Tomorrow's Dreams

by Heather Cullman

  As if sensing his stare, Louisa abruptly ceased her conversation and looked straight at him.

  With a nonchalance he didn’t feel, Seth took a deep draw from the cigar. Promptly he succumbed to a fit of choking. Try though he might, he had never really developed a taste for tobacco. In truth, the stuff made him violently ill—if he actually tried to smoke it, which he usually didn’t. Yet, of late, he’d begun to indulge in the charade of smoking simply because he found the motions of the act oddly comforting. Especially in situations like this when he desperately needed something to distract him from his suffocating anger.

  From atop the Vanderlyn Brewery building the clock chimed seven. Seth dropped the cigar to the boardwalk and ground it out beneath his boot. Louisa, who was now being helped into her buggy, seemed to have lost all interest in the stranger across the street.

  “Beware, Louisa Van Cortlandt,” Seth hissed beneath his breath. “I won’t be a stranger for long.”

  The time had come to implement the final phase of his plan; the one that would sound the death knell on Vanderlyn Brewery and destroy everything Louisa held dear. And as her life fell into ruins, while she was mired in her own hopeless despair, she would be forced to face the avenging spawn of her own evil: Seth Tyler—her long-dead son.

  “Here you are, gentlemen, the ace of hearts! Ace of hearts is the winning card! Here you see it—” With an extravagant flourish, the dealer turned up a card that was indeed the ace of hearts and flashed it before the passersby.

  “Keep your eyes on the ace while I shuffle; watch it closely now.” After giving the cards one final shuffle, he laid them facedown on the table, then searched the crowd for an easy mark. He let his gaze skim past a small cluster of drunken bummers and two saloon girls before homing in on a stranger lounging against the wall a few feet away. Everything about him, from his diamond shirt studs to his heavy gold watch fob, reeked of Eastern money.

  “Make a bet, sir?” The dealer smiled in his most ingratiating manner, beckoning like a wolf intent on luring a lamb away from its flock. Indeed, these Easterners who came west in search of adventure were like lambs—lambs for the fleecing.

  The stranger pushed away from the wall and sauntered over. “Fifty dollars.” He tossed several gold coins onto the table.

  “Pick your card, then!” the dealer urged.

  Instead of pondering the cards, the stranger narrowed his eyes and studied the dealer. After a long moment, one corner of his mouth curved up.

  Something about that smile made the dealer long to squirm like a schoolboy caught dipping a little girl’s braids into the ink pot. Up close, the tall stranger looked less like a swell-headed Easterner and more like a marauding pirate—an effect that was heightened by his flowing mane of leonine hair and the wicked slant of his brows.

  Uncomfortably aware that it was too late in the game to turn back now, he inquired hoarsely, “Your selection?”

  Never once letting his gaze waver from the dealer’s face, the stranger raised one hand and laid it over the middle card.

  The dealer almost sagged with relief. The man hadn’t detected his cheating after all. “Fifty dollars on the pasteboard in the center,” he announced, preparing to flip the card over.

  With the speed of a striking rattler, the stranger grabbed his arm and pinned it to the table. “Fifty dollars … on the pasteboard up your sleeve,” he rasped, extracting a card from the dealer’s false cuff and tossing it faceup on the table.

  “What’s goin’ on here?” Floyd Temple, the bull-like owner of the Shakespeare Saloon elbowed his way through the gathering crowd. His jaw dropped at the sight of the stranger. “Mr. Tyler!”

  “And a good evening to you, too, Floyd,” Seth drawled, tossing the saloon owner a lazy grin.

  “This fella ain’t givin’ you trouble is he?”

  “No trouble.” Seth glanced at the dealer. “I was just having a rather interesting conversation with Mr.—?”

  The man sputtered.

  “Mr—?” prompted Seth, this time more forcefully.

  “Higginbottom, sir. Horace P. Higginbottom.”

  “Horace P. Higginbottom. I’ll make a note of that.” Seth gave the man a look that told him exactly what kind of note he was making.

  Floyd stared at the dealer’s flushed face for a second, then at Mr. Tyler’s amused one. The whole situation smelled worse than a polecat in hundred-degree weather. He groaned inwardly. Something was going on here, and he had a hunch he wasn’t going to be happy when he found out what it was. Especially if it ruined his chances to sell the Shakespeare to Mr. Tyler.

