"And I, yours, though I know so little about you. He doesn't talk business," she said, glancing toward Smith. His temper threatened to come rushing out. "But then, I don't have a head for such things."
"I am sure you are being modest, my dear Miss Hanover."
"Please, sir, call me Evelyn."
"James."
"Shall we have a brandy?" Smith called over the waiter and ordered.
Amanda watched the efficient staff remove the remnants from dinner and bring three snifters. She raised hers and took a sip.
"Oh, my, that is so strong." She made a face and pouted.
"It's a fine Napoleon brandy," Smith said. "Perhaps you would like some water with it, my dear?"
"Oh, I'll be fine. Do continue with your business. When it is over, I am sure there will be time for Mr. Crockett—James—and I to get to know each other better."
Smith nodded slightly, encouraging her to continue. She reached over and laid her hand on Crockett's arm as she smiled.
"That will be all right, won't it, James?"
"Of course, of course, my dear." He cleared his throat, then said, "I have the papers prepared." He pulled a sheaf from an inner coat pocket.
"And I have the deed ready to sign over," Smith said, adding a few sheets to the pile on the table.
Amanda watched them dance around, each protesting how the other was getting the best of the deal. One of them would, she knew, only both men were wrong. Her mind raced as both men affixed their signatures to official looking documents not worth the paper they were forged on.
"We need a witness," Crockett said, looking at the bill of sale. "Here, Evelyn. You can sign there."
"You are so knowledgeable about all this business," she said, fanning herself. "I'm not committed to anything, am I?"
"Of course not," Crockett said.
"What a shame." She took the fountain pen and started to write her real name. Amanda caught herself in time to affix Evelyn Hanover.
"A fine hand, my dear," Crockett said.
Smith blew on the ink to dry it, then gave one copy to Crockett and tucked the other into his pocket. He quickly signed the deed over but held onto it as Crockett reached for it.
"You are forgetting one thing, sir."
"The money. I left it at the desk with the concierge."
"I'll get it for you. Have another brandy," Amanda said.
"No—"
"Order another for me, too, will you, James?"
Amanda challenged Smith here. And she won.
"Let the girl do it," Crockett said. "She won't be out of our sight for an instant." He leaned back and stared through the door to the lobby.
"Do you promise, James? You'll watch me every second?"
"Every second," he said.
"This amount of money shouldn't be unguarded." Smith pulled his coat back slightly to show Amanda his pistol. Again she wished she had her own, but the weight would only slow her down now.
Smith's expression changed slightly, and she knew he had come up with a new plan that didn't include her. She stood, rested her hand on Crockett's shoulder for a fleeting moment, then said, "I won't be an instant."
She made sure both men watched as she sashayed into the lobby and went to the hotel manager. She leaned across the desk and spoke quickly, looked back at Crockett and Smith and waved, then turned back to the manager. As he worked behind the desk she tugged a little at her neckline, then recoiled slightly as the manager hiked a briefcase up to the desktop.
Amanda sagged slightly as she took the briefcase and took her time getting back to the table.
"I want to see it," Smith said.
"It's all there. I am not a crook, sir."
"Oh, James, he can be such a stickler. Let me give him a . . . flash." She showed a bit more of her bosom as she leaned over, opened the case and pulled out a bundle of greenbacks. She swatted Smith's hand as he reached for the case. "Be polite."
She put the money back into the briefcase and fastened it shut.
"Is everyone happy now?" Amanda asked.
"Not as happy as I am likely to be soon," Crockett said, his attention on her.
"Would you show me your new hot spring? That would be so delightful. I understand people bathe naked in the water. Is that so?"
"Only some people," Crockett assured her.
"I must see for myself," she said, offering him her arm. "Are you coming, Mr. Smith?"
Crockett scowled. Amanda realized a different name had been used for the swindle. She bent over and whispered just loud enough for Smith to overhear, "Discretion, James, discretion. He doesn't want everyone to know he has sold such a valuable property."
