The front desk sat to the left of the lobby, opposite the stairs and the door to the adjoining café. Prophet and Louisa headed to the desk, where the clerk was talking with a tall man dressed in black holding saddlebags and a rifle boot.
“Well, I’m very sorry to hear you’re leaving us, Reverend,” the clerk said. “But the Rumisheks are a good, God-fearin’ family. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there. That Mrs. Rumishek and her daughter Marliss, they’re about the best cooks in the county, don’t ye know?”
“That’s what I’ve heard, that’s what I’ve heard,” the reverend sang back to the clerk. “Thank you mighty kindly, Mr. Haskell. Your accommodations have been more than adequate, but it’s time I joined my flock. Good day to you, sir, and God bless.”
“God bless, Reverend,” the clerk said as the reverend turned away.
When the preacher saw Prophet and Louisa waiting behind him, he bowed graciously. “Good day, brother. Good day, sister.”
“Good day, Reverend,” Prophet replied automatically, only glancing at the man’s collar before stepping up to the desk and asking the clerk for some rooms.
Chapter Nineteen
DUVALL’S HEART WAS pounding as he stepped onto the boardwalk. He shuffled to the side of the door and pressed his back to the wall, his stomach churning with fear and excitement.
They’d seen him. Both the bounty hunter and the girl had looked him in the eye. Had they recognized him?
No, they couldn’t have, or they’d all be flinging lead every which way. Although a side arm did not go with Duvall’s preacher’s attire, he still had his rifle—for hunting, he’d explained to the curious. He’d strapped a hideout pistol to his right ankle, just in case.
Duvall grinned with delight. No, they hadn’t recognized him. They’d looked at him directly, but they hadn’t recognized him. He’d started growing a beard after he’d killed Doolittle, but he figured the main reason he hadn’t been recognized was the preacher’s costume. Duvall had suspected that what most people saw when they saw a preacher was the black wool tunic, black coat, and white collar, not the man himself.
And what had just transpired—or not transpired—in the hotel lobby proved his theory. The disguise had worked. His plan was perfect.
All he had to do now was continue the preacher masquerade for a few more weeks, until the bounty hunter and the law and the girl finally gave up on him. Then he could ride on, free as a tumbleweed, under a different guise, of course, and a different name. He’d have to lie low for a few months, but then, hell, he’d be back on his high horse in no time!
Duvall felt so cocky all of a sudden, he was tempted to make another little stroll through the lobby, dare Prophet and the girl with another peek at his face. He suppressed the idea, however. Pushing his luck would be stupid.
No, he didn’t want to give them any more chances than necessary to realize who he was. He doubted he had much to worry about. The bounty hunter and the kill-crazy blonde weren’t likely to spend much time around Duvall’s new place of employment, the First Lutheran Church of Greenburg.
The preacher snickered again, shaking his head with delight at his new ruse. Not only had he pulled the wool over his pursuers’ eyes, he’d pulled it over a whole town! And what a lovely town it was, he thought now as the image of Marliss Rumishek flashed in his mind.
The buxom daughter of the God-fearing family who’d offered him quarters until a parsonage could be built was only fourteen years old, but in mind only. She had the curves of a woman twice her age, as well as the yearnings. Duvall had sensed her desires the first time he’d laid eyes on the chestnut-haired little vixen.
Marliss was one exception to the rule that most people saw only a preacher’s attire. Marliss had seen Dave’s devilishly handsome mug and had fallen head over heels in lust with the parson. Dave was as certain of that as he was of the bankruptcy of his own soul.
Standing with his back to the hotel, he snickered again.
“Good afternoon, Parson.”
Dave jerked his head up quickly, an embarrassed flush replacing his grin in a hurry. Before him stood the middle-aged wife of the banker, in a bright orange dress adorned with gold buttons and lace and a wide collar flattened across her mannishly wide shoulders. The tony veil of her black hat fluttered in the fresh-smelling breeze.
“Uh ... good afternoon, Mrs. Winkleman,” Duvall said, trying to come up with a fast excuse for standing around grinning and snickering like an idiot.
