Leaden Skies
Page 11
His gaze followed her hand, settling first on her waist, then moving slowly upward, over the curve of her bosom, lingering on her décolletage—that borderland separating cloth from flesh—to finally come to rest on her face. She got the impression that he was seeing her for the first time. That he had turned the viewing glass from himself and focused it on her. His grin widened with approval. At this intimate distance, she noticed his eyes were black throughout, hot and bottomless.
Enough of this. Else he’ll be thinking of taking liberties in a country that has no vote.
She stepped away from the bar, fist to waist, and cooled her smile.
Wesley straightened, clapped his hat on, and said to his mates, “Tally-ho! Time to see what else State Street has to offer.”
Inez wondered how he’d spin out the scene at her saloon later that day.
Wesley and his cronies departed by the State Street door. A goodly number of others trailed after, perhaps in hopes of a repeat performance at another drinking hole.
Inez glanced down the bar and saw Kavanagh lingering, lemonade nearly gone. She drifted toward him, collecting discarded glasses and plates as she went.
“If you’re enjoined to keep him from drinking, it appears you have failed badly. At least, in this round,” she said.
Kavanagh took no offense, seeming amused instead. “Mrs. Stannert, I’ll tell you a secret. Only because I sense you’re a woman who understands the value of a dollar.” His eyes flicked to her waistband. “No insult intended.”
He fished in his pocket and placed a dime next to the glass. “Lucretia Wesley pays me to keep her son from the saloons, dance halls, and parlor houses, or, if he’s not to be dissuaded, to make sure he doesn’t raise Cain, and finally, if he does, to cross the palms of any offended parties with silver. But John Quincy Adams Wesley pays me more to look the other way.” He winked, adding, “When doting mother and son take their afternoon constitutional, I’ll return and sample the wares of your establishment more thoroughly. For now, I’d better check that he’s not got himself into some state of affairs that requires my attention.” He tipped his hat and smiled, then strolled to the State Street entrance, raincoat over one arm.
Chapter Seventeen
No sooner had Kavanagh reached the door, than it swung open, bringing in the sounds of the street and the smells of rain, wet wood, and liquid earth.
Reverend Sands stepped inside the saloon, hat brim dripping. Rivulets ran off his black waterproof into the sawdust. Each man scrutinized the other, as if sizing up an opponent. The reverend touched his hat, stepped aside. Kavanagh nodded, raised a hand to his bowler, and continued out the door.
Just seeing Reverend Sands step into the room caused Inez’s heart to skip a beat. And when his eyes found hers, and he smiled…
She dumped dirty dishes and glasses into the dishpan and hauled the pan out from its hiding place underneath the counter. Taking advantage of the lull, she told Abe and Sol, “I’m taking these to the kitchen,” and smiled back at the reverend.
As she rounded the end of the bar, Reverend Sands fell in beside her, relieving her of the pan of crockery.
“No rest for the wicked today?” she murmured.
He looked a question at her.
She paused, her back against the kitchen door. “What I meant was, given your ‘late to bed’ last night and ‘early to rise’ this morning, I thought you might be…resting.”
“And you, Mrs. Stannert, are sounding remarkably frisky for one who slept no more than myself.” He kept his voice low, for her only.
A pleasurable shiver ran through her. She eased back on the passdoor, and it squeaked open. Then briskly, all business, she said, “Thank you so much for carrying the dishes for me, Reverend. May we offer you a cup of coffee?”
Bridgette looked up, in the midst of ferociously dismembering several plucked chickens on the oversized kitchen table. Pleasure washed across her broad face, and she stopped, cleaver in midair, chicken unnecessarily restrained with a hand to its breast. “Well Lord bless us, it’s Reverend Sands! And I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee brewing. Just let me finish here.” The cleaver descended, and the neck separated from the body.
The table was littered with drawn and quartered bits of chicken, a slimy pile of innards on one side.