"You go on," Smith said. "I'll join you soon." He picked up the briefcase and, for a moment, Amanda thought he was going to hug it. He pried open the flap covering the inner compartment and touched the money.
"Let's go, James."
She didn't have to urge him. The man rushed her from the dining room. She let him get her into the lobby before she stopped him.
"James, please," she said breathlessly. She pressed her hand into her throat. "There's something I have to tell you."
"When we get to the soda spring," Crockett said.
"Now. I was forced to accompany him tonight."
"That doesn't—"
"Please, listen. He cheated you. He doesn't own the springs."
"Of course he doesn't. I do now."
"He forced me to lie to you. He is a swindler and never owned the springs. General Palmer owns it—and he is not the General!"
"What?"
"Come here, please." She tugged on his arm and got him to the desk. The manager looked up. "Tell him who owns Twin Springs?"
"Why, General Palmer is the owner. He—" The manager got no farther.
Crockett whirled about and ran for the dining room. An anguished cry echoed. Amanda knew Smith had taken the briefcase and ducked out through the kitchen. From the commotion, Crockett went after the crook.
"Sir, wait!" The manager hefted a large package wrapped in newspaper to the desk.
"I'll take that for Mr. Crockett," Amanda said. "You've saved him a great deal of money and exposed a confidence man. You should alert the authorities immediately."
"What about you?"
"Tell Mr. Crockett I have his money up in my suite." She tried to guess how much money had been wrapped up and couldn't. It was heavier than the take from the bank robbery. "And thank you for your dedication." She fished about under the paper, took out a thick bundle of money and passed it to the manager. "Your bravery in this sordid affair is appreciated after I enlisted your aid so precipitously." He hesitated. She bent over the desk and gave him a light peck on the cheek. "Thank you very much."
He looked at the money she offered.
"I . . . yes, the marshal." The manager touched his cheek and then made his way around the desk and sent spoke rapidly to the bellman. Then the manager ran into the restaurant after Smith and Crockett.
Amanda caught the bellman on his way out the door.
"There's no need to get the marshal. I am on my way to alert him to this terrible affair."
The bellman looked confused, but Amanda finally convinced him to go to her room and get a maid to pack her belongings. The instant he stepped into the elevator, she was out the door into the frigid Colorado night. She ran through the darkness, laughing, all the way to the livery stables.
By dawn she was in Colorado Springs.
"That's the train for Denver, Miss." The stationmaster shook her gently.
Amanda stirred and sat up on the hard bench where she had caught a few hours of sleep out of sight of anyone not working for the railroad. The best she could tell, the stationmaster had locked the door to keep everyone else out so he could stare at her as she slept.
"Thank you," she said, stretching. She picked up the saddlebags she had taken from the Manitou Springs livery. The heft told her the money was untouched.
"It's a quick trip to Denver."
"I am sure I will find what I'm hunting there," she said. She spoke only to give the man something to pass along if anyone asked him. She had no intention of lingering in Denver, although the bigger city afforded her the chance to disappear. And it was the center of power now that Colorado had just become a state.
"I wish you well." He held the door for her. She hesitated, then fished out a bundle of money and handed it to him. "What's this for? You already bought a ticket."
"I want you to find a lawyer in town and have him represent a Mr. Smith in a failed land deal in Manitou Springs."
"I can do that. It's a heap of money, though."
"Take what you think is an appropriate commission for your efforts." She gave him a quick kiss, slung the saddlebags over her shoulder and ran for the train as it built steam and speed for its run to Denver.
Smith didn't deserve any help, but she thought of it more as a way of tweaking him for the way he had tried to steal her share of the swindle. The stationmaster might simply pocket the money she'd given him, or the lawyer might do the same. Or Mr. Smith might find himself with representation he couldn't afford otherwise.
She had done her part. Now it was time to look to the future. She made her way down the aisle of the swaying passenger car, spotted a man dressed in the manner of a Russian nobleman and asked, "Pardon me, sir. Is this seat taken?" She pointed to the empty seat next to him.
