by Merry Farmer
She didn’t answer, but he thought that her slight nod might have been agreement. He debated staying home to help her and damning the consequences, but she was right about his bank needing him.
“Take care of yourself.” He kissed her one last time, then retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on.
All the way to the bank, he replayed breakfast, looking for hints about Honoria’s health that he hadn’t seen before. She hadn’t been that shy with him since before their wedding. Had he said something wrong, either that morning or the night before? He second-guessed everything he’d done, every word that he’d spoken to her in the last day and more. Something wasn’t right, as if there was a detail out of place. She was keeping something from him.
“Ah, Solomon, thank heavens you’re here.” Horace snapped up from the work he was doing behind the bank’s counter as soon as he walked through the door. “I’ve been reviewing the remaining accounts, and I think I have some good news.”
Solomon’s worries about Honoria were pushed to the side as he dove into work for the day. Horace had opened a whole new ledger and begun to record the cash on hand versus the remaining accounts. Though things were bad—no two ways about that—there was hope on the horizon. Not only were the vast majority of the accounts remaining held by customers who Solomon was certain would never turn on him, the morning newspaper—or rather yesterday’s newspaper from Denver, brought in on the late train the night before—had good news about the handful of stocks Solomon hadn’t sold.
He was just beginning to think that the storm was past and he would be able to recover when the door flew open. Solomon’s heart sank as the WSGA men sauntered into the lobby.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” He stood, keeping his back straight and clasping his hands behind him. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Nope,” Eastman answered with a smirk.
“We’re just here to monitor,” Lamb added, his expression as suspiciously giddy as Eastman’s.
“I can assure you that the bank’s business practices will continue today as they have every day, as you’ve already observed them,” Solomon answered, willing himself to keep calm. Clearly the men were up to something.
“We’ll be the judge of that,” O’Brien added with a sniff.
They stood there. Just stood there, staring at him. Solomon stared right back, working to figure out what kind of intimidation technique this was. They didn’t appear to be armed. Even if they were, Trey Knighton and Travis Montrose were “on duty” outside of the bank that day. There were no customers in the bank either, though it had been open for more than an hour. The money was all counted and accounted for. Everything seemed fine.
Which didn’t explain why the hair on the back of his neck was standing up.
He had to wait another half hour, until it was past eleven o’clock, to discover why the men were there. At first, it was just one man, Matthew Bolton, the saddle-maker.
“Morning, Matthew.” Solomon greeted him with a smile as he entered, head lowered. “Come to make your weekly deposit?”
“Uh, no,” Matthew mumbled. He shuffled up to the counter, shoulders stooped. “I, uh, I gotta withdraw all my money from your bank.”
Alarm bells sounded in Solomon’s head. Matthew was one of the Haskell tradesmen he never would have imagined turning on him. In fact, he didn’t believe Matthew had turned of his own free will. His body language told another story.
“Horace has the appropriate forms for you to sign,” Solomon said, nodding to Horace.
Matthew muttered his thanks, then filled out the form as Horace counted out enough cash to cover the withdrawal, face drawn. Solomon crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at the WSGA men. They didn’t seem at all surprised by the turn of events.
If Matthew had been the only one to turn on him, Solomon would have considered it a minor disappointment, but a few minutes later, two more of Haskell’s tradesmen—John Bimeney, the cooper and Paul Lindy, the carpenter who split his time between several towns in the county—dragged themselves in to withdraw everything. These were men Solomon would never have guessed would betray him, men he considered his friends. It was small relief that he was able to pay out what needed to be paid out.
“I don’t like this at all,” Horace muttered once the two men had gone. “It ain’t right.”
“No, it isn’t,” Solomon replied. He sent another look to the WSGA men. Their silent waiting took on a more sinister feel. They were waiting for the money to run out, waiting like they knew it would happen soon. Once it did, they would arrest him. He wasn’t fool enough to think that he’d be able to get out of that.
