Weeping Angel

by Stef Ann Holm

  Why, then, did his barroom wisdom fail to convince him otherwise?

  * * *

  Amelia held on to the key with a black ribbon she’d tied through the hole, in lieu of a ring. Self-conscious, she looked over her shoulder to check if anyone watched her. She’d waited until noon to come to the Moon Rock Saloon, praying all of Weeping Angel sat at their tables eating their lunches.

  Swallowing her apprehension, she fit the brass key into the lock. Her fingers trembled so, she couldn’t keep a firm grasp on it. She pulled her right glove off and stuffed the fingers into her waistband.

  She grabbed the knob and pulled the tall door outward as quietly and as quickly as she could. A showy swinging partition blocked her way, and she had to push on the beveled glass to get inside. Though the afternoon was bright and sunny, the interior was dim, at best, and as suffocating as a hothouse. The air smelled of stale smoke, liquor, and sweaty men. She shivered and tried not to breathe too deeply.

  With the door at her back partially open, she couldn’t see the details of the interior clearly. She didn’t want to imagine what it had looked like when Silver Starlight had been in this very room. But she was helpless to stop the flood of memories from assailing her. She was ashamed to admit she’d been taken advantage of by her trusting nature and had since set about building a new life for herself.

  Holding her petit point music bag with one hand, Amelia took a tentative step, her eyes wide, as she tried to adjust to the murky shadows. She walked toward a long counter to her left, passing numerous hardwood tables where chairs had been stacked upside down on the tops. The floorboards beneath her feet had been swept clean.

  She ran her hand along the edge of the counter, surprised to find the surface had been waxed. She couldn’t see well at all and felt around for a box of matches or a lamp. Coming up short, she bit her lower lip.

  Setting her bag down, she went behind the counter to look. Feeling around the shelf, she lifted a box and held it toward the meager stream of sunlight to read the label. Old Virginia Cheroots. She hadn’t found matches; she’d found vile cigars. Putting them back, she continued to forage through Frank Brody’s things. She hated spying on him. He should have left her a lamp and matches in plain view. Instead, she had to degrade herself in such a manner as to plow through his personal belongings. Her hand touched a hard square shape.

  Something fell down and metallic rolling sounds invaded the narrow space. Lifting her head, she waited for Mr. Brody to come busting in on her and demand to know what she was doing. Knowing he occupied the room off the saloon made her uneasy. He was in there now . . . sprawled out on a bed . . . sleeping like the dead. As soon as she would hit the first note in her four-four time drill, she dreaded he’d wake up.

  When Amelia felt along the floor, she couldn’t find what had spilled. Returning to the shelf, she touched a narrow barrel of steel like a plumber’s pipe. She inched her fingers across a fluted piece of metal, hook and handle, then froze.

  “Oh, dear me,” she whispered, and jolted her arm away from the revolver. Tears gathered in her eyes and she was on the verge of crying. How had this happened to her? Being in the Moon Rock was going to dredge up her disgrace all over again. She was an upstanding woman with morals and principles, not some dance-hall girl who felt comfortable in this sort of setting.

  To her annoyance, Amelia concluded Silver Starlight would have known where to find a lamp.

  Perspiration dampened Amelia’s face and she felt flushed. The room’s stuffiness threatened her with an attack of the vapors. She took several cleansing breaths, trying not to choke on the odious smells. It simply wouldn’t do to swoon and have herself be found prostrate by Frank Brody. The shame would ruin her from ever coming back. And it had taken her two days to get this far.

  Feeling slightly better, Amelia forced herself to look one more time and was successful in finding matches. She struck one and walked with the fuzzy light until she found a kerosene lamp on the bar. After removing the globe and turning up the wick, she put the flame on the burner and the saloon came to life.

  She could see clearly now. Everything.

  Amelia didn’t pause to make an assessment. Rather, she headed straight for the door posthaste and closed it. Afterward, she leaned against the jamb and viewed the room detail by detail.

