by Alison Kent
Ellie’s much longer legs gave her the advantage, and no matter how hard Reese pushed herself, she made it to the third floor behind her sister. Both laughing and out of breath, they found the narrow stairs that would take them to the forbidden zone.
Only once had they been allowed to accompany their grandmother into the cramped stuffy room when she’d gone in search of a photo album. The cobwebs and dust bunnies and creaking floor had been formidable, but the allure of an ornately carved chest and collections of vintage toys won their curiosity. They hadn’t been able to explore as much as they’d have liked.
Something had spooked their grandmother and she’d quickly herded them out, warning them that the attic was forever off-limits. Nothing could have made breaching the boundary more appealing to curious eleven-and thirteen-year-olds. But that had been the last summer they’d spent in Deadwood. At the time they hadn’t understood why, but in retrospect, they knew that Grandma Lily had begun her descent into dementia.
Ellie let Reese go first, a gesture she wasn’t sure she appreciated. The dust and mustiness nearly overpowered her, throwing her into a coughing fit, but she found relief by shoving open the window facing west. It was small, the clouded glass scarcely providing enough light for Ellie to find the bare overhead bulb.
“Tell me again why we were so excited to come up here,” Reese said between coughs.
Ellie sneezed three times. “If I end up on the floor at least I’ll have a doctor to see to me. This is ridiculous.”
“We don’t have to do this.” Reese pulled the neckline of her shirt up over her nose and mouth until the crisp outside breeze had a chance to circulate.
“It’s getting better already.” Ellie stationed herself near the open window and took several gulps of cool spring air. Then she turned toward Reese, but her fascinated gaze went past her. “Would you look at that.”
Reese twisted around. In the corner, hanging on a seamstress’s form, was a wedding gown. A very fancy one with lots of lace and pearls. Forgetting about the cloying air, Reese moved toward the dress. “It’s beautiful.”
“It couldn’t have been Grandma Lily’s,” Ellie said, coming to stand beside her. “She was tall. That dress is tiny.”
Enthralled, Reese ran the tip of her finger over the high, pearl-trimmed neckline. “It’s in remarkably good shape, but it’s really old. Maybe it belonged to her mother.”
“Try it on.”
“What?” Reese stared at her sister, strangely intrigued by the idea.
“I bet it’s your size.”
“Probably the closest I’ll get to a wedding.”
“Stop it.”
Reese shrugged. It was the truth. They both knew it, but her lack of a love life wasn’t a big deal. She’d made her choice. A career was important to her, besides the fact that she was picky about men. Overly so, she’d been told more than once. “Okay, I’ll try it on if it’s not too dusty.”
Astonishingly, it wasn’t too bad. Ellie readied the fragile dress, with only a couple of pearls coming loose by the time Reese wiggled out of her sweatpants and took off her top.
“This sucker is kind of heavy,” Ellie said. “You should probably step into it.”
Reese nodded and carefully did as suggested. Cringing under the weight, she sucked in her belly as Ellie struggled to button up the back. “I bet this is supposed to be worn with a corset.”
With a grunt and a firm tug, Ellie secured the hook and eye at the top. “Let me see.”
Reese gathered up the skirt, lifting the hem off the floor, and spun around. “What do you think?”
“You look awesome. Come see in the mirror.”
A full-length mirror propped by a walnut easel stood in the corner by the window. Reese stared at her reflection in surprise. The dress was amazing. Charming and old-fashioned, with a high neck, long sleeves that came to a point just above her knuckles, and a cinched waist that left no room for a decent meal.
“I’m taking a picture,” Ellie said. “Where’s the camera?”
“Still in the car, I think.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the exquisite dress. The workmanship was stunning, from the intricate lace to the generous use of pearls.
“I’m going to go look for it and refill our mugs.” Ellie stopped, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t even look at that chest while I’m gone. I mean it.”
“Not even a glance.” She heard the stairs creak as Ellie went in search of coffee and camera. Spellbound by the reflection of the dress, Reese blinked. Why hadn’t they seen this gown that time they’d come up here with Grandma Lily? She had so many questions about the dress that couldn’t be answered now that Grandma was gone. It had to be really old. Was there a veil that went with it? Her gaze drifted to the trunk. But she’d promised Ellie.
