He stripped out of his jacket and loosened the turquoise clasp on the bolo tie at his neck. “Choose clothing appropriate for cooking.”
Guilt stabbed her at the lack of hospitality she’d shown since his arrival. She should have had something simmering on the back of the stove. “I suppose you went without dinner because of the time your stage arrived.”
“I can always eat, but I am talking about you using the food I shipped to make tamales like you mentioned in your letter. In fact, I am surprised you have not unpacked that crate.”
“As soon as I saw those strange-looking gourds, I didn’t know if I should touch a thing.”
He waved a hand toward the stairs. “You are in for a real treat. Meet me in the kitchen.”
She hurried upstairs and was down again in less than ten minutes, wearing a brown skirt and a light green calico shirtwaist. Walking through the saloon, she paused a moment to confer with Ralph, checking if he needed a break but he sent her on her way.
Gabriel stood in front of a large crate on the counter, and he pulled at the slats on the top.
“This crate is just food?”
“When they read that line about needing food, both our mothers threw their hands over their heads and raided their pantries.” He tugged again on the wooden piece. “I need a hammer.”
“You showed them my letter?” She walked close to his side and braced her hands on the counter to look. Now, she was curious about what was inside the brown-paper wrapped packages that had sat on her saloon floor for two days.
“Dulcina, your parents have not heard from you since Christmas.” He covered her hand with his. “Of course, they wanted to know what was happening in your life.”
Had that much time passed…again? She kept her gaze averted so he wouldn’t see the guilt she knew resided there. “I think Stuart kept his tools in the storeroom behind the bar.” She headed in that direction then paused at the doorway. “Oh, do you know anything about fixing locks? Ralph and I keep finding the back door open in the morning when we know we locked it the night before.”
A frown wrinkled his brow. “Locks do not unlock themselves.” He followed her into the storeroom and inspected the hardware, stepped outside, and rattled the knob. “Look at these gouges in the wood around the lock.” Squinting, he leaned close. “The mechanism has been removed or disabled.”
She gazed at the metal contraption but didn’t know what to look for. “Or maybe it was ruined when the thieves broke in.”
His eyebrow winged high. “Someone stole from you?”
She tilted her head. “Remember, that’s why Ralph moved in?”
“Right.” Straightening, he nodded. “Since my arrival three hours ago, I have been hit with a lot of information. A new lock is needed. I remember seeing the mercantile on our walk to the bank. But what corner is it on?”
A sense of peace filled her. Unbidden rose all the things that needed fixing around the place and Stuart just ignored them or packed them out of sight. Gabriel saw a problem and knew how to solve it. Plus, he didn’t appear worried about money. Was that attitude because he saw the balance in her, er their, account, or because as a…she hadn’t even asked what his profession was. “Corner of Chestnut and Gold. Going down the back alley is shorter.”
“I prefer the main streets. How else will I make my presence as your husband known?” He grinned and waved. “Be back in a few minutes.”
Dulcina peeked around the doorway, unable to resist watching the tall, athletic man saunter across the saloon floor, his boots echoing on the planks. With each moment spent in his company, she was sure she’d made the right decision in contacting him. Something nagged, telling her she should be doing a certain task. Tools. She turned toward the storeroom and shifted around things on the shelves, organizing the bottles and jugs into an order that made more sense. So far, no sighting of a hammer or screwdriver. Those sacks of corn meal in the corner should be off the ground and easier to reach when she started cooking.
Moving the last bag revealed a rope loop on top of a hatch. I’ve never seen that. Beneath the door was a set of earthen steps leading down into darkness. Curiosity drove her to light a nearby lantern and investigate where the steps led. Walking into the semi-darkness made her stomach flip. The passage appeared to be creeping smaller, and she took several deep breaths.
After the last step, the space widened. By holding up the lantern level with her head, she could see the cellar was almost the same size as the floor of the main saloon room. A few feet away, a tarp about twenty feet square unfurled across the expanse, the corners nailed to foundation posts. Gold dust covered the cloth in a fine layer, obviously having fallen through the plank flooring above. Here and there, silver coins dotted the golden sheen.
