bat-wing doors. “Why, Marshal, what can I do for you? A cup of coffee, maybe?” The woman’s masculine attire of trousers and shirt with a holster around her hips always made Dulcina do a double-take…until she remembered how many of the widows worked in the positions their husbands vacated. Like she had.

  “Sure enough.” Etta Fawks rested her hands on her holster, sauntered inside, and glanced around the room.

  Having one of the widows visit was a rare event. Perhaps the marshal had come to ask her advice as a business owner. Dulcina scooted behind the bar to the tiny stove in the corner and poured two mugs half full. To hurry and get to the conversation, she went without sugar in hers. She set both mugs on the bar then walked around the end and claimed a spot with a foot upon the long brass rail. “How are things going, Marshal?” When was the last time she’d chatted with another woman?

  “Had a few minor disturbances.” She patted a hand on her holstered gun. “But I’ve got things under control.”

  Dulcina saw the motion and remembered the derringer Stuart gave her when they opened their first saloon. Where did I last see the weapon? “Of course.” Now, her curiosity was aroused over what those incidents might be. She sipped her coffee to encourage the talkative marshal to reveal the details.

  “Missus Crass, one of my duties is to keep the peace here in Wildcat Ridge. And that involves all types of situations—from arranging for grave digging to shooing home loitering youth.” She hooked her thumb
s in the waistband of her trousers.

  Although what the woman said was known by all, Dulcina didn’t mention the woman stated the obvious. “I understand.” She watched the woman look around the main room and noticed her brown hair in a braid coiled at back of head. How does her hat fit? “You’re tending to the community’s safety same as your husband did. And I do appreciate knowing that fact.”

  “Well, Missus Crass—”

  “Dulcina, please. I feel that all of the remaining widows are in the same situation, so we should be on friendlier terms.”

  “All right.” Etta nodded then cleared her throat. “Dulcina, I’ve received several complaints from your neighbors about hearing piano playing at all hours of the night.”

  People have complained? Her eyes popped wide. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping since…being alone…” Tears threatened. She shrugged and looked away.

  “Be that as it may, you have to consider the needs of other folks.” She took a big gulp of coffee. “Some even expressed concern that you had gone off your rocker, because you keep playing one song over and song until folks want to scratch out their eyeballs.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Dulcina set down her mug with a clunk. “I truly had no idea the sound carried enough to cause people to complain.” She clasped her hands together on the bar. “I’m re-teaching myself how to play, and that task involves lots of practice. As you must know, we, uh, I lost the saloon’s pianist in the tragedy. Mister Schumer was part of the first rescue attempt. In order to attract customers, I need to present some form of entertainment.” Her tone sounded a bit desperate, not how she intended to portray her plans. She jerked up her head. “Wholesome entertainment, mind you.”

  “As marshal, I agree to you offering something wholesome.” Etta nodded and rocked back on her boot heels. “Well as long as you assure me you’ll confine the music to the hours before most folks are in bed, I’d say the matter is concluded.”

  “Oh, I will.” Dulcina tilted her head. “And thank you for coming to speak to me.” She turned and extended her right hand. “I appreciate the visit more than you know.”

  Smiling, Etta glanced at the hand, and then back at Dulcina, before she completed the handshake. “Gotta tell you, I didn’t know what to expect before stepping over that threshold. You’ve been mighty solitary since moving to town last year. Folks here aren’t used to a female of good reputation being associated with a saloon. I sure didn’t want to deal with a woman who’d lost her senses.”

  At least, that’s one problem I don’t have.

  Chapter Three

  Tuesday, May 27, 1884

  D ulcina fought her way through wind and sleet to reach the Blessed Church of the Angels overlooking the Black Bear River. Lack of sleep weighed on her body, but she was determined to hear how the other women fared.

  Her nerves hadn’t settled from last night’s break-in. Thieves had the audacity to invade her storeroom to steal a crate of whiskey. Thankfully, Ralph heard the window breaking and shouted for her to find the marshal. Dashing through the streets of Wildcat Ridge in the middle of the night left her distraught and so shaken she’d not fallen back to sleep. Before she left the saloon just now, George Tweedie from the mercantile had arrived to replace the window.

  Dulcina dragged herself from her grieving to force herself to look to the future. She’d chosen her least-fancy gown—a brown hound’s-tooth-patterned shirtwaist with black lace trim—to avoid drawing attention how her clothing tastes differed from the other women. Her destination was a meeting of the widows called to decide how to attract visitors and, therefore, the potential for added revenue for the businesses in town. A subject she was one hundred percent behind and a topic that left her constantly upset, because she hadn’t yet figured out a solution on her own.

  After shaking the worst of the water from her coat, she slipped into the sanctuary already buzzing with female conversations and sat at the end of a bench forming the last row. These intervening weeks since the mine collapse had seen only a small number of drifters as customers. Even the few remaining men in town who used to spend an hour or so a couple evenings a week just ordered a single drink then left. Since the train no longer came through town, the railroad crew members who’d been semi-regular customers faded away, too.