“Actually, I have no time for coffee.” Reverend Sands set the dishpan on a chair. He turned to Inez. “I’m just taking a moment on my rounds to propose—”
Bridgette clapped a bloody hand to her bosom. “Heavens above!”
Inez glared at her.
Sands shot Bridgette an amused glance. “Alas, not that kind of proposal, Mrs. O’Malley. This one involves a flurry of invitations that descended upon me.” He fished several cards of creamy stock out of his pocket and shuffled through them as if checking that all the cards in a deck were present. “‘To Reverend J. B. Sands and Guest: Enclosed are tickets to the public reception and dance for General and Mrs. Ulysses S. Grant on Friday, July twenty-third, eleven in the evening, at City Hall.’ That’s tonight. And this one, ‘To the Honorable Rev. J. B. Sands: The Union Veterans Association of Leadville requests your presence on Saturday, July twenty-fourth, eleven in the evening, at the Clarendon Hotel for a banquet for veterans and friends to honor the former President of the United States and General in Chief of the Union Armies and General of the Potomac…’ and so forth. That’s tomorrow. Also, I was just notified that the veterans are gathering at five o’clock tomorrow for an informal reception with the general before the banquet. Next, we have an invitation from Doc to join Grant’s party and Leadville’s luminaries at the track on Sunday, July twenty-fifth. Which theoretically is a day of rest and worship. But apparently not for visiting dignitaries and their hosts.” He passed the invitations to Inez, retaining a single sheet of stationery. “Finally, this one. Handwritten. Command presence.” He handed it to her.
She read the note aloud with growing amazement. “General and Mrs. Grant are asking you to join them at the Tabor Opera House Monday evening?”
He tapped the note. “Not just myself. A guest as well.”
She held out the stack of invitations to him. “Congratulations, Reverend. Your stock in Leadville society is rising faster than that of the Matchless Mine!”
He clasped his hands behind him, without taking back the cards and notes. “My hope is that you will be my companion for these events.”
“I’m honored. Truly. But this week, we’re so busy. Today was nearly impossible, and that was with three of us working the bar and Bridgette serving and working the kitchen. I can’t possibly go.”
A strangled sound reminded Inez that Bridgette was still in the room, listening. Inez turned to see Bridgette, hands on hips, bloody cleaver to the side. “Ma’am. You can’t say no. He’s the PRESIDENT.”
“He was the president,” Inez corrected her.
“Well, that makes him as good as. You must go. If you don’t, who will the good reverend find to accompany him? Oh, many would like to, but you can’t leave him to suffer the simperings and wiles of one of the heathen widows in this town.” Bridgette crossed her arms, cleaver still in hand. “I’ll get my eldest to help behind the counter for those evenings that you need an extra set of hands. God save us, I don’t want him to become a barman, but he’s forever after me to ask if you are needing extra help.” She chopped down on an unsuspecting chicken, severing a wing. “Even Mr. Jackson would agree, I’m sure.”
Inez shuffled through the invitations again, pausing at each. “Tonight’s Friday and the public reception. This invitation is very last minute for something of this sort. Well, if Bridgette’s Michael is available to help, I will arrange to attend with you. The dance and reception are late. I suspect dawn will be breaking upon the attendees. Saturday evening is out of the question. I have my standing poker game.”
“If I’m not wrong, the majority of your players will be at the veterans’ banquet,” Sands pointed out.
“For now.” Sands finally took the invitations back. A slight smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“Then it’s my turn to discuss something with you. Why don’t you help me retrieve some liquor. We’re low out front.” Inez headed for the storage room, adding to Bridgette, “We’ll need to get word to Michael at the smelter, see if he could help tonight. If he could be here by eight, that will give Abe time to instruct him and me time to get ready.” She turned back to the reverend. “Luckily, I have clothes suitable for a reception upstairs, so you can pick me up here before eleven.”
