“So, you tell him the amount, and he pays you.”
Jim’s face flushed. “Well, not exactly.”
“I tell him the amount and then I pay him,” Chance said. “I keep track of it. Jim trusts me. Your father trusted me, too.”
It was exactly as she’d suspected. Who knew how much money he’d already swindled them out of. She reached into the deep pocket of her dress and pulled out a small black book. She handed it to the bartender. “I’d like you to start keeping track of exactly how much Mr. Wellesley drinks during the week.”
Jim looked speculatively at the journal. “Whatever you say, Miss Dora. Though I don’t rightly think it’s necessary.”
“Well, I do.” She affected her iciest look and aimed it in Chance’s direction.
He visibly shivered, then grinned. “While you’re at it, you might want to keep track of some of the other things I consume around here.” He rocked back in his chair, propping a boot up on the table, then cast a glance over his shoulder to the balcony above, where Lily was just disappearing into one of the bedrooms.
She felt the color rise in her cheeks. The high-buttoned neck of her dress seemed suddenly too tight. She ground her teeth behind tightly pressed lips, determined not to let him bait her. “I’ll get Delilah to do that.”
Jim took the hint, and scurried back to the bar where more customers were gathering.
“You know, Lily’s idea isn’t half bad.” Chance rocked his chair backwards, precariously far. One nudge would knock him to the floor.
Dora was sorely tempted. “What idea?”
“You moving to town. Away from all this…objectionable commerce.” She followed his glance to the bar where Tom and Jim were, again, removing the nude portrait.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
He was truly an enigma. At first he’d all but dared her to keep the saloon in operation and to remain here on the premises. Now he seemed to be invested in her departure. She wasn’t fool enough to believe Lily had come up with the idea on her own.
“Not necessarily,” he said, looking her up and down in a manner he knew annoyed her.
She fished her diary out of her pocket and opened it to the page she’d been penning earlier that morning in her father’s study. “Perhaps you’re the one who should move. Your living expenses are about to increase. As of today, I’m raising your rent to fifty dollars a week.” She snapped the diary shut and marched from the room.
Chance pursued her, as she knew he would.
She made a beeline for her father’s study, opened the door with the key she’d had ready in her hand, and allowed him to follow her inside. The draperies were open, and the room was bright and cheery, like the matter-of-fact demeanor she put on for his benefit. She took her place behind the desk, sat up straight in her father’s leather chair and gave him her full attention.
“Fifty dollars a week is larceny.”
“I know it is. However, that’s the new price on the room you occupy, or any room you wish to occupy at my saloon.”
“So it’s your saloon now, is it?”
The look she gave him said the answer to his question should be obvious. “That includes full board, of course.”
He harrumphed.
“In addition…” She opened the heavy ledger sitting atop her father’s desk and flipped to the appropriate page. “The house’s cut of your gambling profits has increased to—” she ran her finger along the entries made in ink in her father’s hand “—twenty percent.” It had been five percent.
Chance swore. “Seven percent and not a penny more.”
“Fifteen.”
“Ten.”
“Done,” she said, and closed the ledger.
He stormed to the window and looked out. She noticed, not for the first time, how broad his shoulders were in relation to his slim hips. She also noticed he’d taken to wearing two guns in his gun belt instead of one.
“Why?” he said, and turned to face her.
“Because I need the money and because you can afford it.” Which was true. “I’ve seen you play cards. I know how much your winnings are on a good night.”
“What about the bad nights?”
She arched a brow at him. “You don’t have many of those.” Last night had been an exception.
For the hundredth time since then, she thought about his hands on her, his heat, the way he’d looked at her just before he kissed her. It was as if he knew he shouldn’t, but couldn’t help himself. It had been one of those rare moments since she’d met him over a week ago that she’d felt she was seeing the real Chance Wellesley, the real man.
A man with a heart.
She hadn’t forgotten Delilah’s words.
His behavior since had nullified her instincts about him. And now, standing here in the light of day, looking into his eyes, she was confused.
“You don’t like me much, do you?”
This was not a question she’d expected. “I…don’t trust you. There’s a difference.”
He looked thoughtfully at the objects in her father’s study—an old cattle brand mounted on the wall flanking the desk, a collection of Chinese puzzle boxes scattered across the walnut credenza, stacks of books on the floor—and as he did so, his expression changed.
She perceived a longing in his eyes she’d seen only once before, that morning on the range when he’d talked of ranching, the land, of what a man might make of himself if he had the chance.
His gaze settled on hers. “You’re right not to trust me. I—”
“Yes?”
He paused, as if some terrible struggle were going on in his mind. Without thinking, she rose and came around the desk. He stood there, rigid, and before she realized what she was doing, she took his hand in hers.
He looked down at their hands, entwined.
She was aware of her beating heart, of the room growing warmer. He grazed her palm with his thumb, tenderly, with affection, and the sensation of it sent a shiver clear up her spine.