  “Mr. Tyler—” he began.

  “Seth.”

  “Seth. If there’s some sorta problem—”

  “No problem.” Seth winked at the dealer, whose color deepened to an alarming shade of purple. “Horace, here, was just telling me how he had an itch to move to Cheyenne. Said something about leaving tonight. Right?”

  Horace bobbed his head frantically.

  Sensing that this was one of those situations best left alone, Floyd pasted on his most jovial smile and changed the subject. “Ever heard of Mademoiselle Lorelei Leroux?”

  Seth let his gaze waver from the dealer to the beefy saloon owner. “Can’t say as I have.”

  “Then, you’re in for a real treat. Got the voice of an angel, the face of a goddess, and her figger,” he let out a long whistle and sketched an exaggerated set of female curves in the air.

  Raising one eyebrow in wonder, Seth copied the man’s sketch in the air. “You don’t say?”

  Floyd winked in confirmation. Looping one arm around Seth’s shoulders, he said, “Got a front-row seat set aside for you in the variety hall. Just wait till you get a peek at Lorelei’s ankles, trim as an Arab filly’s. A real Thoroughbred, that one.”

  Seth grinned. “Did you check her teeth and withers as well?”

  Floyd let out a raucous whoop. “Not me. The missus would whup me good if I so much as sniffed in that direction. Tell you what, though. I’ll set up a private supper after the show, and you can check her points yourself.”

  Seth’s grin turned wicked at that. A little female companionship might be just the thing to get his mind off Louisa.

  His smile faded as he shifted his gaze to the dealer, who was secreting gold from the game table. “Those are my winnings,” he pointed out, motioning to the coins in the man’s hand.

  Horace’s eyes bulged in terror. “Just c-collecting ’em for you, Mr. Tyler.”

  “Seth,” Seth amended, taking the gold from the man’s outstretched hands. He paused to contemplate the money for a moment, then tossed several coins onto the table. “For your trip to Cheyenne.” Without sparing the dealer so much as a parting glance, he turned and rejoined the saloon owner.

  Floyd, deliberately blind to the interplay between Horace and Seth, guided Seth toward the variety hall, pointing out the wonders of the Shakespeare Saloon with the smoothness of a patent medicine salesman as they went.

  “As classy as any establishment in St. Louie” was how Floyd described the Shakespeare. Though Seth knew St. Louis well enough to disagree, he had to admit that by Denver’s standards, the Shakespeare was very grand indeed.

  Gaudy red and yellow paper covered the walls, their vivid tones rivaled only by the well-worn rugs placed at intervals on the hardwood floors. Over the men’s heads hung three gilded wagon wheels that had been fitted with kerosene lamps to fashion makeshift chandeliers. There was a large potbellied stove in every corner, and along the frosted glass front window was a row of tall potted plants. Scattered throughout the room were tables offering chances to win on games ranging from faro to roulette.

  Seth’s stomach gave a painful lurch as he passed the gaily painted wheel of fortune. When he was seventeen, he’d lost his last coin to the game, a bit of stupidity that had resulted in him going hungry and sleeping in the bitterly cold streets.

  “Betcha never seen a finer bar than this,” Floyd boasted, giving the w
ell-polished surface a proud pat. “Thirty-two feet of gen-u-ine mahogany. Came all the way from Chicago.”

  Swallowing hard, Seth forced his gaze away from the wheel of fortune to glance toward the bar. His gentlemanly reflection in the plate-glass mirror along the wall served as a powerful reminder he hadn’t gone hungry or slept in the streets for over a decade now. Slowly the ache in his belly receded.

  “And this here is Monty Dowd,” introduced Floyd. “The finest mixologist west of the Mississippi. Monty, meet Mr. Tyler.”

  Monty, a lanky, sandy-haired man with a properly waxed mustache and a friendly smile, extended his hand. “Pleasure.”

  Seth took the proffered hand and returned the man’s smile as Monty proceeded to pump his arm with enthusiastic vigor.

  “Well, then,” Monty said. “Now that we’re on handshakin’ terms, why don’t you nominate your poison?”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “You look like a man with a healthy constitution. I’m guessin’ some Red Dynamite would put a spin in your sombrero.”