Why didn’t Stuart ever tell me about this bonanza? Probably because years ago, she hadn’t wanted to know all the business details—she wanted to focus on her performances. That attitude was certainly short-sighted. If she’d known about this windfall, she would have been saved hours of worry over the past two months. Dulcina leaned against the wall and just looked at the pretty golden money. Should she tell Gabriel? Or should she keep this spot a secret, in case she needed to use it as her escape money if the marriage didn’t work out?
If Rosemary Brennan wasn’t still in deep mourning, Dulcina might ask her to re-open her late husband’s assay office. Learning how much the gold dust was worth could be important. Of course, knowing what was in her bank account would be helpful, too. Why hadn’t she peeked over Gabriel’s shoulder when he reviewed the ledger? She vowed to become involved with the boring details, because those numbers and facts were more important that she thought.
Footsteps scraped on the floor above, and she watched a fine shower of dust filter through the air. The result was logical—that gold dust would fall from miners’ clothing and boots and even from the few who bought their drinks with it—but she would never have thought to look under the building’s floor. Extending her arm, she moved the lantern from one end of the cellar toward the other while scanning the floor for a toolbox. Off to the side, it sat, probably used when Stuart erected this catchall. She grabbed the handle on the wooden box and hurried upstairs, replacing the corn meal sacks over the hatch.
After filling the woodbin from the dwindling pile outside, she set up the implements she’d need while she waited. A big pot of water heated for softening the husks, and a cast iron skillet sat ready.
Upon his return, Gabriel pried open the crate and then went to install the new lock, taking along a slat from the crate.
Stretching on tiptoes, Dulcina lifted out bundles and burlap bags, holding each up to her nose. The scents of her childhood—cilantro, cumin, chili powder, garlic, onion, paprika—surrounded her, filling her soul. Until she smelled them, she hadn’t realized how much she missed spicy food. Stuart had suffered from dyspepsia, and plain, simple fare caused the least amount of stomach upset.
Like she hadn’t spent a day away from her abuelita’s kitchen, she moved to the stove and set a couple dozen corn husks into the pot of water and weighted them with a plate. Next, she poured a generous amount of oil into the heavy skillet then added a handful of white flour and stirred until a smooth roux formed. Over the bubbling mixture, she tossed in pinches and palmfuls of the spices to let them roast, humming a long-forgotten tune. The familiar smells reminded her of when she’d enjoyed cooking family meals. After stirring in a quart of water, she left the sauce to simmer.
Now for the meat. She walked into the storeroom where Gabriel stood hunched over, wielding a screwdriver. “Excuse me.”
“Ah, Dulcina. I need another hand. Can you hold this slat in place?” He jerked with his chin. “Someone has been breaking into the storeroom. Their tampering loosened the lock within the door frame. I am using this wood to stabilize where the screws will be set. Will not be pretty, but it will hold.”
“Maybe that’s how the still was emptied. Ralph said a batch was cooking at the time of the…
disaster.” Ducking her head, she did as instructed. The event and the ramifications had been on her mind for two months and she’d need time to stop thinking about it. “I have a sauce simmering and the husks softening, but I need to buy fresh meat for the filling. Do you have cash?”
“Of course. Let me set this last screw.” He glanced up and smiled. “We have not even discussed the routine for the saloon or what companies you use or when you order supplies or where in town you have accounts that need to be changed to Magnus.”
His easy smile shot a quiver of awareness through her body. This handsome man was her new husband, and here they talked as if they hadn’t been separated for eight long years. “Ralph will be more helpful with some of those questions.”
Gabriel opened and closed the door a couple times then nodded. “Good.” Then he reached into a back pocket and pulled out a leather wallet, lighter in color at the corners and edges.
Seeing the familiar buckskin with the stamped horseshoe design, Dulcina sucked in a breath. “Is that the one I gave you on your eighteenth birthday?”