The door slammed open in the middle of his grim thoughts, and Sam Standish marched in. “It’s an outrage!” he hollered.
Of all things, Sam’s indignation came as a relief to Solomon. He was certain beyond any shadow of doubt that Sam would never, ever betray him. But if he knew what was going on—
“Bonneville’s sending his thugs around to all the local businesses,” Sam told him, marching up and gripping the edge of the counter. “He’s threatening to take his business elsewhere and to tell his friends and neighbors to do the same if they continue to use your bank.”
“He can’t do that,” Horace gasped.
The WSGA men grinned from ear to ear, as if none of this was even remotely a surprise.
“That’s a lot of business for the tradesmen of this town to lose.” Solomon sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. It was all beginning to make sense. If Rex Bonneville couldn’t destroy him one way, he would find another. “Men like Matthew and John and Paul can’t survive if they’re blacklisted by Bonneville.”
“It ain’t right,” Horace wailed.
“Oh, look,” Eastman blurted, craning his neck to look out the window at the front of the bank. “There’s a whole bunch of them coming.”
Solomon swallowed, balling his hands into fists. This was it. This was the end of his bank, and quite possibly the end of his life.
“Want me to fetch Howard?” Sam offered. “Or Gunn?”
If the end was coming, then Solomon was determined to face it head-on and not run crying for help. “No.” He straightened his back as the bank door opened and more than half a dozen men shuffled in. “I’ve asked them for too much already. It’s time I faced this on my own.”
“But—”
Sam was cut off when Eastman stepped forward. “You gents here to withdraw your money?” He looked as though he was having the best day of his life.
“Yes,” one of the tradesmen answered.
“Mmm hmm,” another one mumbled, looking as though he might be sick.
Solomon knew each and every one of these men. They were entrepreneurs, friends, men who had come West to build their fortunes, the same as he had. They worked hard, played for the Haskell baseball teams, went to church with him. Not a single one of them could survive if Bonneville and his cronies stopped doing business with them.
“Gentlemen,” Solomon addressed them grimly. “I understand. And I’ll do my best by you.”
He was met by guilty silence and a few grunts of grudging appreciation. None of the men looked at him, and none of them looked at the smiling, smug, supercilious WSGA men.
“Horace, give these men withdrawal forms,” Solomon ordered.
“But, Solomon…”
Solomon sighed and thumped his faithful employee on the back, then answered in a sad voice, “Just do it.”
Horace lowered his head, knowing full well what it meant as he reached for the forms with shaking hands. “It ain’t right,” he muttered as he distributed the forms to the men who lined the counter.
No, it wasn’t right, but it was the way of the world. At least for now.
In the middle of the gloom of defeat, the bank door banged open once again. Solomon snapped his head up to see what new misery had come for him. The other men gasped, and the WSGA men gaped as Pearl, Domenica, Della, and all of the other girls
from Bonnie’s place pushed their way into the lobby. The small space wasn’t designed for so many people, and the girls seemed to take up twice as much room as the others. They were all dressed colorfully, their bodices so low-cut it was a wonder none of them started to spill out, their skirts hiked and tied to show off a good amount of leg. The crushing scent of flowers and powder and sweetness filled the room with them. They dealt with the cramped conditions by pressing up against the men—tradesmen and WSGA men alike—simpering and batting their eyelashes.
“Ladies,” Solomon addressed them. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait your turn to withdraw your money.”
The girls all giggled and cooed, the ones who were pressed against the men fondling their collars…or something lower, judging by the way Grover Holmes yelped then laughed.
“Oh, silly.” Pearl stepped up to the counter, reaching into her bodice and taking out a surprisingly large wad of cash from between her ample breasts. “We’re not here to take money out, we’re here to put it in. Right boys?”
The girls laughed and whooped, and the men guffawed along with them, eyes zooming to all the places they probably shouldn’t have in public. Della even tilted her chest forward and asked one of the tradesmen, “You wanna reach in there and get my cash for me, honey?”