He gestured for her to be seated.
Amanda Baldridge struck up a fine conversation with Gregor and by the time they reached Denver decided her interest in Borzoi dogs had been piqued enough to remain with the Russian. For a while.
Excerpt from
the novel
The Great West Detective Agency
Chapter One
Tonight he would get rich or die trying. Lucas Stanton looked across the table at the drunk rancher who had been bleeding money for the past hour. The more he lost, the more reckless he became. He had seen this before but seldom in a man who owned a ranch covering half of Middle Park, or so went the rumors.
He motioned to the bartender for another round. The rancher drank without regard for how the potent liquor dulled his good sense, if he had a whit. Lucas saw Lefty, the one-armed barkeep, deftly pouring two more shots, both from the same bottle, then stuffing the cork back in the bottle and bellowing for the drinks to be delivered. Two barely touched glasses of whiskey still sat in front of Lucas, but he would gladly pay for more. He was a professional gambler and knew his limits. What the rancher sought to prove tonight mattered less than cleaning him out. It wasn’t anything personal. It was just business.
A pretty waiter girl came over with the drinks and winked at Lucas, her long eyelashes fluttering just enough to look sexy. He smiled. Claudette might actually be from France. Not cosmopolitan Paris as she claimed but possibly from the southern part of the country. A farm? A harbor town? If he won big—and he already had most of the rancher’s poke in front of him—finding out her true origins might prove a pleasant cap for the night.
Lucas adjusted his cravat, then smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the velvet lapels of his fine coat. It would have cost a hundred dollars or more, but the tailor had owed him for recovering money bilked from him by one of Denver’s cleverer confidence men. Outwitting a swindler had caused a small warmth inside, but that was nothing compared to what he felt now with close to a thousand dollars on the table and more to come.
“You ought to quit, boss,” a marmot-like man behind the rancher said. “You lost plenty already. And you know what the missus said about—”
“Shut up,” the rancher snapped. He knocked back the whiskey and glared at Lucas. He had to close one eye to focus properly. “I got him smoked. His luck can’t last forever.”
“Boss, you’ve lost most all of—”
“Get the hell out. Now. You’re not my conscience. I know what I’m doin’.”
Lucas watched the small cowboy nervously shift from one foot to the other, then retreat, running out the fancy etched glass doors imported from Europe just for the Emerald City Dance Hall and Drinking Emporium. Those had set back the owner more than five hundred dollars and were small works of art with fancy lettering and suggestive feminine silhouettes. The place was the pride of Denver and boasted the prettiest girls and strongest whiskey. Tonight the piano player actually hit the right notes as he hammered out “Sweet Sixteen.” That catchy tune had even the shyest wranglers paying a dime to many of the women for a dance. Boisterous laughter rolled like thunder off the Rockies from the dance floor at the rear of the saloon. Heavy smoke from both tobacco and poorly trimmed coal oil lamps swirled in the air, turning the interior into an imitation of San Francisco’s Barbary Coast on a foggy night. Men drank and propositioned the women, and Lefty carried a beer keg as easily as any man with two arms.
This was his milieu. This was his night. This was the night Lucas Stanton got rich.
Lucas did a quick count on the rancher’s chips, then pushed out that many and said, “I got to call, sir. You have the look of a man with a big hand, but my mama said I never had a lick of sense.”
“She was a smart woman,” the rancher said. He stared at the mound of money and chips, then said, “I’ll raise.”
“Sir?”
Lucas rocked back and shifted to one side, wary of the man’s belligerent tone. He carried a Colt New Line .22 revolver in a coat pocket. The two-inch barrel allowed him to slip it easily, quickly into his grip, even if the small caliber didn’t afford much stopping power across a table. It worked better as a belly gun; ram it into the foe’s stomach and fire. If the slug didn’t stop the target, the muzzle flash might set fire to his shirt.