The woman stared at him puzzledly, a thin smile yanking on her flat lips. “You seem to be very pleased about something,” she pleasantly chirped.
“Oh, yes ... well, you know, I was just walking out of the hotel when, out of the blue, the Good Lord whispered the final lines to Sunday’s sermon in my ear. You know, I’ve been struggling for days with that ending, and just now, when I wasn’t even thinking about it, He gave it to me ever so gently—bestowed it upon me, I should say—like a feather from a dove’s wing.” Duvall called up a laugh from deep in his chest—a pious old parson’s laugh, he hoped. “Now, isn’t that something? Wasn’t that merciful of Him to bless me with that, so out of the blue, Mrs. Winkleman?”
“Oh, that’s marvelous, Reverend,” the lady said, clapping her gloved hands together with delight. “Just marvelous. I guess it just goes to show that even a man of the cloth isn’t above His help now and then.”
“It certainly does, Mrs. Winkleman. It certainly does.”
“What a lovely story, Reverend. I’m going to share it with Mr. Winkleman as soon as he comes home for supper.” The old biddy squeezed Duvall’s hand as she started off with a smile, flashing her yellow teeth. “Adieu, Reverend, adieu. And welcome once again to our humble little town.”
“Thank you ever so much, dear lady,” Duvall called with a pious bow of his head.
When she’d turned away at last, Duvall gave a deep sigh of relief and admonished himself to be careful. He couldn’t go wandering around town acting like a halfwit if he didn’t want to endanger the whole charade.
And another thing he had to be careful about was Marliss Rumishek. He had to keep as far from her as possible, lest that tasty little morsel compel him into an impious act. He could dream about her all he wanted, in the privacy of his own room in her family’s little house, but... Dammit man, you have to stay away from that tart!
Needing three fingers in a rain barrel as badly as he’d ever needed them, Duvall shifted the saddlebags on his shoulder and headed for the saloon across the street. He hadn’t stepped inside any such establishment since entering the good little town of Greenburg. After all, ministers weren’t supposed to frequent saloons. But just this once, since the town was quiet and the taverns relatively empty, he concocted a little plan.
As he walked into the Smokehouse, he saw only two others in the place, not counting the barkeep, partaking of the free meat and cheese. They looked up curiously as the reverend entered. Dave tipped his hat to the customers and smiled, then stepped up to the bar.
“Good day, Reverend,” the barkeep said—a short, stout little man with bushy gray muttonchops and a raspy voice. “What can I do you for this afternoon?”
Dave concocted a pained expression and gave a tight cough, pressing his fist against his chest. “Well,” he said, making another face and conjuring a rasp in his voice. “I was wondering if I could get a little whiskey. Don’t normally care for the stuff, but the doctor recommended a teaspoon before bed. Said it might loosen up my chest and help me breathe. Seem to have come down with a little frog after the rainstorm.”
“Oh, certainly, Reverend. I use it all the time myself ... for purely medicinal purpose, of course.” The barman chuckled and glanced at the two other customers in the shadows. “I’ll fix you right up with a pint of good Kentucky bourbon.”
“Uh”—Dave coughed into his fist—”better make it a quart. I need to have my speaking voice back by Sunday. My first sermon, you know.”
“A quart... well, you be
tcha, Reverend. A quart it is. There you go. That’ll be two dollars and twenty-five cents. Thank you kindly, Reverend. Hope you’re better soon.”
“Amen, brother,” Dave said, stuffing the bottle in his coat pocket and turning for the door. “Amen.”
He went outside and turned east, heading for the little house of his temporary benefactors, the Rumishek family. He figured he’d have a couple nips from the bottle and then get to work on his sermon. He’d never written a sermon before, and he knew he had to make the first one as good as he possibly could. First impressions and all that. He wasn’t too worried. What were sermons, anyway, but thunder and lightning and quotes from the Book about how we were all going to hell in a hand basket if we didn’t straighten up and surrender our souls?