He ducked his head and spread the pocket. “Bit worn and aged, but are not we all? How much do you need?”
Doing her best not to gape at the stack of visible bills, she held out a hand. “Two dollars should be enough.”
“If you had five, would you buy the ingredients for sopapillas? I have a real hankering for the ones you used to make.”
Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes. “Gabriel, you are such a flatterer. I learned to make them from your mother.”
He shrugged. “Yours always tasted better.”
A long-ago conversation flitted in her mind of Consuela telling her to pick a sweet spice like cinnamon, allspice, or mace and use that to distinguish her own recipe. She’d chosen ground coriander seed, because her mother always had cilantro plants growing. She just smiled and went to collect her reticule. The smile never faded during the walk along Lilac Avenue to the butcher shop. “Good afternoon, Missus Muckelrath.”
The red-haired woman looked up from the display case, and her eyes widened. “Oh, Missus Crass, I haven’t seen you in quite a while. I figured you’d given up eating meat.”
“First, I’m now Missus Gabriel Magnus, so you’ll need to change my listing in your book of accounts.” On a whim, she held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers. “I was married just this afternoon.”
“Well, congratulations on that happy news. This is the month for weddings, with Priscilla’s coming just last week.” She leaned a freckle-skinned hand on the counter, and her shoulders sagged. “You must be relieved not to be alone any longer.”
Dulcina heard sadness in the plump woman’s voice and knew exactly how she felt. “I am, Olive, and I’m looking forward to bringing business to the saloon. So, I’d like a pound of pork and two pounds of beef. Or three pounds of either, if you only have one type.”
A grin spread and rounded her cheeks. “I’m quite pleased to fill that order. Just give me a few minutes.”
As Dulcina waited, she watched folks walking on the street outside. She marveled at how different she felt from when she’d awakened that morning. With the worry of money lifted—both from Gabriel’s confident attitude and her secret stash—everything seemed more upbeat. On the walk here, she hadn’t fretted about the appearance of Mister Crane. Her interest in cooking was back, her purchase made Olive happy, and no one would be stealing from her storeroom anymore. She leaned over and looked at her reflection in the display case. Her cheeks had color again.
Olive bustled into the store from the back room and held out two wrapped packages. “That’ll be eighty-five cents.”
Dulcina reached into her reticule and pulled out a dollar bill. “You can put the credit on my account, if you would please.”
“Thank you, Missus Magnus.”
“Dulcina, please. I hope to do more business with you soon.” On her way back, she turned down Gold Street and picked up flour, butter, saleratus, a box of lard, and paid a king’s ransom for a little jar of honey at Tweedie’s Mercantile. The anticipation of the look on Gabriel’s face would be worth the price. When she opened the kitchen door, she inhaled the heavenly scents of spicy sauce.
Within minutes, delicious smells of bubbling cornmeal and sizzling pork filled the room. If she had a finer texture of meal, she could just mix with water to make the masa. As she cooked, she wondered how much to charge for the tamales. Two for a nickel? Or a nickel a piece? When she’d last eaten in a restaurant, she hadn’t needed to worry about the prices. Oh, she should have asked Olive how much each of the meats had cost.
She went to the cupboard to get salt, and the sight of shelves filled with cans and bags brought a lump to her throat. Usually, the scent of cooking meat brought men to the kitchen. As soon as she had all the ingredients done, she went in search of Gabriel to help her assemble the tamales. When she entered the main saloon room, she paused, surprised by the scene before her.
A poker game was in session at one of the tables. Gabriel had the biggest stack of coins in front of him. His posture was relaxed, but he watched as each player bet or tossed down cards.
Five other men rounded out the game. Two must be in town for the auction, and the other three she recognized as customers who’d been in the saloon off and on over the last month. The regrettably-familiar men had a scraggly appearance, like they were constantly on the move and never had extra money to use a bathhouse or a barber at the same time. Snake Bandell had the wrinkled skin of a man in his forties and wore a rattlesnake headband on his wide-brimmed slouch hat. His younger brother, Skelly, had a wild look in his eye, and his strange laugh made her shudder. The third man was a blond who rarely spoke, although she’d heard him answer to Swede once.