Then, without warning, as if he’d been dreaming and had all of a sudden come awake, he laughed. His face lit up, his eyes flashed mischief. She tried to draw her hand away as the man withdrew and the rogue appeared.
His fingers tightened over hers. “I’ve been known to lead women astray.” To punctuate the point, he lifted one dark brow in a scandalously suggestive manner.
Dora pulled herself together. “Yes, well…” She yanked, and her hand was freed. She shook it to revive her circulation. “This woman is miraculously unaffected.”
As she started around the desk, Chance caught her arm. “You’re lying.”
Now it was her turn to arch a brow. “You’re the one who’s lying, Mr. Wellesley.”
“Chance,” he said pointedly. Her words had wiped the smile from his face. His grip on her tightened.
She dug her heels into the Persian carpet and looked him square in the eye. “I don’t know who you are, but make no mistake, I will find out. I’m not a saloon girl to be toyed with.”
“I can see that.” His eyes glittered with new appreciation.
“Furthermore, you will let go of my arm, and you will not put your hands on me again. Is that understood?”
“Miss…uh, Fitzpatrick?”
Startled by the unfamiliar voice, her gaze flew to the open door.
“It’s me, Miss Fitzpatrick. John Gardner.” He stepped into the room, and in a heartbeat appraised the situation. His gaze settled disapprovingly on Chance. “Everything all right here?”
“Right as rain,” Chance said, and released her.
Dora breathed. She dismissed the gambler with a nod and turned her full attention on the banker, who was the finest figure of a man she’d ever seen, present company included.
Hat in hand, he was dressed in a dark woolen suit and brocade vest, the color of which set off his eyes, the most brilliant of blues. His boots were polished to a high sheen, completing the picture of a perfect gentleman.
Noting Cha
nce’s scowl, she smiled. “Mr. Gardner…John. I wish you’d call me Dora.”
“Dora, then,” he said, and beamed her a smile so sincere it would have made angels weep. “I’m here to escort you to luncheon.”
“Your timing is perfect.” She sidestepped Chance, walked to the door and took the banker’s arm. “More than perfect,” she said, and cast the still scowling Chance a haughty look as she and John Gardner quit the room.
Chapter Seven
“I respectfully disagree,” John said, after chewing thoughtfully on a forkful of roast beef. “You should move here to town, to the hotel, away from that place.”
“That place, for better or worse, is mine,” Dora reminded him. She was actually rather proud of the improvements she’d made to the operation in just a few short days.
“Hopefully not for long.”
“You’ve located a buyer?” She ought to have been thrilled, but a tiny pang of alarm gripped her, and she suddenly lost interest in her food.
“Not yet, but I expect to hear something soon from the inquiries I made last week on your behalf.”
She felt a palpable relief, which was ridiculous she reminded herself as she dug in to her mashed potatoes. Her objective was to sell the ranch and the saloon as soon as possible. Wasn’t it?
She glanced at the other customers in the hotel dining room. Mr. Grimmer, her father’s attorney, was lunching alone at a table in the back. The marshal’s wife, along with a few of her friends, sat across from her. The woman cast her a most unfriendly look.
“Don’t mind her,” John said. “She’s angry that her husband’s been spending so much time at the Flush. It’s not your fault.”
The marshal was, in fact, a good customer, and had complimented her the last time he was in on how good the place looked. Spruced-up was the term he’d used. Dora was inclined to think it was her fault he’d been spending more time in the saloon, as had a number of their other regular customers.
In addition to the visible improvements she’d made to the saloon, she’d had several discussions with the staff about how to improve service to their customers. After all, the whole point of her short proprietorship was to make money—as much as possible—to not only defray the debt her father had incurred, but to make the saloon an attractive target for potential buyers.
She’d be well on her way had not a number of new creditors appeared. Once word had spread that she was making good on Wild Bill’s debts, anyone who’d ever lent her father a nickel had come out of the woodwork. The ledger she kept of the saloon’s outstanding debts was growing, not shrinking.
“Don’t you like your roast beef?”
She realized John had put down his fork and was looking at her. “Oh…um, yes.” Spearing another bite of meat she said, “It’s wonderful.” It wasn’t quite as flavorful as Jim’s pot roast, but she’d never say that.
It was kind of the banker to have asked her to luncheon to begin with. She’d gone on the premise that they’d mostly be discussing her father’s affairs. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been proper. Never in her life had she been out with a single gentleman sans chaperone.
Not that she’d been abiding, by any stretch of the imagination, by what was and wasn’t considered proper behavior for a young woman these days. She reminded herself she was a saloon owner, and while technically she wasn’t living on the premises, she slept fifty feet away in a cabin out back.
“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” John said. “I’ve looked forward to our meeting all week.” His eyes sparkled as he watched her.
Dora felt a bit guilty. “So have I,” she said, though she’d postponed their luncheon by two days. The excuse she’d given him was that she’d had pressing matters to take care of at the ranch, which was true.