In an instant, the mood in the bank had utterly changed. The men who had come to withdraw their money were distracted beyond thought. Bonnie’s girls pushed past them to the counter, managing to flutter and flirt while making several impressively large piles of bills on the table.
“Bonnie’s always telling us we should deposit our earnings in the bank,” Pearl told Solomon, an exceptionally shrewd look in her bright blue eyes. “I figure it’s about time we opened those accounts.”
“But don’t you already have an account?” Horace asked, slack-jawed and more interested in what was almost popping out of Pearl’s bodice than her cash.
“These are special accounts,” Pearl answered. Her sharp gaze shifted to Solomon. “Bonnie says so.”
Bonnie. Everything clicked in Solomon’s mind. This money came from Bonnie. Some of it might have belonged to the girls, but whores, no matter how well-paid and taken care of, wouldn’t have the kind of money the girls were plopping on the table. Bonnie did well on her own, but everyone in town knew exactly where Bonnie got the bulk of her money from—Rex Bonneville.
A wide grin slowly grew on Solomon’s face and in his chest. Going to Howard and Gunn for help was obvious. Asking Bonnie to help him beard the lion in his den was a stroke of genius that he never would have thought of.
“Horace, give these ladies forms to open new accounts,” Solomon boomed as loud as Howard on a good day. “Then help me count this cash.”
“But you can’t do that,” Eastman protested. He tried to reach around Domenica to drag himself to the counter, but Domenica stood firmly in his way, hands roving his body. When Eastman let out a blood-curdling, high-pitched shriek, Solomon was pretty sure she’d grabbed hold of him where it counted and would keep him in his place more effectively than any revolver.
The door opened again, and more sad-faced, Haskell tradesmen wandered in. They blinked in surprise at the scene that was unfolding.
“And another thing,” Pearl went on as if in the middle of giving an Independence Day speech. She went so far as to hop up onto the counter, then to stand, lifting her skirts and shaking them. “Me and all the girls over at Bonnie’s have decided that from here on out, we’re only gonna do business with men who have accounts with this here bank.” The other girls whooped and hollered. “Because it’s only a good time if we’re all good and responsible, right girls?”
“Right!” they responded in unison, shimmying and hugging the men closest to them.
Solomon had a hard time not laughing out loud at the shift in events.
“You…you mean you won’t entertain us at all if we don’t have our money in this bank?” one of the tradesmen stammered.
“Not…not even a little slap and tickle?” another squeaked.
“Nope.” Pearl smiled proudly, dancing a few steps on the counter. “And you boys all know how far it is to the next cathouse.”
The girls laughed and made noises like it was a journey around the world. The tradesmen gawped and shook their heads, looking to each other for help and answers and finding none. The WSGA men could only stand back and glower…though Eastman could barely even do that with Domenica still in full possession of his…faculties.
“That’s it.” Grover reached for the withdrawal form he’d started to fill out and ripped it to pieces. “Rex can strong-arm me all he wants, but some things are sacred. I’ll just have to work twice as hard to court new customers.”
“That’s the spirit, honey.” One of the girls rushed to hug him. “Why don’t we go across the street to celebrate?”
Within minutes, the whirlwind of Bonnie’s girls circled through the bank as each one filled out a form for a new account as best they could, then grabbed a man and headed off to help them put their money to better use. Solomon went to work by Horace’s side, helping the girls fill out the forms and counting the cash. Bonnie had outdone herself. Whether all of the money came from Bonneville directly or not, there was more than enough to fill the cash drawer. Word must have spread about the girls’ ultimatum too, because within an hour, most of the men who had withdrawn their money that morning returned to put it back.
Eastman and the other WSGA cronies got angrier and angrier as the morning wore into afternoon, but there was nothing they could do. Finally, they gave up and left. Solomon prayed it would be the last he saw of them, but doubted it. At least he could be sure of one thing—his bank was safe.
