Silver Dreams

by Thomason, Cynthia

  She considered going up to find her brother despite the bartender's warning. But she didn't know which room he was in. So instead, she stood rooted to one spot, her indecision momentarily paralyzing her.

  "What'll it be, lady?"

  The bartender's voice snapped her out of her stupor. "What?"

  "You're standing here at the bar. I figure you must want another drink."

  Another drink, he'd said. How many had she had? Was it three or four? She didn't remember. All at once she felt lightheaded and sick to her stomach. The Silver Spike which had seemed spacious only a few hours before, now was cramped and oppressive. The decorations which had seemed glamorous then were garish and cheap. The lights were so bright they hurt her eyes. Elizabeth didn't think she could breathe.

  "Lady, what do you want? I haven't got all night."

  She turned toward the bartender, felt her knees start to give way and grabbed onto the bar rail to steady herself. "N...nothing," she managed to say. "I don't want a drink. I'm leaving."

  "Suit yourself."

  That's just what Max had said. Suiting herself had gotten her into this mess. Oh, how she wished Max was here now to taunt her with an 'I told you so.' To urge her to leave, which is what she should have done. To hold her arm and keep her from falling flat on her face. But he wasn't, and she'd have to fend for herself.

  She stepped away from the bar and was encouraged to discover that her legs were working again. She'd be fine. All she had to do was get to the table, retrieve her reticule and get out the door. Once she was in the fresh air, all the nasty cobwebs would disintegrate, and she'd be fine.

  With as much dignity as she could muster, she fetched her bag, stood straight and walked slowly toward the door, her beacon of safety. When she was within a few feet, she quickened her footsteps and burst into the cool night air. Once outside, she leaned against the exterior wall of the saloon to gather her wits.

  "Okay," she breathed. "It's much better out here. You'll be fit in a minute, Betsy." She cocked her head to the side and her eyes opened wide. She had just referred to herself as Betsy. Had to be the effects of the liquor. Either that, or she still had the little traitor, Max Cassidy, on her mind.

  She pushed away from the wall and took a few tentative steps. She was a little wobbly, a bit flapdoodled, as her father always called her silly little girl antics, but she would certainly be able to make it a few short blocks to the Teller House.

  She looked up at the night sky to get her bearings. There was only a sliver of a moon, but the cloudless heavens were twinkling with a million stars. Here in the mountains, Elizabeth felt close enough to touch them.

  With a whimsical desire to do just that, she reached out to the sky, and that's when it happened. A rough, punishing hand clamped around her mouth at the same time a powerful arm encircled her waist. Her feet left the sidewalk, and she instinctively began kicking furiously. She was pulled into an alley where the sky was nearly obliterated.

  Her captor's fingers felt gritty against her teeth and left an acrid taste on her tongue. His thick hand not only covered her mouth, but her nose as well. A rising panic engulfed her as she struggled to draw a breath. Twisting her body to break the tight hold the man had on her, she struck at him repeatedly. None of her blows found a target. She was dragged further into the alley until the buildings on either side seemed as towering as the Rockies. Her attacker spun her around and pressed her against a brick wall. But at least now she could breathe through her nose.

  His hand left her mouth for an instant, and she croaked out a muffled scream before the calloused palm silenced her again. "If you make another sound, we'll have to shut you up for good," the man threatened. "Do you understand?"

  We? Had he said we? There was more than one of them? A tall shadowy figure moved toward her from the other side of the alley. Since she could barely distinguish the features of the man close to her, she could tell nothing about the second man, except that he grew larger the closer he came.

  "We have a fancy gal here,” one of them said. “That bag on her arm should be plenty padded.” His head angled to the side as he tried to get a better look at her. "Don't you know it ain't safe for a lady to be out on the streets by herself so late at night?"

  The man who held her chortled. "Are you going keep quiet if I take my hand away?" he asked. She nodded and the grip on her mouth slowly loosened.

  "Wh...what do you want?" she asked. "Money? I don't have much, but here's my purse." She held it up for them to see.

  The first man handed the bag off to his friend who opened it. He spilled the contents on the ground and looked at her with anger etched in his face. “This is all you got?”

  “I...I’m sorry. I never carry cash.”

  "We saw you come out of the Silver Spike,” he ground out between his teeth. “I told my buddy that you could be a nice pay day."

  “You have to let me go,” she said. “As you can see, I can’t help you. Just give me my bag and I won’t tell anyone...”

  The slap came so quickly she barely saw the man holding her raise his hand. Her cheek stung like a thousand bee stings, and she cried out. "Please," she whimpered, hating her own weakness. She looked from one man to the other, hoping to find some measure of mercy in their faces.

  Both men laughed. "She's asking us please, just like a lady,” one of them said. “Too bad you don’t have a lady’s money bag.” He drew back his hand again, but this time Elizabeth was ready. Channeling a fierce rage, she pressed both hands against the man's chest and pushed him back at the same time her knee came up between his legs.