She’d wanted to keep her eye on Chance Wellesley, to find out if her father’s letter had sparked any insights she’d missed. She was certain now, after finding more bank notes—real and counterfeit—that the “something” her father had left for her at the ranch was money, and that Chance was after it.
She told herself that postponing her luncheon with John had nothing to do with Chance kissing her in the darkened hallway, or the fact that she’d shamelessly kissed him back. Nothing whatsoever. It had been a freak incident, one that had turned out badly and would never be repeated.
All the same, she couldn’t help recalling how closely Chance had held her, how his lips had felt on hers. Two short hours ago in her father’s study, for a fleeting moment he’d looked at her as if she were the most desirable woman on earth. No man had ever looked at her that way. No man had ever made her feel as if—
“Dora?”
She snapped to attention. John was looking at her quizzically.
“Um…did you say something?”
“Yes.” He gave her a bright smile. “I said I think you look stunning in that hat.”
“Oh!” His compliment caught her off guard. The hat had been her mother’s and was a bit old-fashioned, even for Dora, who didn’t cater much to the latest styles. “Thank you,” she said, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
He was flirting with her, and she hadn’t been attentive enough to even notice, until now. She’d been preoccupied thinking about Chance.
When the waiter came, John paid the bill, then stood and offered her his hand. “Shall we?”
When she took it, and his fingers closed over hers, she didn’t feel the same excitement she’d experienced with Chance in the study, when he’d brushed his thumb across her open palm. She reminded herself she was wearing gloves now. Yes, that had to be the difference.
John Gardner was everything Chance Wellesley was not—a respectable member of the community engaged in a respectable business. He safeguarded people’s money, not swindled them out of it.
As he helped her into her cloak and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, she thought about something she’d never dared think about before, except on the rare occasion when she succumbed to a brief fantasy fueled by the novels she read.
She thought about marriage.
Marriage and children and the kind of life she suspected all maiden schoolteachers dreamed about at some point. She looked into John Gardner’s eyes as he held the door open for her, and knew beyond a doubt that he was thinking about it, too.
“Walk a while with me? It’s a lovely day.”
“I’d like that,” she said.
As they strolled down the street past the livery and the mercantile, she thought about what it would be like to settle down in a town like Last Call.
John tucked her arm securely under his. “Still considering opening a school?”
“At the saloon, you mean? No.” She’d made a promise to the staff that she’d keep the Royal Flush open until a buyer was found and the transaction completed.
“What about here in town? I think it’s a fine idea.”
She glanced at the children playing in the street with a couple of stray dogs. Friday afternoon shoppers went about their business, ignoring them for the most part. The marshal and his deputy, lounging in a couple of rockers that were permanent fixtures on the boardwalk outside the town jail, tipped their hats to her and John as they passed. She noticed the minister and his wife across the street chatting with passersby, and a couple of young boys up to some kind of mischief on the second-story porch over the barbershop. The target of their waywardness appeared to be two school-age girls playing jacks on the boardwalk below.
Last Call had potential, she decided. It wasn’t as big or as sophisticated as Colorado Springs, but was much more in need of her services from the look of things.
All the same, she said, “I’d planned on leaving once the saloon is sold. There’s really nothing to keep me here.”
John paused in front of the bank and looked at her, his blue eyes infused with heat. “Isn’t there?”
All of a sudden she felt confused and unusually warm, despite the crisp spring chill in the air and a light westward breeze.
Dora was so stunned, for a moment she couldn’t speak. “But…why would they do that?”
John smiled at her. “I told them I’d back the loan myself.”
“But—”
“Just until a buyer can be located. They’ve even agreed to loan you a bit of cash to get your school going, with the provision that it be located here in town, of course.”
“Of course, but—”
“Don’t say no. Think about it.” He grasped her shoulders with an air of proprietary confidence that made her uneasy.
She took a step back, out of his arms. “Why would you do this?”
It was Friday, payday, and the bank was crowded with townsfolk. The last customer in line at the counter turned and said, “Seems pretty clear to me.”
Dora gasped.
“Wellesley,” John said, his smile fading.
“Howdy, Gardner.” Chance tipped his hat to the banker, then settled his gaze on her. “One piece of advice, Dora.”
Recovering herself, she stood tall, chin tipped high, and looked down her nose at him—well, as best she could, given that Chance was at least half a foot taller than she.
“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.” He cast John a sideways glance.
He was supposed to be encouraging her to move to town, not warning her against the one element that, all else failing, might make the idea appealing to her. The problem was that he didn’t trust Gardner.
An even bigger problem was that he cared.
For the next three days Dora avoided both the banker and him. She’d sat with Mortimer Grimmer and his wife at church yesterday, and had openly declined Gardner’s invitation to join him at the hotel for Sunday supper. Instead, she’d eaten with the staff in the dining room at the Flush, complimenting Jim’s cooking and evading Chance’s gaze.
“She found another one!” Iris rushed over to his table. “There, behind the bar.”
Rocky Mountain Marriage Page 9