  Behind the carved bar, a great mirror shone gloriously, and at its base, at least fifty cut-glass decanters were filled with warm hues of liquid. Never before had she seen such an array of glasses, or such vivid colors, or such huge carved and polished pillars and beams, or such enormous vessels of brass as the spittoons.

  She rested her gaze on the numerous wooden cubbies composing the framework for the mirror. Curios and ornate pearl-shaped light globes filled most of them. She lightly studied the bric-a-brac, then saw the infamous, fist-sized rock—the one Mr. Brody touted to Weeping Angel as being documented by a German geologist as coming from the moon.

  Three signs hung on the wall behind the bar.

  Biggest 100 Beer In Town

  In God we trust—all others pay cash.

  Anyone Violating the Rules Will Be Shot

  There were only a smattering of gilt-framed oils depicting patriotic and sportive themes. Her vivid imagination had always conjured Dante-esque illustrations ablaze with decadence and lascivious oleographs portraying naked women in abandoned poses.

  Viewing the grandeur, her hellfire and brimstone pictures vanished, and she forgot to wonder about shootings and stabbings. Overhead, six-branched chandeliers with crystal prisms caught the soft light of the lantern and made rainbow patterns. Through the sea of upturned chair legs, a gleaming black brilliance against the wall beckoned.

  The New American upright parlor piano.

  Despite her resolve to resist any enjoyment out of the upright until she had her own, a spark of excitement heightened her pulse. She was certain once she sat down at the keys, everything her teacher, Miss Lovejoy, had taught her would come flying back.

  Amelia hurried to retrieve the lantern and her bag, in which she’d packed everything musically essential she could think of. Threading her way around the tables, she put the lamp on top of the piano. She stood back to admire the beautifully carved panels, Queen Anne trusses, and exquisitely finished hardwood case.

  The Rogers & Company catalog drawing didn’t do the New American justice.

  Amelia ran her fingertips over the music desk, then set her bag on the floor. Taking a seat, she lifted the nickel-plated hinge on the fall board. Ivory keys and polished ebony sharps spread in seven and one-third octaves. She removed her other glove and positioned her hands in the proper fashion, with wrists high, and a delicate curve of her fingers. Her right thumb on middle C, she ran through her drill.

  The piano was a little out of tune from being jostled in the shipping, but still, the notes were full and round. She tried the three foot pedals, prompting the chords to be first mezzo piano, then mezzo forte. Caught up in the practice piece, she forgot about Frank Brody being in the next room. As soon as she finished her four-four time drill, she went on to her second drill of three-four time. Smiling, she let the music tingle through her fingers. She hadn’t played a piano in nine years, and much to her delight, she remembered how.

  As her recital selection, Miss Lovejoy had made her memorize a Bach Minuet in F-sharp. Amelia concentrated, and after a few tries, the melody came back and she was able to play the notes through to the end. On the final chord, she softly giggled and folded her hands in her lap.

  Loud clapping erupted to her left. Startled, she swung her head toward the applause, distressed to find Frank Brody lounging in the open doorway to his private quarters. She shot off the stool, reached for her music bag, and took a step backward. Clutching the handle to her breasts, she stammered, “W-What are you doing here?”

  He shoved his tousled hair from his eyes, but the lengthy black locks tumbled back to tease his brow. “I live here.”

  “Of course . . . it’s just that
you surprised me. I . . .” She fumbled for the proper words, but there were none appropriate for a lady to say to a man half-naked.

  Chapter

  4

  Mr. Brody wore no shirt.

  The five pearl buttons down the front of his white vest with navy polka dots were unfastened, and Amelia couldn’t help staring at the smooth skin showing through the gaping opening. She’d never seen a near-naked man before, and the glimpse of taut flesh made her throat go dry.

  Sleep like the dead, indeed! Trying to keep a modicum of decorum, she said, “I thought you’d be sleeping.”

  “I woke up.” He shifted his stance, and the waistband of his white duck trousers slackened and she saw his navel. She darted her gaze to the floor, unable to meet his eyes. A mistake. His feet were bare and not unattractive, as she’d assumed men’s feet would be.