Dulcina walked to the bar and leaned an elbow on the wood. The sight of her returned liquor case, now restocked with various bottles, produced a smile. “Stuart always said my singing was enough of a draw so that we didn’t need gambling. Didn’t you tell Gabriel that Mister Crane doesn’t like games of chance taking place in any saloon but his own?”
“’Course I did. He said he’d heard of whole towns that outlawed gambling but not ones where it was only allowed in one establishment.” Ralph tilted his head and sniffed. “What are you cooking that smells so good?”
“Tamales. I’ll have a plate out here in about an hour.” Hoping she would accomplish the assembly and get them steamed and ready to serve in that time, she returned to the kitchen. Usually, several women in the household gathered to help, making the process go faster. By the second round of assembly, she’d learned she couldn’t handle more than six at a time or the husk dried too fast. The actions became routine as she walked along the counter—spread masa on half the length of a husk, spoon on filling, then fold over the husk edges, fold in half the short way, and tie with a strip of soaked husk.
One of the mothers had even sent a crockery pot with a footed plate pierced with multiple holes that sat on the bottom over boiling water. Maybe she’d have enough left over to take to the community dance tomorrow. By the time the steaming was done, she couldn’t resist and gobbled one straight from the husk. A little dry, but the flavors blended well. Now came the real test— offering the food from her area of the country to people who might not have tried it before.
She cut up a single tamale into bite-sized pieces and dribbled on more sauce. As soon as she passed the office, she noticed the noise level from the main room was louder. After peeking around the corner, she hurried back to the kitchen and cut a second tamale in the same way. Then she walked straight to Gabriel’s table and rested her free hand on the back of his chair. “Evening, gentlemen. If you’ve been wondering about the savory smell, I prepared pork tamales. Each man here gets one free bite. If you want more, the price is—”
“Dulcina, let the men taste a sample of this fine Mexican dish.” Gabriel glanced over his shoulder and winked. “They will let you know what a tamale is worth.” Then he reached to grab a bite
and popped it in his mouth. His grin widened. “Que bueno.”
His praise warmed her as much as working in front of the hot stove. The batch of three dozen sold out, and the men begged for more. She held back plates holding three tamales each to make sure Ralph and Gabriel were fed. Had she discovered something more rewarding than singing?
g
Gabriel hated sending Dulcina back to the kitchen to prepare more food because he knew the process involved multiple steps. But after five minutes spent in the company of a couple of these uncouth men, he knew she was safer there. He hoped they’d arrived just for the auction, and she hadn’t had to deal with them with only Ralph present. Something about the Bandell brothers’ shifty glances alerted him they were up to no good. The younger one watched Dulcina’s every move too closely for his liking.
When the scruffy trio first arrived, they’d swaggered up to the table, bragging among themselves on how they’d clean up at this saloon and move on to Crane’s fancy one. Anytime a group of players joined the same game, Gabriel suspected cheating. But he wasn’t too worried because he had his own specific ability.
A couple years into his assignment of tending the cattle herd, Gabriel learned how to watch for the smallest movement that might let him know a cow was about to bolt—the flick of an ear, a twitch of a shoulder muscle, a continued switching of a tail. He’d soon learned people gave off the same signals. Hours spent in the bunkhouse with the sheepherders who worked for his father provided Gabriel with the extended time to spot when card players bluffed. Nothing he did could be called cheating, but he felt confident in his advantage when he sat at any poker table.
Gabriel glanced at his stack of money and figured he should lose a couple of hands to even out the winnings. Between deals, the players shared information that he found invaluable about his new town. He learned that the majority of Crane’s saloon and bordello businesses had been moved to his new mining town, Cranesville, near Park City. More time was needed to determine if this news meant opportunities to develop the Last Chance’s business were now better or worse. He had a passing thought about mentioning to Dulcina the possibility of a new name, maybe something more upbeat.
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