Yeah, that’s all they were. He’d make his harangue just as nasty and scary as he possibly could. He’d breathe some fire, get the women gasping, the children bawling, and the men sweating in their suits. The bourbon would lubricate him, help him blow the flames onto the page.
But then again, he couldn’t drink too much at the risk of losing control of himself around young Marliss.
Jesus, just her name filled his head with impure thoughts! Lord help! He should’ve stayed in the hotel, but what excuse would he have given the Rumisheks, who’d insisted he stay with them?
Their house was a two-and-a-half-story affair with clapboard siding in need of paint. There was an add-on shed that hadn’t yet been painted, though it looked as though it had been added on about two years ago. A small barn and chicken coop shared the big, weedy lot with the house, and chickens and two pesky pigs had the run of the place during the day. So did a dozen cats, mostly kittens, which didn’t make them any more attractive to Dave, who’d always considered the only good cat a dead one.
Dave strolled into the yard with the whiskey secure in his coat pocket and headed for the front door. As he did so, he heard a smacking sound from the right side of the house, by a large cottonwood and the privy. Looking that way, he saw Marliss. With a broom she was beating a rug draped over a low tree branch. Her back was to him, and Dave hoped she wouldn’t see him before he could get inside. He didn’t want to have to look at her lovely face with its lustrous, girlish brown eyes.
No such luck.
“Hello, Reverend,” she called, turning toward him.
She wore a shabby straw hat and a simple blue gingham dress. She was barefoot. Her dark brown hair fell smoothly to her shoulders, ruffled a little by the breeze. Her face was smooth as vanilla frosting, and her chin was dimpled and dainty.
“Oh, hello, Miss Marliss. I didn’t see you over there.”
“Are you really moving in with us, Reverend?”
“Well, I reckon so. A poor man of the cloth can’t turn down the offer of free quarters. It sure was nice of your mammy and pap to turn one of your bedrooms over to me. I hope it won’t be too much of an inconvenience.”
“Oh, it’s not an inconvenience at all, Reverend!” the girl intoned, casting a serious, beseeching look at Duvall. She was starstruck, utterly love-struck. Dave dropped his eyes to her heaving young bosom, caught himself, and returned them to her eyes with a patrician’s smile.
“Well, lovely then, Miss Marliss.” He wanted to go inside and have a drink, but her eyes held him. This girl stirred him deeply, so that he was afraid of her and himself, but for the life of him he couldn’t move.
Go inside the house, Dave. Get your ass inside!
“Yes, it will be lovely, Reverend,” the girl said with a cherubic smile, cocking one hip and poking the toes of one bare foot at the grass. “I mean, having a man of the cloth around. It’ll be like... well, it’ll be like the house is blessed all the time, every night and every day.”
As she dragged her toes through the grass, the hem of her dress slid up her slender calf.
“Yes, well...”
“And Grandma will especially enjoy it, seein’ as how she’s so sick an’ all.”
“Yes”, well...”
“Do you think you can tell me things about the Bible, Reverend? I mean, I go to church, but I’ve never studied the Good Book like Grandma always says I should. I try sometimes, but I swear, I just can’t make heads or tails out of the things it says.”
“Well, we can certainly arrange something, Miss Marliss. You have to understand, though, I do have quite a lot of work to do—you know, writin’ sermons and buyin’ wine for communion and such. Visiting sick folks like your grandma.”
“Oh, I know, Reverend! And if there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know. I’d love so much to help you any way I can—I mean, since you’re so new here and everything. I can show you where all the sick folks live.”
‘That would be most kind of you, Marliss, and I’ll keep that in mind. In the meantime”—his eyes bounced off her bosom once more—”I think I’ll take a short nap, then get to work on my sermon.”
“Okay, Reverend. Momma’s gone to the mercantile to sell chickens, so if you need anything, just give a call out your window up yonder. I’ll be happy to fetch whatever you need.” She glanced at the dormer window in the second story, overlooking the cottonwood tree.
‘Thank you mighty kindly, my dear,” Dave said, grinding his molars as he turned inside the house.