  The pressing heat of the saloon seemed to thicken. Feeling light-headed, she blinked.

  “What do you have in the bag?” he asked.

  She lifted her chin and replied, “My busts.”

  Frank lifted a brow. “Miss Marshall, I make it my business to stay on top of the complexities of women’s clothing, and I’ve never heard of the need to carry around a bag of falsies in case something happens to the real things.”

  Amelia’s face grew hot. “N-Not my—my—my—those! My busts. My replicas of the masters.”

  “Yeah.” Frank’s gaze swooped across her neckline. “I’ve seen the shape yours are in. They look like masters to me.”

  Aghast, she blurted, “I was referring to Mozart, Bach, Wagner, Mozart, Beethoven, and Verdi.”

  “You said Mozart twice.”

  “I know. He had a father—Leopold. His son, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, is more widely known,” she rambled, trying to keep from gawking at his indecent, muscular composition. The music bag in her hand began to weigh her shoulder down. Not only had she lugged her miniature marble busts, she’d packed a silk piano scarf, metronome with fixed key, and Kinkel’s Piano Folios No. 1 and No. 2. “Amadeus lived only thirty-five years, but in his short lifetime he wrote over six hundred compositions—operas, symphonies, chamber music, a great deal of piano mus—”

  “Whatever.” Frank pushed away from the door frame. “Give me that bag. You look ready to pass out.”

  Amelia begged to differ with him but didn’t have a chance as he grabbed the handle from her hands. Black spots clouded her vision, and she had to sit down on the piano stool to catch her breath. “It seems I’ve developed a sudden headache.”

  Frank tossed her petit point bag aside and knelt down in front of her on one knee. She stared at him, embarrassed by the wave of dizziness incapacitating her.

  “It’s no wonder you have a headache, Miss Marshall. Seems like you overdress pretty often,” he said as he rubbed the stiff cotton of her jacket sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. Though he didn’t directly touch her skin, the friction he created by his fingertips set off warning bells in her head. “The other day on the train platform, you almost fainted, too.”

  “I assure you, I’m not going to faint.” But she wasn’t all that sure. Frank Brody was caressing her sleeve. Her insides burned; at the same time, a dull throb fixed on her temple.

  “Well, if you do, I’m going to unbutton your dress and loosen your corset so you can breathe.”

  She definitely would not faint!

  “I think you better sit here for a minute,” he suggested.

  Amelia nodded, but he didn’t move away from her. He had a truly handsome face, even though he needed to shave the dark shadows of a beard; she regarded his generous mouth and rugged but classic nose. The man had a monopoly on virility.

  She swept her gaze downward, unable to ignore the contours of his chest, nor the flat nipple peeking out from the edge of his vest.

  Managing to find her voice, she said, “I would appreciate it if you dressed, Mr. Brody, while you’re in my company.”

  “I did.” His bright blue eyes were direct. “I put my vest and pants on.”

  “You’re barefoot.”

  “That’s not all that was bare a minute ago. Damn, it’s hot enough in here to peel the hide off a Gila monster.”

  “I don’t believe in monsters, He-la or any other sort, Mr. Brody. Even Shelley doesn’t frighten me,” she countered, wishing she had her fan.

  His expression grew serious. “Is she real ugly?”

  She massaged her forehead, not in a frame of mind to explain Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein to him. “Never mind, Mr. Brody.”

  “Why aren’t the front doors wide open?” Frank rose and began to walk toward the entrance.

  Amelia stood—too quickly. The room spun. “I didn’t want anyone to see me.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  How could she explain that being in this room made her embarrassed? That she was loath for anyone to see her in the saloon and remember the incident with Jonas Pray. “You wouldn’t understand,” was all Amelia replied, bracing her hand on the edge of the piano.

  “You look like you’re going to keel over, sister. Let me make you a Baptist lemonade.” He headed for the bar. His back to her, she took the opportunity to wave her hand in front of her face.

  “Mr. Brody,” she tartly addressed, “you keep misinterpreting my religious affiliation. I’m neither a sister of the order nor a Baptist. If you must know, I’m a Methodist.”

