At the counter, she waited for the man, likely the owner, to conclude a sale with the customer in front of her. When it was her turn, she stepped forward with a friendly smile.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Sam Singleton, little lady.” His kind eyes were warm and welcoming. “What can I help you with?”
“I need information. I arrived by stage and my party has not yet arrived. Do you know Nathan Blackstone?”
His grin faded immediately and, with his reaction, a feeling of dread knotted the pit of Carissa’s stomach.
“You’re his mail-order bride arriving from back east?”
She flushed, having hoped that wouldn’t become common knowledge, but obviously Nathan had already shared. “Yes, he was to meet me here.”
“Oh, darlin’,” he murmured, looking at her sadly, his lips in a taut line, shifting from side to side restlessly, decidedly uncomfortable.
“Please, sir, tell me where to find Nathan.”
“I’m sorry, miss. Nathan had an accident—”
Knowing instinctually what would come next, she took a step back. “No, God, please. Not again,” she whispered. Yet her fervent prayer went unanswered.
“He passed a few weeks ago. He fell from his horse and was trampled by his cattle, spooked by a storm. I’m sorry.”
Carissa staggered, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as she grabbed onto a shelf with the other. Her knees turned to rubber at the dreadful news and she swayed, knocking over a few items as she leaned against a rack of canned goods. Her head spun as her world tilted on end.
Mr. Singleton rushed around the end of his counter, his hands outstretched as if he would steady her, though he froze when a panicked sob bubbled up from inside her.
“What am I supposed to do now? I spent three hundred dollars on a steamer ticket from New York to California. The voyage took four months and it was awful—storms, sea sickness, and nothing except for disgusting salted meat to eat.” She grabbed her loose fitting gown. “Look at me. I’m half the size I was, not that it’s all bad, but to do so how I did it...” She shuddered, and went on, unable to stop the story from pouring out. “Then I arrived in San Francisco, a place so horrendous I was ready to turn around and get back on that awful ship—almost. I spent the night scared out of my mind. It’s a vile, dangerous place that no woman should ever have to navigate alone. I was so afraid, I spent twenty-five more dollars, that I didn’t really have, on a firearm. The next day—was it only yesterday?—I boarded a stage for Culpepper Cove. Not an hour out of the city, we were set upon by bandits. They took everything.”
Her voice had risen steadily in her rant and turned shrill. She knew it, could hear the rising panic, yet was unable to stop it as she went on.
“Now I get here and find out my husband-to-be is dead. Can you understand what that means?” Close to hysterical now, she lifted her hands to her face and rubbed her forehead, trying to ease the throbbing pain that had set in behind her eyes. “I’m alone, three thousand miles from home without a livelihood, no home, and no protector in a veritable wilderness. What’s more, those shrews back in New York were right. I am a black widow, because Nathan makes number four. I’m not yet thirty and have killed off four men. Can you believe it? Four!” As if the man lacked a sense of hearing, she held that many fingers up in front of his face. “Any man who even thinks to wed me winds up d-e-a-d—dead.” By now tears were streaming down her face and she was near hysterics, her distraught words a jumble of stutters and hiccups, barely decipherable.
“I’m going to fetch Doc Norwood; he’ll be able to help. And maybe the sheriff, or the preacher.” The poor man said as he backed away, clearly ill equipped to take care of a panic-stricken female. “Don’t go nowhere, ya hear?” The next instant he was gone, leaving her alone in the store.
“Dear heavens,” she sobbed brokenly, as she slipped into a heap on the floor. “What am I to do now?”
* * *
Mr. Singleton returned with the doctor and the preacher, but by that time, she had managed somehow to compose herself. Likely because she was numb, unable to believe her incredible misfortune. They took her to the Bentley Inn, a small boarding house on the end of town run by a kindly older couple. That was a temporary solution to her mountain of problems, however, because renting a room cost money, of which she had little.
Once her mind had settled and she’d looked at her situation and options, she realized the first order of business was to find a job. Long term, she’d save until she could afford a little place of her own, perhaps open a shop of some kind. No, a bookstore. Wouldn’t that be heaven? The success of such an endeavor would likely have to be elsewhere than Culpepper Cove, someplace with a population large enough to support her business. Those dreams were far off both in time and money.
Common sense told her to march into the bank and execute a money transfer, but a voice in the back of her mind told her not to, that she risked her father learning of her whereabouts, something she wasn’t ready for until she was established. Then he would have no leg to stand on when he threatened to drag her back, and she knew he would, using strong arm tactics and whatever means necessary. That was Evan Fulwiler’s style in business and in dealing with his only daughter.
By the end of the week, she was in desperate straits. She’d tried the café, the laundry, the newspaper office, hoping her years of study could be put to good use. The answer was no each time. She’d even tried back at the store, a long shot considering the first impression she’d made on the owner. There was nothing available and few options to earn the funds she needed fast. She’d watched the gold prospectors coming and going from town, and thought her problems could be quickly solved that way, but start-up costs for a claim, if she could find an open one, were nothing to sneeze at. The mill and the livery stable were out, naturally, neither a place for a woman, and even if they were, Carissa had little knowledge of either, especially horses. She learned to ride as a girl, but when they’d moved to the city, she’d never had the need, a carriage becoming her primary mode of transportation, or she walked to her destination.