She was about to turn back to the mirror when a bright white light flashed from the trunk and momentarily blinded her. She blinked a couple of times, until her vision cleared. Everything slowly came back into focus. The chest looked just as it had a few minutes ago.
Intrigued, Reese gathered the skirt in her hands and, making sure the hem cleared the scarred wooden floor, hurried to the trunk. The key was inserted in the lock and turned easily. Bracing herself, she leaned back and slowly lifted the lid.
A cloud of dust rose, spiraling up her nostrils, making her cough and sneeze. The haze dispersed and she wiped her watery eyes with the back of her hand, careful not to ruin the sleeve. She squinted until her vision cleared, to find a book lying on top of a pair of laced-up shoes and some trinkets. Ordinarily the latter would have been what captured her interest, but it was the book that drew her.
The once-blue jacket was old and faded to gray, she noted as she gingerly picked the volume up with both hands, worried about the condition of the narrow spine. Her attempted caution ended up making her clumsy, and she nearly dropped the book. Luckily, she recovered it before it hit the floor. A page came loose and she opened the book to inspect the binding. The 1910 copyright surprised her. She’d thought the publication was older.
With great care, she turned to the loosened page, her gaze riveted to the picture of an open wooden coffin. Propped up inside was a grainy photograph of a young dark-haired man, his eyes closed. The eerie image gave her a chill, and why she didn’t immediately close the book she had no idea. She simply couldn’t. Something about the handsome stranger pulled at her.
It was crazy; the man had been dead for over a hundred years. But a haunting familiarity gripped her, so soundly that goose bumps surfaced on her flesh. Her eyes went to the caption.
“Sam Keegan, 29, hung in the rear of the Deadwood jail, for stealing Mr. Hastings Barnett’s horse on the 23rd of April last.”
Below, an article explained the practice of photographing convicted criminals and displaying their pictures for the public as a means of deterring illegal activity. With a sudden sadness weighing down her shoulders, she looked again at the handsome face.
The dead man opened his eyes.
She gasped and blinked.
Sam Keegan stared back at her, the pleading in his eyes unmistakable.
“No.” Reese stepped away and dropped the book. Again the white light flashed from inside the trunk, and she lost her footing. The gown tangled around her feet and she fell, clutching futilely at the air. Her head hit the floor with a thud, and then there was nothing.
2
THE STENCH WOKE HER. Stale tobacco and cheap booze and something else Reese didn’t want to think about. Slowly she opened her eyes, to see that it was the cold, roughened hardwood floor that scraped against her right cheek. A cramp seized her twisted leg and she tried to stretch it out, but something restricted her movement.
She looked down in the dimness at the lacy white dress tangled around her ankles. The wedding gown. In Grandma Lily’s attic. She took a deep, ragged breath and pushed herself up. But this wasn’t the attic. How did she get down to the parlor? It looked different. The Chippendale sofa was the same, and the table with
the claw-and-ball feet, but…
A cacophony of voices drifted in from a distant room. Raucous laughter. A man’s booming demand for whiskey. The lively sound of a piano.
“Ellie?” She got up as far as her knees. Pain shot from the base of her skull and gripped her entire head. She sank back onto the floor and squeezed her eyes shut against the pounding, finding odd comfort in the scratchy wood pressed to her cheek.
“Well, well, look who finally woke up. It’s the blushin’ bride. Better get your ass up before Margaret takes a whip to you.” Cackling accompanied the strange voice.
Reese lifted her head and peered out through slitted eyes. Two women stood over her, or maybe she was seeing double.
No, one was taller, thinner, her hair an unfortunate shade of red. “You being new and all, maybe Margaret won’t have you beat for getting drunk without a customer.”
Reese forced her eyes open. Both women were dressed in costumes, Old West designs. Not the chaste, old-fashioned kind, but something that a saloon girl might have worn. The shorter, curvier, blond woman’s low-cut bodice barely contained her abundant breasts. She stuck the toe of her black, heeled boot out and nudged Reese’s arm.