  He hollered an oath. The second man, who'd been occupied with pocketing the purse contents, looked up in surprise. While he gawked, she ran for the entrance to the alley, but she'd only made it a few feet when she was grabbed from behind again and thrown to the ground. She cried out as one of the men dropped down beside her. "Why you little hellcat. We might have let you go if you hadn’t done that. Now I’m going to get that necklace you’re wearing."

  He raised a leg to straddle her, and reached for her neck. She tried desperately to squirm out from under him. Not my mother’s pearl cameo! Raising her head, she caught a glimpse of a third man coming down the alley. Dear God, no, she cried silently, until she saw the unmistakable outline of a narrow brimmed black hat on top of the man's head. A coachman’s hat. It flew off and sailed down the alley as the assailant slapped her again.

  Max gripped the man's shoulders and hauled him off Elizabeth. He expelled his breath in a whoosh and tried to fight back, but Max had the element of surprise in his favor.

  Scurrying away from the fray, Elizabeth heard the sounds of fist hitting flesh and the groans of her assailant. She could see that Max was ducking expertly and raining blows about the man's head. How had he learned to fight like that? In spite of her predicament, she was filled with a new admiration for Cassidy.

  There was no time to appreciate Max's accomplishments, however, because the second man was charging toward the melee to help his friend. She jumped to her feet and ran at him, landing monkey-style on his back. She wrapped her legs around his waist and grasped his forehead with her two hands. With all her might, she jerked back on his head, satisfied when a grunt of pain rewarded her efforts.

  But the man didn't fall. He swatted at Elizabeth as if she were a bothersome insect who'd settled between his shoulder blades. He spun around until she loosened her grip, and then he had her. With a howl, he grabbed her waist and flung her against the wall. She landed on her feet but sank to the ground. She tried to stop her descent, but her unwilling body had a mind of its own.

  Her eyes filled with stars again, though the sky wasn’t visible. These stars swirled in dizzying spirals, their whirling patterns threatening to block out everything around her. She envisioned a large round object in Max’s hand. She thought she heard a metallic thump, but she couldn't be sure.

  Then she didn't see, or hear, or feel anything at all until a hand settled under her chin and r
aised her face. She heard a voice, familiar and reassuring. "Betsy, can you hear me?"

  "Max, is that you?" It was her voice, though sluggish and hoarse. "What are you doing here?"

  "Oh, I just changed my mind and thought I'd see you back to the hotel after all. You know I can't take no for an answer."

  It was a struggle, but she lifted her leaden eyelids to squint at his face. He looked worried. "Why aren’t you smiling, Max?" she said. “You have a nice smile.”

  "How do you feel, Betsy.?"

  "Good. I feel good."

  He brushed her hair away from her forehead and ran his hand down the side of her face. She leaned into his palm, rubbing her cheek against his skin. "You have a nice hand, too."

  He gripped her upper arms and shook her slightly. "Betsy, we've got to get out of here. Those guys are out right now, but I don't know for how long."

  "Those guys?" she repeated as events of the last few minutes returned with nightmarish clarity. She saw the men lying in the alley and remembered the struggle. She recalled, too, seeing an object in Max's hand. Pointing to one of the men, she said, "What did you hit them with?"

  "A garbage can lid," he answered. "It seemed appropriate."

  She wanted to laugh, but the pain in her face turned her smile into a grimace. She stared into Max's face and saw a tickle of blood running down his cheek. "Not again, Max. Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine. Can you walk?"

  "Of course I can." She struggled to her knees, but immediately swayed backwards, landing against the wall.

  "I see that," he said, starting to pick her up.

  "No, no, I can do it," she said. "You don't have to carry me." She got to her feet despite his protestations.

  "Betsy, be careful. Besides what just happened, you've had a little too much to drink, and this thin air in the mountains can fool you."

  She put one hand on his chest and the other against her forehead. For some reason her head was feeling off balance, like it didn't fit on her shoulders just right. "Not me," she insisted. "I should know whether I can walk or..."

  She had the sensation of strong hands grasping her under her arms, but that was the last she remembered.

  Chapter Eleven

  Max scooped Betsy into his arms and considered his options. She moaned softly but she was breathing normally, convincing him that she had just fainted. He debated about going to the authorities. He'd been relieved to note that Betsy's attackers were menacing locals and not the big boys he'd seen from the Penn Central train. And while he certainly wanted to see those rotters pay for what they'd done, he didn't think Betsy would want her plight to become public knowledge.

  Besides, she still wasn't in any shape to answer questions from an official who would no doubt ask her why she was out so late in the first place and unescorted as well. Knowing Betsy as he did, Max decided she'd be much happier recovering from her ordeal in her own bed rather than having to face the judgmental eye of the law. So Max took the back way to the Teller House.