She felt like she had no other choice other than go to the bank and begin the process to transfer her funds here. It was risky, though it would take her papa as long as it had taken her to get to California. Even if he went overland, it would be months before he, or a hireling, could get here. By then she’d have her money in hand and have left Culpepper Cove long in her past.
Rupert Stowe the bank manager was very accommodating, even more so when he found out the sum of money she wanted to transfer to his bank. She waited patiently as he put some documents together, then he signaled her into his office.
“Here we are, Mrs. Fischer.”
“It’s Baxter,” she corrected.
“Pardon?” he looked back at his papers. “Didn’t you say your account was under the name Mrs. Randolph Fischer?”
“That’s right. Baxter was my third husband’s name. He died precipitously on our wedding day and I had no time to transfer my accounts into my new name.” Seeing the look of concern on his face, she tensed. “Is that a problem?”
“I’m not sure. If his estate has been settled and you are his heir, then no.”
“But these are my funds, not my husband’s.”
“Well, miss, that may or may not be true. It depends upon his will and the laws of New York State. Let me work on this for you. If you check back next week, I should—”
“Next week!” she gasped. “Why so long? Can’t you just transfer the money? My father did that all the time.”
“In New York City, ma’am, maybe that was possible to do quickly. We are a rural bank in a new territory and primarily handle gold and small accounts.”
She shot to her feet. “Does that mean you can’t help me? I can’t get my money from New York?”
“I didn’t say that, ma’am, however, it may take considerable time.”
Carissa sank back into her chair, feeling sick. “What am I goi
ng to do? I need money now.”
“Perhaps a small loan if you have some collateral.”
“Sir,” she said dryly. “If I had something of worth, I would have sold it for cash before now. All my valuables were stolen in the stage robbery.”
“A male relative perhaps, with an account at the bank?”
She shook her head, dread choking her and making it near impossible to swallow, let alone speak.
“Then we will have to proceed. By next week, I’ll know if a bank transfer might be possible. If it is, you should have your funds in about three months.”
“Three months,” she repeated hoarsely.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Baxter. These things take time.”
As Carissa stood, she nodded and began moving in a daze toward the door. She had enough brain function left to remember her manners, though barely. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Stowe.”
“What will you do, dear?” he asked, concern in his voice.
She paused and turned, looking not at him but out the window to the small, dusty town beyond. “I have no earthly idea, Mr. Stowe.” Though she did. There was one opportunity in Culpepper Cove for a desperate woman alone with only a few dollars to her name. The question was could she bring herself to do it.
That had been over an hour ago. She’d walked the streets in a state of shock since then and came to find herself here, standing on the street staring up at the white washed building with the bold red sign. You couldn’t miss it, as big as a hotel and smack dab in the middle of town. It was the only place in town that was hiring—The Red Petticoat Saloon. Its halls had seen many down on their luck young women like herself, she was certain.
Swallowing hard with a dry throat, she took a first hesitant step upon the lowest stair tread. The others didn’t get any easier as she climbed to the wide front veranda and went through the swinging double doors.
Being the middle of the day, the saloon was quiet, a pretty blonde woman was seated at a table going over some papers with a dark haired man. They both looked up as she entered.
“Good day,” a woman called in greeting, her English accent surprising Carissa. French prostitutes abounded in San Francisco, as well as Mexican and Chinese, she’d picked that up right away during her brief stay, but hearing a refined British accent knocked her off guard.
“Um, I’m looking for the proprietor,” she said, tentatively glancing around. Neat and gleaming, the bar was only one of the finer points she noticed about the saloon. It was well maintained, clean and finely decorated, none of which Carissa expected at all. She supposed she'd thought to see garish adornments, as well as half-clad women and lecherous men lounging about.
“I’m Madame Jewel, the owner of the Red Petticoat,” the woman said as she came to her feet. “And this is my partner Gabriel Vasquez.” The dark haired, handsome man nodded, a dimple in his cheek appearing as he too smiled in welcome. “You don’t seem to be the sort to belly up to the bar for a whiskey this time of day, so you must be looking for work? Come, have a seat, and we’ll chat.” She waved her to their table, surprising her further that the owners would sit down with a potential working girl.
“Don’t be shy,” Jewel encouraged, as the man rose and pulled out a chair. “What kind of job were you interested in?”
Carissa’s eyes darted immediately to the stairs, then away. “I wasn’t aware there were options,” she answered softly.
The thought of climbing to the second floor and entering one of the countless bedrooms with a complete stranger made her insides twist. Could she do it? The thought of three weddings and subsequent nights with men not of her choosing flashed in her head. What difference was it really? Bartered off by her father for an heir, or bartering herself for money, either made her a whore of sorts, didn’t it?
“All of my gems have a choice, honey. I can see you’re uncomfortable with going upstairs, Miss…” she paused, clearly expecting Carissa to supply her name, which she didn’t. The madame’s eyes shifted to Mr. Vasquez who cleared his throat.