  He went behind the long counter. “Sweetheart, a Baptist lemonade is nothing but pure lemonade. No liquor.” Walking to the center, he let out a painful yelp. “Dammit to hell!”

  Amelia’s ears burned. “Mr. Brody, may I remind you—”

  “What are all my forty-fours doing on the floor?”

  “Forty-fours?”

  “Yeah, the bullets for my Smith and Wesson American.”

  Bullets? Amelia forced an expression of innocence on her face. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Somebody dumped the carton over. It wasn’t Pap.” Frank crouched down and his voice grew muffled. “He would have cleaned them up. He’s always cleaning up after me.”

  Amelia feigned a great fascination with one of the hunting paintings on the wall. She tried to watch him without being obvious. She didn’t dare confess to being the culprit, afraid he’d change his mind about her giving lessons in his saloon.

  Frank surfaced with a handful of bullets; he dumped the silver cartridges into the empty box, then put them away. “Did you happen to knock the carton off the shelf when you took that lamp for the piano, Miss Marshall?”

  “Me?” she squeaked. “Heavens no. I . . . I . . . No.”

  “If you did, it wouldn’t matter.” He procured a cutting board, knife, and lemon. “But you should have left the doors open so you could see what you were doing.”

  She nodded but still didn’t admit her guilt.

  Frank’s movements were fluid and concise, as if he could operate his bar tools blindfolded. He sliced the lemon through the middle, then squeezed the juice from each half into a glass. Producing a block of ice, he began to chip pieces off with a pick. He glanced at her, and she changed the direction of her gaze, not wanting to be caught staring at him. Again.

  Looking directly ahead, she realized he’d left the door to his apartment wide open, and from where she sat, she could see the messed-up bedclothes of his iron bedstead, a pair of drawers on the floor, and discarded boots. She leaned a little to the left to get a better view, but the hip pocket on Frank’s white trousers and the outline of his hip blocked her view. Slowly tilting her head up, she forced herself to smile at his face while sitting straighter.

  “See anything unusual?” he inquired, stretching his hand out to offer her the drink.

  Amelia felt heat steal onto her cheeks. “N-No.”

  “Here’s your lemonade.”

  She eyed the glass; beads of moisture formed on the outside, hinting the drink inside was cold and quenching. “Thank you,” she murmured, taking it from him. Not fully trusting the ingredients t
o be wholesome, she sampled only a small sip. She couldn’t find any fault in the blend of sweet and sour. The drink was perfectly mixed.

  “It’s just lemons, sugar, and water,” he elaborated with irritation in his voice, apparently seeing she was skeptical over the contents. “If there was liquor in there, you’d have all the sensations of swallowing a lighted kerosene lamp.”

  “Why, then, would a man possibly want a drink?”

  “Having the fair assumption you’ve never been drunk, Miss Marshall, that’s something you wouldn’t understand. Sometimes there’s no better exhilaration for what ails you. Booze brings on a good-natured, easy friendliness if you don’t let it pickle you.”

  Frank padded silently to the doorway of his room. “I’m going to open the back door. Generally, no one ever walks by there.”

  She watched as he stepped over his wrinkled underwear and unlatched the door, which had a wire-cloth screen. Almost instantly, she felt relief from the stuffiness.

  On his way back, Frank kicked his drawers aside, then entered the saloon. Stepping close to the piano stool, he stared at her a long moment, as if he were contemplating asking her something personal. She waited, searching his thickly lashed eyes . . . waited as her heartbeat tapped out an uneven rhythm. Waited like a silly ingenue at her first dance. But she knew better. She would not be putty in his hand. She would not! He’d refused to let her have the piano. She didn’t like him. Not at all. He was the type of man who hired Silver Starlights so they could ride away with book and Bible salesmen. . . .

  He leaned forward, and to her dismay, she unwillingly swayed toward him. Frank’s lips moved, and he merely whispered, “Drink your lemonade, Miss Marshall, so I don’t have to dump you in the horse trough to revive you from a dead faint.”

  Amelia straightened. “Well I like that.”