  “No way, no how,” Floyd bellowed, grabbing Seth’s arm and pulling him from the bar. “Save your pizen for the bummers. Only the finest of the Shakespeare’s libations for Mr. Tyler.”

  As Floyd guided Seth through the door leading into the variety hall, Seth tossed the bartender a look promising that he would be back later to sample the infamous Red Dynamite.

  “Make way! Make way!” bawled Floyd, shoving his way through the crush. The variety hall was packed tonight. “You sit here, Seth,” he said, snatching up and tossing aside a cowboy who had dared to sit at the front-center table. After plopping down in the opposite chair, he pulled out two fat cigars and handed one to his prospective buyer. “Finest bit of tobaccy in the world. Rolled between the bare, supple thighs of a Cuban virgin.”

  Carefully hiding his distaste, Seth pulled out his silver cigar cutter and expertly notched the end. That formality completed, he jammed the nasty thing between his lips and leaned back in his chair, hoping that no one would notice that he hadn’t lit it. Nothing choked him quicker than the initial puff it took to make the tobacco catch the flame.

  But someone had noticed. No sooner was he settled than he heard a faint hiss and caught a whiff of sulfur mixed with cheap perfume. “Light your cigar, mister?” A moon-faced saloon girl with hair an improbable shade of blond leaned over his shoulder, holding out a lit match.

  Stifling his urge to groan aloud, Seth gave the girl his most charming grin and, against his better judgment, accepted the light. Manfully he inhaled, praying that he wouldn’t disgrace himself by collapsing in a hacking heap on the floor. Luck was with him and, aside from succumbing to one discreet cough, he managed to have the cigar lit with minimal embarrassment.

  Tucking a coin in the girl’s hand, Seth drawled. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  She rubbed her breasts against his shoulder. “Desdemona.”

  “Desdemona?” He tossed Floyd a wry look.

  Floyd shrugged. “All the girls are named after Shakespeare’s ladies.” Counting them off on his fingers, he recited, “We got Juliet, Ophelia, Miranda, Titania, Portia, Jessica, Katharina, Cleopatra, Beatrice, Cordelia, Helena, and Hermia.” He looked puzzled and appeared to recount, his lips moving as he went over the names again. With a heavy sigh he added, “Oh, and Gladys.”

  “Gladys?” Seth laughed as he extinguished his cigar with practiced stealth. “Can’t say as I’ve read that play.”

  “Tried to call her Cassandra, but she was too stupid to remember the name. Never came when she was called.” Floyd took a drag off his cigar. “With her figger, she don’t need a brain, so I kept her anyway.”

  Pouting at being ignored, Desdemona eased herself onto Seth’s lap and blatantly ground her backside against his groin. He grinned down at her, noting that her golden hair was black at the roots. “So, Desdemona, have you an Othello?” he teased.

  She stared up at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What would I want with a mangy black varmint like that? Nasty fella left a headless rat in front of my bedroom door this morning.”

  Seth looked back at her as if she were the crazy one.

  “Othello is Monty Dowd’s cat. Best mouser in town,” supplied Floyd.

  “Mangiest cat in town, more like it,” mumbled Desdemona.

  Capturing the girl’s gaze with his, Seth asked gently, “Ever read Shakespeare?”

  “Never read nothin’, never learned how.”

  Seth felt a surge of pity for the girl. It wasn’t so long ago that he, too, had been unable to read. Toying with the coarse lace trimming her neckline, he explained, “Othello was a noble blackamoor who married a beautiful girl named Desdemona.”

  “And they lived happily ever after?” she asked, dreamily.

  “Not exactly. He strangled her.”

  Her eyes widened with horrified fascination. “How come?”

  “Jealousy, of course.”

  “But if he loved her enough to marry her, why did he kill her over a little thing like jealousy?”

  Seth chuckled, but in a way that voiced no amusement. “Love is a kind of madness, sweetheart. It possesses a man’s soul and consumes his reason. When he’s in its clutches, he does all sorts of crazy things.”

  Desdemona considered his words, then smiled flirtatiously. “You ever been possessed by crazy love?”

  Seth stared into her dark eyes for a moment, remembering another pair of eyes: silvery-green ones, seductively tip-tilted at the outer corners. Penelope’s eyes. Like a pugilist striking his challenger, the memory slammed the breath out of him.