“You can’t lie there all day,” she said, her face creasing. “What’s wrong with you, anyway? You sick? What happened to your hair?”
Was this a joke? Ellie wouldn’t do this. Where was she? Reese opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She could barely breathe.
The redhead, who was dressed in what looked like a long nightshirt and thin beige stockings, crouched beside Reese. She had to be only in her early twenties, but time had been unkind to her. “You are sick, ain’t you, honey?”
“I don’t know,” Reese whispered, noticing the burgundy velvet drapes that allowed in only a trickle of sunlight. A kerosene lamp kept the room from being too dark. “Where am I?”
The redhead stared for a moment and then frowned at the other woman. “Maybe we should fetch the doc.”
She shook her head. “Margaret won’t like that. This one ain’t earned her nothin’ yet. She won’t wanna have to pay Doc, too.”
The redhead still looked troubled, but she nodded. “Come on, honey,” she said, grabbing ahold of Reese’s arm and struggling to her feet. “You have to get up.”
Reese didn’t have much choice. The woman was stronger than she looked and all her tugging made Reese’s head hurt worse. “I’m dreaming,” she muttered as she was yanked to her feet, holding her breath against the sharp odor of the woman’s unwashed body. “I’m going to wake up and everything will be all right.”
The blonde and redhead exchanged wary glances.
“You ain’t gonna get no more money out of them miners dressed in that gown,” the redhead said. “Might be a good idea you go change.”
“Flo and Mary, what the hell is keeping you gals? We got customers.” The voice came from outside of the room. A woman’s voice, hard and scratchy like a three-pack-a-day habit.
“Come on. Leave your dillydallying.” The blonde grabbed Reese’s other arm. “The old lady’s in one of her moods today. You don’t want to cross her.”
Reese’s head continued to pound as she let them guide her out of the room. She wasn’t too keen on going with them, but she wouldn’t find answers lying on the hard floor. The blonde, whose name was Flo, Reese learned, took the lead down a hall that was too narrow for the three of them. Mary held on tightly to Reese’s arm, forcing her toward the voices, the sound of clinking glass and strange piano music.
The air was humid and stuffy, the musky smells horrendous, and just as Reese thought she might pass out again, they rounded the corner into a huge room. There were people. A dozen. Maybe two. Men. Women. Sitting on velvet sofas, or standing at a mahogany bar that stretched across the front of the room. One by one everyone stopped talking and turned to stare at Reese. Even the middle-aged, balding piano player abandoned his keyboard.
The only sound came from the ticking of a grandfather clock. Reese slowly turned her head. The clock looked a lot like Grandma Lily’s.
A woman let out a loud bark of laughter and approached with an arrogant air that forewarned trouble. Dressed in crinkling red satin, her dark hair piled high, her pinched face framed with corkscrew curls, she drilled Reese with her small black, piercing eyes. “So you’re the new girl?” Her gaze raked the wedding gown, and then she carelessly grabbed a fistful of the delicate lace. “What kind of foolishness is this?”
Reese jerked back, and the woman released the dress.
Mary gasped and quickly moved away, leaving Reese unsteady and teetering slightly.
The older woman’s thin lips curved in a slow, evil smile. “A feisty one, eh? I’ll fetch a good price for you. But make no mistake, you disobey me and I will have you whipped.”
This had gone too far. Reese cleared her throat. Even if this was some crazy local reenactment, how had they produced those awful smells? “Who are you? What is this place?”
After a second of tense silence, a man yelled out, “You got a live one there, Margaret.” Everyone laughed, and then some went back to their private conversations. The woman gestured with her hand and the man sitting at the piano resumed playing. Behind him, on the wall, was the same Currier and Ives print that hung on Grandma Lily’s parlor wall.
Reese’s stomach tightened into a knot. This was insane. Maybe she was the crazy one. She touched her forehead. No fever. She glanced around at the different women in various stages of undress, pandering to men wearing everything from starched-looking black suits to dusty Levi’s and sweat-stained shirts. The place looked like a brothel straight out of a Western movie.