Once inside the room, she lit the hanging lantern. The comforting smell of burning coal oil suffused the air. The lantern glowed, throwing a soft yellow light over the room and its contents. She proceeded to examine the papers hanging on a nail by the door. Notes and lists in her precise writing, Abe’s crabbed scrawls, and Sol’s careful printing detailed the kegs, bottles, and magnums bought by the crate and wagonload and sold by the glass.
She was aware of Reverend Sands close by. Not touching her in any way. Yet, she felt it: What it was like to be held, wrapped in warmth when they were together. Alone. She cleared her throat, the little cough sounding loud in the close room, and said, “I called on Mr. Casey this morning. I’m starting divorce proceedings immediately. I told him I would pay whatever I must to hurry the process along.”
She glanced at him to gauge his reaction.
He nodded. The tender look he gave her filled her heart. She cleared her throat again. “Please, don’t think this means—”
“We can talk later,” he said gently. “And you can tell me what it does mean.”
She returned her attention to the inventory list and, using the stub of a pencil attached with a string, made a note. “Over here, if you please.” She led him to the whiskey cases, in stacks according to quality. “This one. Can you help me take it up front?”
He hefted the wooden box. Bottles inside clinked. He looked at the contents and remarked, “There were times, Inez, when I could not be so close to liquor without being sorely tempted. And when tempted, I yielded, giving in to the weakness for drink, thinking, as I did, that I was the master. But the truth is, it mastered me. Always, blackness descended on my soul, and I thought that was my life. How it would play out. How I would live, and die. I had no faith then. No faith in myself, in my fellow man, or in God. ‘Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall. There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.’”
He looked up at her and smiled. “Corinthians Ten. Verses eleven to fourteen. When you’re with me, Inez, the temptation is gone. Alcohol has no hold on me. Although I will confess, other temptations take its place. But I don’t mean to sermonize. Or to make a declaration here, in your storeroom, holding a crate of Old Kentucky.” He looked toward the door that led to the kitchen, and a subtle shadow crossed his face. “The fellow who left as I came in. Someone you know?”
“Not at all. His name is James Kavanagh. He’s in town with the Wesleys, mother and son. They’re with the general’s party, I know that much.”
Sands nodded. Inez caught a slight frown on his face.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Sands looked at her. His eyes—sometimes gray, sometimes blue—were nearly colorless in the lantern light. “I’ve met the Wesleys. Saw that fellow, Kavanagh, hanging back by the wall, watching. No one introduced him. I was curious.”
She leaned against the wall. “Curious? About what?”
“I’ve met men like him before.”
“What does that mean?”
He shook his head, saying instead, “Do you know anything else about him, besides his name?”
“Well, he’s apparently minding young Wesley. Described himself as John Quincy Adam Wesley’s ‘shadow.’ He says he was hired by the mother to keep her son out of trouble up here in Leadville. According to Kavanagh, Mrs. Wesley has plans for her son to enter politics in Denver. Or perhaps Washington.” She shrugged.
Reverend Sands regarded her. “Kavanagh was chatty. Wonder why.”
“He was just making idle talk while Wesley made a fool of himself and then redeemed himself in the eyes of all Leadville by buying drinks for the house.”
“Any chatter was not idle but had a purpose. As I said, I’ve known men like him.”
She tried again. “Like what?”
Sands shook his head again. “Later. Let’s get this case to where you need it.”
Once they were back in the barroom, Sands slid the case onto a corner of the counter, while Inez went behind. As she reached for the first bottle, the reverend seized her hand, before God and witness. And there were, despite the vacuum left after Wesley’s departure, plenty of witnesses.
She flushed, feeling the patrons stare at the sight of a man of God holding a saloon owner’s hand. She could feel the heat between them, even through his wet leather glove.
“I’ll be back to escort you to the reception at ten.” His voice, pitched only to reach her ears, hummed with intensity and promise.