“Perhaps you’d be more comfortable discussing the particulars without me here,” he suggested.
She would, but she didn’t plan to tell him that. The unconscious and quite audible sigh of relief she emitted gave her away, however.
He aimed a friendly smile her way as he rose. “I have plenty of other things to attend to this afternoon. If you’ll excuse me.” He moved behind Madame Jewel and with his large hands cupping her shoulders, bent and placed a kiss on top of her head. “Chiquita,” he breathed before he stood completely. The pretty blonde angled her head upward and beamed as her hand rose to clasp one of his where it rested familiarly.
“I’ll see you at supper?”
“Nettie’s making chicken and dumplings and chocolate cake for dessert, wouldn’t miss it.”
Both women watched as he sauntered out the front door, whistling as he went. Madame Jewel looked after him even when he was gone with a dreamy smile, not the jaded one she would expect from a woman in her profession, Carissa noticed with perplexed wonder. This was not what she imagined a saloon with a whorehouse located on its second floor would be like—far from it.
“So, tell me about yourself. What is a woman of obvious sophistication doing out in the wilds of California all alone?”
“I thought rumors would have spread through a town this size by now.”
“Oh, believe me, they did. I know you were expecting to be Nathan Blackstone’s mail-order bride and that, had he lived, he would have been your fourth husband. And that you earned some ridiculous nickname back east, the black widow.” She grimaced, though she made it seem polite. “New York City sounds as bad as London.”
“English society can’t possibly be as awful as those in New York,” Carissa disagreed.
“One day I’ll tell you how I was set up by a conniving shrew and found with my freshly spanked, bare arse pointed up in the air in front of a room full of London’s elite five minutes before my wretched, lying fiancé rejected me.”
“Dear heavens!”
Jewel waved her hand as if to say it was nothing. “It all turned out for the best, but that’s a story for another day. I want to hear about you. Why don’t you begin by telling me your name?”
“Mary.” She blurted out the lie so fast it was glaringly unconvincing. Madame Jewel wasn’t fooled, tilting her head to the side with a knowing smile.
“Incognito is acceptable at my saloon, dear. Many of my gems have checkered pasts, never fear. If not your name, tell me what prompted a city girl from New York to make the onerous trek clear to the other side of the country all by herself. Are you in trouble? Is someone looking for you, the law perhaps? I ask this, mind you, because part of the role of management at the Red Petticoat is to protect our gems from danger. Gabriel takes this seriously, as a personal mission, in fact. As do I.” She waved her hand at Clarissa’s walking dress. “Clearly, that gown was not made of homespun and amateur stitching. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s a touch of Belgian lace at your sleeves. So my question stands.” Inclining her head, she waited expectantly.
“It’s a very long story,” Carissa explained, stalling.
The madame looked around, then tilted her head to the empty saloon. “I’ve got nothing pressing, honey.”
Then, for some reason, her whole sordid tale came spilling out. The long story took some time, from losing her mother as a young girl, to the change in her once beloved papa, being forced to marry a string of old men, and the final indignity of George dying on top of her and her father plotting her fourth marriage in the carriage not an hour after his death.
So wrapped up in her emotional tale, she readily accepted a hankie offered by a brunette who pulled up a chair as she cried over her mama, and barely noticed the cup of tea that appeared in front of her from the café au lait skinned hand of the concerned woman who had also joined them and was listening intently. And she didn’t pull away when still another young woman with sable hair and a sympathetic smile to
ok the remaining seat at the table and covered her hand with her own. By the time she concluded her story of her arrival in Culpepper Cove with no more than her mama’s watch and twenty dollars to her name, half of which was gone having paid her rent on her room at the Bentley Inn, they were all clucking over her and wiping away tears of their own.
“Poor dear,” Madame Jewel, said when Carissa at last came to a stop. “What you thought would be your haven with poor Nathan, turned into another hell.”
She shook her head while wiping the tears from her cheeks with the borrowed linen and lace handkerchief. “Not quite hell. Everyone has been very kind.”
“I should have liked to have been a fly on the wall when you starting blurting out your story to Sam.” The brunette put in while biting her lip to keep from laughing.
“I don’t know the man, but he was most uncomfortable. He ran for help faster—”
“Than if he’d seen a scalded haint in his upstairs at the stroke of midnight,” the light skinned colored woman suggested, her musical laughter setting her at ease. “That’s just like kindly Mister Sam.”
At a loss, Carissa stared at her, not at all certain what a haint was, let alone a scalded one.
“Nettie means a ghost,” the young woman who still held her hand whispered with a giggle.
“Oh, well, yes.” Carissa smiled, picturing the man’s wide eyes and grim faced expression. “That is exactly how he looked, poor scared man. I apologized when I went back to inquire about work.”
“Is that what brings you here?” the brunette asked, her eyes shifting to Jewel. “We can find something for her, can’t we?”
Before Jewel could speak, the girl beside her gripped her hand tighter. “Of course we can,” she announced with conviction. “The only question is doing what? As a gem, you keep seventy percent of your service fees and tips.”
Claiming Coral (The Red Petticoat Saloon) Page 3