His cards lay facedown on the table, and his right hand hovered within inches of his hideout pistol. The rancher ran his fingers around the edges of his five cards, then tapped them.
“I’m raisin’ the limit.”
“You have nothing more to bet, sir,” Lucas said. He sat a little straighter in the chair. The raucous sounds around him faded. The spilled beer and tobacco and sweat no longer affected him. He even ignored how Claudette shoved her chest out and threatened to pop free of her low-cut dress as she bent over, trying to sneak a peek at the rancher’s hand.
“I got this. Deed to my ranch. It’s worth a hundred thousand dollars.”
“I don’t have enough to cover that. All I have is a few thousand.” Lucas knew to the nickel how much he had. Twenty-two hundred dollars.
“Then you lose.” The rancher reached out to pull in the pot.
Lucas moved like a striking snake and caught the man’s wrist.
“We were playing table stakes. Chips. Cash. If you put up a deed, I have to agree to it, and I won’t since I win the pot if you have to fold.”
Lucas wanted the money on the table. He would be five thousand ahead. The rancher had only to stand pat and the best hand would carry the day. From the way the man’s forearm tensed, he wasn’t inclined to let the hand play out like that.
“I’ll put up the deed against all you got on the table. And your coat. I took a fancy to that the minute I walked in.”
“You aren’t asking for my pants, too?”
The rancher looked a tad confused, then shook his head.
“Don’t want your fancy britches. All your money and your coat. Against the deed.”
“You must have a powerful hand to give odds such as those,” Lucas said. “A hundred thousand dollars against what cannot amount to more than three thousand. Those are odds even a greenhorn would reject.”
“I got the best hand and want to win as much as I can.”
Lucas looked around. Laughter still rattled the saloon windows, and the piano player had moved on to the raunchy “Honky-tonk Asshole.” But a couple dozen customers and almost as many of the working girls circled the table. The Emerald City saw its share of high stakes games, but nothing like this for some time. More than getting rich, Lucas could add to his reputation with a win.
&n
bsp; The rancher might be drunk, but he was determined that his hand was the best. Even snockered the way he was, the man certainly didn’t think a pair of deuces would take the pot.
“I share your sentiments, sir,” Lucas said. “Winner takes all? Is that the bet? What’s in the pot plus your deed against all the money I have on the table?”
“Yes.”
Lucas nodded.
The rancher let out a whoop of glee and dropped his hand onto the table. A sigh went up from the crowd.
“I been working here for three years, and I never saw four aces show up like that before,” Claudette said. She heaved a big sigh, sent her ample bosoms shaking, and turned away. Her interest in Lucas disappeared in a flash of aces.
The rancher reached for the pot but again Lucas stopped him.
“You haven’t seen my hand yet.”
“Hell, man, you can’t beat me. You were careless and showed a trey. No matter what you got, you can’t beat me.”
“I was careless showing you the three,” Lucas said, lying. He had made sure the rancher saw the card. It was all part of the game’s ebb and flow, enticing the highest bets possible. “You neglected to see the other cards.”
Another gasp went up around the crowd.
“He’s got a straight flush, deuce through six of clubs.”
“You are beaten, sir.”
Lucas pushed the man’s hand away, scooped up the money in a pile, and then reached across the table to collect the deed to a ranch. Even if it wasn’t worth what the man claimed, Lucas knew he could parlay it into a considerable sum. A hint of a gold strike on the land would let him divide it up into hundreds of smaller tracts, each worth more than a thousand to an avid prospector.
“You can’t have the Rolling J!”
The rancher shot to his feet, staggered, and regained his balance, then had his six-shooter out and held in a surprisingly steady grip. Determination burned through the haze of alcohol.
“Please, sir,” Lucas said. He had no chance to draw his own weapon. Exchanging a .22 round with a .45 had to be a bad bet. Even if the situation had been reversed, his Colt New Line out and the rancher’s Peacemaker in its holster, he would have been at a severe—and deadly—disadvantage.
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