  Not wanting to be seen by hotel guests, he kept to the shadows until he reached the garden behind the building. Here he was, a tattered, blood-smeared man carrying an unconscious, equally disheveled, but obviously upper class lady in his arms. It anyone looked suspect, Max figured it would be him.

  When they reached the rear entrance, Betsy raised her head from Max’s shoulder and lifted a torn section of her dress. “Max?"

  He kicked the door shut behind them. “You’re safe, Betsy. I’ll take you up the back stairs to your room.”

  “But my dress is ruined.”

  She was right. The dress was a goner, torn in several places. Her hair was a riot of unkempt waves around her face, and the lacy thing she'd had holding it all together earlier was hanging by a few strands at her shoulder. Her face was smudged with dirt, but her eyes were round and luminous, and Max couldn’t look away from them. She was near tears. Her lower lip trembled and her chest heaved. All in all, Max thought she'd never been more beautiful.

  "Oh, Max," she moaned. "You were right. I should have gone back to the hotel. I wish I'd listened to you."

  He grinned. "What's that word you just used? The one beginning with 'r'?"

  “It’s true. You were right. I admit it. Now I've gone and ruined a perfectly good dress, and oh, my shoes!”

  "Cripes, Betsy, they're just clothes!" he said as they reached the second floor landing.

  She wrapped her arm around his neck. "That's true. When I think what could have happened. Max, you saved me! What would I have done if you hadn't come along?"

  "You might not have needed me at all. If you'd been aware of the state of your dress, I shudder to think what you'd have done to those poor boys."

  Ignoring his sarcasm, she asked, "What's the real reason you came back, Max? Was it honestly to walk me to the hotel?"

  He wanted to tell her the truth - that deep down he didn't trust Ross to see her safely to the Teller House, and he'd been right about that. But she'd already suffered enough tonight. "I remembered that I'd left a pen on the table, and I was going back to get it."

  "Lucky for me that you forgot that pen," she said. "The least I can do is buy you a new one."

  "And a hat while you're at it."

  She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to do. "I remember seeing it come off in the alley."

  She didn't immediately withdraw her hand, but kept her palm on the nape of his neck and those great green eyes of hers on his face. Max swallowed hard. "What’s your room number, Bets?"

  She told him and he lowered her to her feet at her door. She wobbled and leaned against him. "Guess I'm still a little unsteady," she admitted.

  He transferred his hand to her waist to offer more support, and she willingly accepted his assistance. "Do you have your key?" he asked.

  She dug it out of her pocket and gave it to him. They went inside, and he waited for her to light the bedside lamp. When he saw the furnishings, Max whistled appreciatively. "Nice place you've got here."

  "Yes, it is. I was about to say that I like everything about Central City, but after tonight, that's not..." She stopped abruptly and stared at him, her eyes widening with alarm. "I remember now. Max, you're hurt!" She went to him and put her hands on the sides of his face, turning it toward the light.

  "I've had worse," he said. Though he professed masculine bravado, he didn't back away from her gentle perusal of his wounds. She lightly ran the pad of her thumb from the bruise under his eye to the cut at his temple.

  "Don't be such a tough guy," she chided and forced him to sit on the bed.

  “You should probably tend to your own wounds,” he said. “Your cheek is beginning to swell.”

  "I’m fine, and I want to wash that cut for you." She moistened a cloth in the porcelain basin and dabbed at the wound until it was clean. Then she moved to the bureau and began a close examination of the items on top.

  Max watched her subtle movements from across the room. Her hair streamed down her back, like a waterfall of polished garnet in the low light. Her dress was torn in back, and the narrow bustle hung below her rump, revealing the white cotton of an undergarment.

  "This is terrible," she moaned. "I had to pack so quickly, I neglected to bring just the thing I need."

  There was such an assortment of bottles and tins on the bureau that Max couldn't imagine she'd left anything behind, but she was obviously distressed.

  "This will have to do," she said, finally choosing a bottle from among all the others. She picked up a handkerchief from the bureau and removed the cap.

  "Is this going to hurt?" he asked when she came back to the bed.

  She placed her hand firmly on his chest and pushed him back into the pillow. "Of course it will."

  She moistened the handkerchief by holding it over the mouth of the upended bottle. Then before he could shy away, she pressed the cloth against his temple. Max sucked in his breath as a stinging sensation
shot through him. "Geez, Betsy, what is that stuff?"

  He didn't need an answer to know what it consisted of. A good whiff identified the citrus smell.

  "Oil of lemon verbena," she said. "With a touch of witch hazel." She leaned over him and blew on his cut. "I know it stings. Sorry."

  All traces of his pain slowly ebbed into insignificance. His eyes were on a level with her chest, and he had a clear view of the anatomy he'd fantasized about for five nights on the train to Denver. The smarting at his temple was nothing compared with the reaction he was experiencing in other areas of his body. Her breath, cool on the evaporating lemon verbena, was a sharp contrast to the heat building inside the rest of him.