  A week or so after the disaster, Dulcina made one attempt to perform a modified set of three songs for the much-smaller audience. By the end of the second a cappella number, she’d looked toward the office for Stuart, but of course, he wasn’t there. Her voice gave out, and she hadn’t made a second attempt at performing.

  Dulcina glanced around the room and counted sixty-three women, beside herself. Although, she didn’t see Nissa Stilwell, so she increased the widow count by one. Looked like what Etta reported in one of her daily coffee-break visits was true—some of the mine widows had given up and already moved back to cities to resume their lives close to other family members. The situation here hadn’t become dire enough to consider returning to the isolation of acres and acres of land with the only nightlife being Manuel’s Cantina. Or living with the constant reminders of her duties to become a mother and provide her parents with many grandchildren.

  Someone spoke the word “ultimatum.”

  Dulcina snapped her attention to Priscilla Heartsel who stood next to the piano bench toward the front of the room, hands clenched at her sides. The young blonde grieved the loss of both a husband and a father. She railed against the lives lost, giving a too-familiar accounting of the dead—one hundred-forty-three men, nineteen women, and thirteen children perished.

  “We widows have to face facts.” Mayor Hester Fugit stood at the podium, mouth pinched tight. “Mortimer Crane owns this town, whether we like it or not. He’s not reopening the Gold King. If he decides to tear down buildings or relocate them to the site of his new mine on Marsell Mountain, he can. My job here today is to pass along Crane’s ultimatum.” As she scanned the room’s occupants, she winced.

  Dulcina recalled Hester lost a husband and a son but appeared to know how to preside over the meeting. Being the bearer of any news from Mortimer Crane must be a tough task.

  “Crane has given us all three months to catch up any outstanding rent and mortgage payments before he says he’ll tear down the town.” Hester paused until the hubbub died down. “Current leases will not be renewed unless the surviving widow has a new husband who is placed as the manager of the business.”

  What? Dulcina stiffened. Did this proclamation affect her? Stuart and I bought the building. That fact I know to be true. But did we buy the land? Closing her eyes, she fought to remember the embossed words at the top of the parchment document she’d signed—deed of mortgage or title to land. She didn’t know where in his office Stuart had stored their important documents. Or perhaps he paid for them to be safely kept at the bank. A shudder ran through her at the idea of having to face Mortimer Crane to request anything.

  Grumblings came from several nearby women about not wanting to be forced to marry.

  New husband? Not even two months had passed. To expect the widows to remarry so soon was just plain cruel. Dulcina gripped handfuls of her skirt to hide her shaking hands. Sniffling from all corners of the room made her look around at the women who appeared as surprised and appalled as she felt.

  Some dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs while other stared straight ahead, their expressions somber.

  “He can’t do that, can he?” Cordelia Wentz shook a fist in the air.

  Marshal Etta stood. “Nothing in the law prevents him. Or, at least, nothing I found in Richard’s law books.”

  A loud gasp and a thud sounded off to the side.

  Dulcina shifted in her seat to see what happened. Oh, the poor woman.

  Ailsa McNair, a widow left with ten children to raise on her own, fainted and lay in a heap.

  The doctor’s wife, Martha Spense, who often served as his nurse, rushed to Ailsa’s side and patted her cheeks.

  “Don’t you se
e, ladies?” Hester glanced around until the audience finally hushed. “All the widows still in Wildcat Ridge must remarry.”

  Dulcina added her voice to the cries of “too soon” or “don’t want another husband” being expressed by just about every woman present. Where would she find another man like Stuart? She listened to Priscilla’s statement about the need for new types of businesses to attract visitors. Justine Ditzler, whose face was hidden behind a black veil, suggested posting ads that offered the town’s businesses to men willing to marry. But Hester’s claim that owing Crane money for their homes or businesses gave him leverage over the widows’ lives was the one complaint that hit closest to Dulcina’s situation. She really had to make herself go into Stuart’s office and find that document proving she and Stuart owned the saloon.

  The obnoxious Mister Crane hadn’t visited again to repeat his request to hire her to sing at his saloon. But she had seen him walking past the Last Chance Saloon more often than before. Until she knew what she owned, if anything, she would be at a disadvantage around the toad.

  “Has everyone heard that Crane raised my rent by one dollar per month?” Thalia scanned the groups as she voiced her news. “He’s done it to force us out.”

  What a heartless act! One more reason to dislike the man.

  From the row forward of where Dulcina sat came the whisper that if the mine hadn’t collapsed, today would have been Thalia’s wedding day to her beau, Jeffrey.

  Dulcina gave the drab-clothed woman a closer look and saw her red and splotchy cheeks and tightened jaw. As she often did, Dulcina allowed her thoughts to wander to Stuart and what she missed about their life together. The murmurs around her faded, and she let memories of happier times occupy her thoughts. Moments when she didn’t constantly worry about liquor inventory and losing her voice and what would happen if she couldn’t draw more customers.