Her gaze went back to Margaret, who studied her with a combination of malice and curiosity. “They might be wearing their hair short like that back in the East, but that don’t work here. You got to grow it out. Wear a bonnet till you do.”
Reese took a deep breath. Until she could get a grasp of the situation, there was no use antagonizing the woman. She forced a smile. “I’d like to see that newspaper over there on the bar if I may.”
“So you can read, huh?” Margaret frowned, apparently preoccupied with something near Reese’s mouth. She pinched the tip of Reese’s chin and lifted it. “You got good teeth.”
Reese swatted her hand away. “Okay, that’s enough. I need an explanation. Now.”
Everyone within hearing distance lapsed into silence again. Margaret’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “I ain’t got but one shred of patience left in me.”
“That’s more than I have.” Reese sidestepped her and grabbed the newspaper off the bar. The date read 1876. She blinked. Her skin crawled. Impossible, of course. Someone had gone to an awful lot of trouble to pull off this joke. But she didn’t know anyone like that. She spun around to scan the crowd for a familiar face. Even a stagehand, maybe, who’d worked on one of her parents’ movies. Not that she knew many of the people in their circles, but what other explanation could there be?
A cowboy’s sweaty, putrid odor reached her before he did. She slowly turned to face him. A bushy mustache obscured half his features. Although he wasn’t much older than herself, his sun-ravaged, leathery skin had robbed him of youth. He got close, trapping her between himself and the bar.
“Kinda skinny, ain’t she?” he said, while reaching into the waistband of his dusty Levi’s.
She panicked, afraid he was going to pull down his pants and do God knows what to her. But he withdrew a small leather pouch and took out a gold coin.
“I reckon I’ll have a go at her anyway,” he said, passing Margaret the money and gripping Reese’s arm.
Reese swore colorfully and twisted free. Margaret tried to block her path, but she was too quick. She gathered up the cumbersome skirt and ran out the double front doors into the blinding sunlight.
“DAMN YOU, SAM. You’re really starting to piss me off. Where’s my whiskey?”
“Now, Doc, I believe you’ve had enough.” Sam hung up Doc’s black
coat on the hook behind the door of his small examining room. “The boys are down from the mines. You know it’s gonna be rowdy in town tonight. How are you gonna patch anybody up if you’re drunk?”
Doc sank into the wooden chair next to the cot used by his patients while he dug out bullets or applied mustard plasters, and laid his head back against the chipped wall.
“You ought to understand by now, Sam. I need a drink to calm my nerves. I can’t work on anybody like this.” Doc held out his shaky hand. He didn’t have to fake it. His hands hadn’t been steady since his wife had died of consumption two years ago.
But Sam knew that the man’s demons went far beyond the helplessness he felt over the death of his missus. Him and Doc, they shared a long history. They shared the same nightmares. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a drink, but I’m gonna hang on to the bottle.”
Doc’s dark brows drew together in a fierce frown. “I don’t need a damn nursemaid. I need my whiskey.”
Sam sighed. How many times had they had this conversation? At least once a week. You’d think a body would get tired and give in. Doc’s, that is. Not Sam’s. But this was his penance. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Doc said nothing, just glared at Sam slipping out the door. He’d hid the bottle in a different place, because he had a suspicion Doc knew about the hole he’d dug under the front porch. Could be he was wrong, but he swore the last bottle of whiskey he’d hid had gone down an extra inch or two. Of course, Doc had been known to barter his services for a quart of applejack now and again, so he never stayed dry for long, no matter what Sam did.
Mostly Sam tried to keep his friend on the straight and narrow on busy nights when the boys tended to get riled up, and favored their guns over curses. That’s when the blood spilled too freely, and if Doc saved one out of three he was doing good.
Sam trotted over to his livery across the street, curious at the commotion outside the Golden Slipper. Whatever had happened, the sheriff had been called, but since he was sweet on Miss Margaret it was hard to tell if he was hanging around outside because there was actual trouble. Sam hadn’t heard any shots, so he wasn’t going to worry about it. He briefly checked on the two newly boarded horses belonging to a couple of tinhorns staying at the hotel, and then grabbed the bottle of whiskey he’d tucked under his bed, behind his two extra shirts and a stack of books.