  “Well, have you?” she demanded.

  He drew in a hissing breath. “Only once.”

  Chapter 5

  Even from where she stood waiting in the stage wings, Penelope could tell it was going to be another rough night at the Shakespeare Variety Hall. Uncouth men, drunk off cheap liquor and crude company, were already heckling Euphemia Hotchkiss, the actress who was onstage singing, venting their impatience for a glimpse of Lorelei Leroux. It was the same depressing scenario night after night, and Penelope knew that it was only a matter of minutes before the rest of the crowd joined in the badgering.

  This evening the audience was right on schedule.

  “Sounds like my ma-in-law after she got kicked in the head by our mule,” jeered one man, his lampoon accompanied by the tinkle of breaking glass.

  “Hell. Sounds jist like my mother-in-law when I told her to put a cork in it and mind her own business.” That drew a roar of approval from the crowd.

  As if by clockwork the rest of the men joined in, each taunt louder and more barbed than the last. Eventually they grew so thunderous that they all but drowned out Euphemia’s admittedly grating voice. As she warbled the last note, Penelope heard Bertram McAllister, the dramatic actor, shout her cue:

  “Here comes the stagecoach now!”

  Self-conscious in her scanty costume, Penelope gave her peacock blue bodice a tug, though she knew that all the tugging in the world wouldn’t render the neckline decent. After rubbing her lucky ribbon, which she’d tied around her throat, she strutted onto the stage, swinging her hips in a seductive manner.

  As always the hisses and boos gave way to whistles and cheers, followed by clapping and foot-stamping. Somewhere in the back of the hall, she heard the chant: “Lorelei! Lorelei!”

  When she lifted her skirts almost to her knees and swayed to the prelude of her solo, an appreciative roar shook the walls.

  “Yank it higher, darlin’. Pull it up! Pull it up!” hooted a drunken bullwhacker in the front row.

  Ignoring the man, Penelope began to sing, trilling sweetly at the entrance of Miles Prescott, the actor playing the hero in the piece. Spellbound by her voice, the rowdy crowd fell silent.

  Tonight the company was performing The Gregory Gulch Bride, one of Denver’s favorite operettas. It was the tale of a mail-order bride trying to win the love of her indifferent husband.
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  Swishing her skirts in a tantalizing manner, Penelope danced around Miles, tempting him with her amply displayed charms. The measures poor Molly Snow, the lovesick heroine, took to seduce her husband were nothing short of vulgar.

  “Pull ’em up! Bend ’er over!”

  From the corner of her eye, Penelope saw that the bullwacker had staggered to the edge of the stage and was now trying to look up her skirt, his face the picture of besotted lechery. Shuddering with disgust, she dropped her hem back to her ankles.

  “Hell, we paid our money—show us some leg!” he shouted, pounding his fists against the stage floor in protest.

  “Shut up and let the lady sing!” hollered a cowboy, seizing the bullwacker by the neck and attempting to pull him back to his seat. With a backhand swat the bullwacker sent the cowboy flying into the crowd, knocking over several onlookers and drawing a threatening rumble from the rest of the audience.

  “I paid my money to see some leg, and I’m gonna git what I paid for,” he snarled.

  Before Penelope could think, much less react, the man jumped onto the stage and wrestled her into his arms. In one rending yank, he ripped her skirt open. One more jerk and the skirt fell to the floor, exposing her red flannel pantaloons.

  Shrieking her indignation, she ground her boot heel into the man’s instep. His grunt of surprise escalated into a howl of pain as she finished her performance by kicking him in the shins.

  With an echoing roar the crowd surged forward. Some of the men were intent on rescuing the beauteous Lorelei, while others were eager to join the bullwacker in his molestation. Everyone was enjoying the ensuing brawl.

  Panicked, Penelope hastily presented her bruising encore, an act accompanied by the ever-gallant Bertram. Executing their movements with the precision of an elaborately choreographed ballet, Bert thwacked the bullwacker over the head with a prop tree while Penelope hooked her foot behind the man’s ankle and pulled his leg out from under him. The actors’ combined efforts were enough to send the drunk toppling backward, a performance that brought down the curtain …