Chapter Eighteen
Zelda stopped on East Third Street, just short of the offices of The Independent. She sneaked a sidelong glance at the road, muddy ruts and all, then down at her ill-gotten fancy shoes. She’d kept them clean as best she could while picking her way down Chicken Hill. What with the toe-pinching shoes, her Sunday best—threadbare, but decent—and her ma’s Sunday bonnet, Zelda thought she probably looked respectable. Poor, but honest. She moved to face the building and peered at the words painted on the dirt-smudged window.
The Independent
Jedediah Elliston, publisher
—and at the smaller, hand-lettered sign wedged into a dusty corner of the sill:
Typesetter wanted
She took a quick look at the building itself. The offices of The Independent occupied a robust log building topped with a tent-like half wall above the door.
She’d thought it’d be grander.
Not that it really mattered.
What mattered was that this Jedediah Elliston take her seriously, that she convince him she could do this job. And she could. She’d lie if she had to, to make him give her a chance.
Well, if I can lie all night long, pitchin’ and moanin’ for Flo, I figure I can get this Mr. Elliston here to give me a listen.
She tied the bow a little tighter below her chin, hoping that Mr. Elliston hadn’t been to Flo’s any time lately. Just in case he had, she’d darkened her hair with walnut water and used a fierce brush with a dab of bear grease to subdue the curls. Her hair, now gleaming sable and smooth, was pulled back in a bun tight enough to make her eyebrows ache.
With a deep breath, she opened the door.
Only one person was inside, standing before a table with his back to her. He swung around at the tinkling noise made by the bell above the door. Zelda was relieved that he didn’t look familiar. He came over, wiping his hands on a rag. “How can I help you, Miss?”
Miss. Well.
She must look proper enough then.
Zelda said, “I’ve come about the sign in your window.”
“The sign?” He frowned, puzzled.
“About the job. For a typesetter.” She held up the page torn from The Independent, to remind him of the opening.
His frown deepened.
She kept her expression bland, expectant, thinking he’d be a handsome sort if his mouth wasn’t so twisted up, like he’d eaten a lemon straight.
He pulled the piece of newspaper from her outstretched hand. “I posted this under ‘Men Wanted.’ What makes you think you’d fit the bill?”
> She rattled off the short speech she’d practiced on her way down the hill. “I need the job to support my kin up on Chicken Hill. My pa’s blind and can’t work. My ma’s gone, and my brothers, I got twin brothers, they’re no help. Too young.” At least when it comes to smarts. “I can work plenty hard. I don’t drink. Don’t spit. I won’t get all moony on you and go chasin’ after a silver claim. You won’t regret hirin’ me. I promise.”
“Have you experience setting type?”
“No, but I learn fast. You show me how to do it once, and I’ll remember what you told me. And I’ll be to work, every day, on time, if you’ll give me a chance.”
“How’s your spelling?”
“I’m real good at words.”
“When you set type, you read letters, words, entire sentences backwards.” He stopped at her dumbfounded expression and shook his head, sourness intensifying. “Bah. Hopeless. I’m wasting my time.”
“Let me try. I’ll work a spell for free. If’n after one day, you don’t think I can do the job, then you don’t pay and I’ll go. You got nothing to lose.”
“Nothing but time on a silly goose of a girl,” he grumbled.
But she’d noticed that on the words “free” and “don’t pay” the prissy old-maid puckered look around his mouth had softened, then disappeared altogether.
“What’s your name, Miss?”
“Th—” She stopped and covered her mouth with a delicate cough to give herself time to think. Should she use her real name? “Thomas. Zel Thomas.”
He cocked his head and gazed at her a moment, eyes narrowed.
Uh-oh. He knows I’m fibbin’.
“Hands, Miss Thomas,” he said abruptly. “Off with those gloves, please.”
Holding her breath she peeled off a glove. Does he know who I am, where I worked? Hope he doesn’t try to get fast with me, askin’ me to pull his prick t’ get the job.