He quickly mounted the narrow stairs to his room, which, incidentally, lay right across the hall from Marliss’s. He was going to have to start working late at the church, that’s all. Either that or end up giving in to temptation and getting run out of town on a long, greased pole.
His room was Spartan, with a simple cot furnished with a quilt and a feather pillow, a small desk, a chair, a wardrobe, and a porcelain thunder mug. The single window was open, and a breeze fluttered the curtains. The rhythmic sound of Marliss beating the rug rose from the yard below. Dave found himself edging over to the window and peeking out at the barefoot, straw-hatted girl.
He allowed himself a short stare. Her feet were so delicate, the ankles so fine, the toes so pink and plump. Grinding his molars again, he tossed his hat onto the desk, set his saddlebags and rifle on the chair, and sat himself down on the bed. He produced the bottle from his pocket, uncorked it, and took a long pull, then another.
Then, listening to the girl smack the broom against the rug, he took another and another.
Chapter Twenty
LOUISA STEPPED OUT of the hotel and cast her gaze across the street, at the Smokehouse Saloon before which three ranch horses stood, noses to the hitch rail. Distractedly, she watched a farm wagon with six sullen kids of all ages riding in the box, and gave a thoughtful sigh.
She, Prophet, and Zeke McIlroy had been holed up in Greenburg for three days now, and they’d seen no sign of Duvall. While Zeke had been keeping in close contact with the town’s sheriff and the local telegrapher, the deputy hadn’t heard any news about Duvall, either.
His home office had ordered him back to Yankton, Dakota Territory, but the deputy had no intention of returning until Duvall was out of commission. He’d decided to tell his boss that for one reason or another he’d never received the telegram. It was a believable lie. Communication was problematic on the frontier, rarely reliable. But even if his job was on the line, McIlroy was determined to see the hunt for Duvall through to its conclusion.
To that end, he, Prophet, and Louisa had decided to remain in Greenburg until they heard something of Duvall’s whereabouts. They could ride circles around the West and get nothing for their trouble but saddle sores and exhausted mounts.
It was the right decision, Louisa knew, but the inactivity was driving her crazy. That’s why she stepped off the boardwalk now and crossed the street. Before the Smokehouse, she paused to read the hand-printed placard in the window: Serving Girl Wanted, Apply Inside.
Louisa had never worked in a tavern before. In fact, she’d never had any kind of job before. But she had to do something, and she needed money. Also, by working in a saloon she might possibly overhear news of Duvall. Greenburg lay on a
prominent cattle trail, and salesmen and cattlemen from all across the territory stopped here on their way to other places.
What’s more, if Duvall was still in this region—and Louisa sensed he was—he might stop to refresh himself in Greenburg. If so, the town’s main saloon would attract him like a magnet. And then Louisa would drill a forty-five slug through that devil’s skull without batting an eye.
But first she’d shoot his knees, and then his elbows, and then...
She wagged her head, not wanting to get ahead of herself—she didn’t even have the job yet—and pushed through the Smokehouse’s batwings.
She let her eyes rove the saloon’s dark interior, where three cowboys played a lazy game of cards back near the piano. The smell of fresh sawdust lay heavy in the air, covering the smell of stale beer and the tobacco the cowboys smoked. The bartender was slicing cheese onto a large tin plate beside another plate heaped with smoked sandwich meat.
“Hello, there, missy. If you’re lookin’ for your daddy, I haven’t seen him.” The bartender smiled at the cowboys, who had turned to regard Louisa with interest. They chuckled at the barman’s joke.
“I’m not looking for my father,” Louisa said, stepping up to the bar. “I’m here to apply for the job you advertised in the window.”
The bartender, a stocky man with a hoarse voice and gray muttonchops, stopped slicing the cheese and took Louisa’s measure with a discerning frown, looking her up and down.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” she lied. She didn’t know if there was any certain age she needed to be, but she decided to add a couple years, just in case.
The barman ran his eyes over her body and pursed his lips. Apparently deciding she was telling the truth, he said, “Well, you can’t wear that,” gesturing to indicate the poncho and black, bullet-crowned hat.
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