“I’ve got to tell Honoria about this,” he said as he and Horace finished counting the drawer in the middle of the afternoon. “She won’t believe it.”
“I’m not sure I believe it myself,” Horace laughed. Solomon thumped him on the back. “You go tell the story to that pretty wife of yours. I’ll keep the bank open until closing. Something tells me it won’t be as busy for the rest of the day.”
“I hope not!” Solomon shook his hand, then grabbed his hat and headed out to the street, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
If Honoria had taken his advice, she’d be at home resting. He headed there first, but was, admittedly, unsurprised when he didn’t find her napping on the sofa or in their bed, as he would have liked. His wife was industrious and determined, if nothing else. He assumed she had gone to work after all and headed out again to Wendy’s shop.
“Honoria?” he called as he walked through the shop’s front door, bell jingling.
“Hello?” Wendy answered his call. A moment later, she stepped out from the back room, her and Travis’s sweet baby boy in her arms. “Solomon!”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Montrose.” Solomon removed his hat and nodded. He couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. “I wonder if I might have a word with my beautiful wife?”
Wendy blinked at him. “She didn’t come into work today.”
As Wendy’s expression pinched to worry, so did Solomon’s. “She didn’t?”
“No, sir.” Wendy shook her head. “I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning.”
Solomon frowned. “She’s not at home. I was certain she would have come to work.”
Wendy shrugged. “She didn’t.”
The panic from that morning that he had forgotten about in the midst of his wild day returned full-force. He tried to mask it with a neighborly smile. “I suppose I’ll have to look for her somewhere else.”
“Let me know if you need any help,” Wendy said.
Solomon turned to go, fixing his hat back on his head as he stepped outside. Where could Honoria have gone?
The answer hit him with a bitter twist of regret. To Dr. Meyers, of course. She wasn’t feeling well. She hadn’t been willing to worry him with the details, but he was sure of it. Of course she would have gone to see the doctor.
He
launched into motion, hurrying down Main Street and around the corner to practically run up Prairie Avenue. Dr. Meyers’s house and office was halfway up the street, so by the time he reached it, he was out of breath. That didn’t stop him from taking the steps two at a time and bursting into the office.
“Oh!” Abigail exclaimed as Solomon entered.
“Is my wife here?” Solomon asked without greeting.
“Your wife? Oh!”
She didn’t have time to get any farther before Dean Meyers stepped out of his office. “Solomon,” he said with a wide smile, rushing forward to shake Solomon’s hand. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
“Yes, sir,” he answered, too distracted to really hear them. “Is my wife here? She seemed to be feeling poorly this morning.”
“Poorly?” Dean frowned, more confused than sympathetic. “That’s strange.”
Solomon narrowed his eyes, as confused as Dean. “Not so strange, considering her condition.”
Dean’s eyes went wide. “You mean, she didn’t tell you?”
Panic made the corners of Solomon’s vision go black. “Didn’t tell me what?”
Completely inexplicably, Dean beamed as though Solomon had won a prize at the county fair. “Didn’t tell you that she’s not sick.”
“What?” Solomon’s heart stopped completely. His whole body began to vibrate on a minute level.
“She’s perfectly healthy. Dr. Abernathy confused her file with that of another woman who has consumption.”
“What?” The breath squeezed out of his lungs. He hardly dared to hope that what Dean was telling him was true.
“Yes, I’m so pleased to tell you that Honoria is the picture of health. Her coughing was merely the result of stress, probably from the situation at home. That is, at her father’s home. She looked quite well when she was here yesterday.”
The words were having a hard time to sink in to Solomon’s soul. Probably because he couldn’t believe that he would ever be so lucky. Honoria wasn’t dying. She was his, his very own, and she wasn’t going to leave him. They had an entire life ahead of them, a long, happy, fruitful life.