Through the chalky haze, diminutive coughs from the occupants inside could be heard but not seen since the leather curtains were drawn. The crowd on the street stared with mouths agape, waiting to see who the nitwits were.
A foot wearing a ladies’ patent-leather shoe fastened at the side with innumerable lentil-sized buttons toed the folding step down. The owner had a shapely calf encased in all silk black hose. If there was a skirt to go with the leg, it had to be hiked up to her thigh. A slim hand whose wrist was encircled with a diamond bracelet materialized to grab hold of the door’s edge. The demi-plumes of a decadent ostrich-tipped hat peeked through the opening, then the woman appeared. She stood, semi-stooped over in the squat aperture, but her dress didn’t fall to her ankles. It stopped scandalously above her knees. She jumped down with a shake of her head.
“Honest to goodness! I’ve been pitched around in there like a loose mailbag.” She two-fisted the low ruffled décolletage on her dark cardinal satin bodice and gave it a firm yank toward her chin. “My stamps are falling down.”
“Hells bells, wasn’t this one ass-bouncing ride?” stated a second female passenger, who was obscured in the dim interior. “It reminded me of—”
“Oh, you be quiet, Arnette,” silenced a third lady. “I’m not in the mood for your idiotic man talk.”
“I can always appreciate a story about fatuous men,” piped in a fourth.
“Patricia, quit using big words nobody can understand without an encyclopedia and two dictionaries. Move out of the way, Jill. I’ve got to get out of this oven before I fall over in a dead faint.”
After an exasperated sigh, Jill turned and offered her hand as assistance, since neither Casper nor any of the men milling around came to their aid. “Come on, Sue. You’ll be okay once you get something cold to drink.”
After they’d all disembarked, the four women stood arm in arm examining the town’s occupants as if they were the ones out of place instead of themselves. Each wore the same shocking style of costume, though they varied greatly in looks and mannerisms. Jill was the tallest and dressed the flashiest with her diamond jewelry. Arnette held a hand-rolled smoke clamped between her fingers while the palm of her other hand rested on her cocked hip. Patricia was the friendliest looking, but her smile was a tad too done up with lip rouge. Sue’s complexion was flushed, and although the pencil on her brows was too heavy and running at the corners, she had nice brown eyes.
Jill seemed to be in charge of the motley group. “Howdy, folks.” Her lips thinned when no one said a word of greeting back. “I guess you’re all waiting for us to introduce ourselves. Well, fine. My name is Diamond Jill. That’s Four-Ace Arnette, Society Patricia, and Sweet Sue. We’re looking for Frank Brody.”
Devastation swept anew over Amelia. Her mouth opened in dismay, but a suffocating sensation closed her throat.
A contingent of the male onlookers pointed at once. “That’s Frank.”
Frank’s bruised face was set in stone, his mouth tight and grim.
Diamond Jill winked at him. “Well, here we are, sugar.” She dug into the velvet reticule hanging off her elbow, took out a torn piece of newspaper and read, “Wanted: Waiter girls for the Moon Rock Saloon in Weeping Angel, Idaho. High wages, easy work, pay in cash promptly every week. Must appear in short clothes or no engagement.” Looking up, she tucked the advertisement back into her drawstring purse. “Well, honey, when do we start?”
* * *
Amelia ran, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She wished she could undo everything. The Fourth of July picnic. Her marriage. Last night.
It had all been a mistake.
No wonder he hadn’t said he loved her. He didn’t. He never had. He’d gone and hired hussies. Hussies! Girls that wore face paint and swore and smoked. Girls that he intended to have work in his saloon. Girls like Silver Starlight.
He must have been planning their arrival all along, knowing as soon as they came, she wouldn’t be able to give another lesson out of the Moon Rock. He’d finally have the piano to himself. No mother would ever allow their child to take instruction inside an establishment where dances—and Lord knew what else—were sold.
If Frank had intended to ruin her business, why then had he married her? She didn’t understand. The only thing clear to her now was that the noise in the bushes hadn’t just been a dog. General Custer hadn’t been alone. How could she ever face a single one of those boys again, knowing they’d seen her with her bodice undone? How could she face anybody in Weeping Angel, knowing they were talking about her in their parlors? She’d been scandalized. Severely. For a second time.
The betrayal was happening all over. Her life was entangled in false hopes and lies. And if that weren’t enough, it was as if Silver Starlight had come back. How could Frank do this to her? He knew what happened with Jonas Pray. Hiring four dancing girls was like rubbing salt into her wound. The stinging pain had the power to shed the love she felt for Frank. She could only endure so much hurt before turning numb.
Amelia fumbled to lift the latch on her gate, her fingers trembling.
“Amelia!”
Slipping through the opening, she dashed for the front door, her hand touching the knob and twisting when Frank caught her by her shoulders.
“Amelia. Wait.”
The basket and music bag fell from her grasp. She turned and attempted to bat his hands off her. “Don’t touch me!”
“You have to listen to me.” His fingers pressed into flesh, unrelenting. “What you heard wasn’t what you think. There’s more to it.”
“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. You lied to me! You made me think you . . .” She couldn’t finish, loath to say the endearing words aloud. “I can’t believe you’d let anyone force you into marrying me.”
“I wouldn’t have done it if I—”
“If you what?” she cut in, not giving him the opportunity to answer. “Don’t you see? It’s much worse now. Marrying me was like admitting we were guilty of something. I can’t understand why you—you—who have always done as you please without a fig for what anyone thinks, would marry me just to save my reputation. It doesn’t make sense.”
Frank leaned her into the door and tilted her head up so she had to look into his eyes. “I married you because I didn’t want you to have to go through what you went through with Jonas Pray. I didn’t want you hiding in shame for something you didn’t have to. I know we didn’t do anything the day of the picnic, but I’ll admit, I wanted to.”
She licked the tears from her lips.
“I never made any false promises to you like Pray. But I wronged you just the same. I wanted you to be able to hold your head high and look them all in the eye, knowing you were my wife. That I cared enough to take you into the church.” His fingers loosened their hold, but he didn’t release her. “You may not think that’s a lot, but a church isn’t a place where I feel peace.”
Her voice was as fragile as tissue paper. “Then you didn’t mean the vows you took?”
“Hell, yes, I meant them. I wouldn’t have repeated what the Rev said if I hadn’t.”
She felt bereft and desolate. Everything was hitting her at once. A cocoon of anguish wrapped around her. “When were you going to tell me about those girls?”
“I wasn’t.”
Her voice broke miserably. “It’s not as if I wouldn’t have noticed them.”
“I meant, I just hadn’t thought about it enough to tell you. I hadn’t planned on getting married yesterday.” He put his hand above her head, his hip close to hers. “When I put that ad in the paper, you weren’t my wife. Things have changed. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you, Amelia.”
“You can send them away.”
“No.” The word was flat and unyielding. “I got them out here on the promise I’d give them work at the saloon. I’m not going to let them go.”
Her breath came raggedly; her misery peaked, threatening to devour the last shreds of her self-estee
m. “Then I don’t think you should live here anymore.”
His eyes narrowed and hardened. “I do live here, Amelia. I will come back. You’re my wife. The Rev said for better, for worse.” He pushed away from the door frame. “And hell, it can’t get any worse than this.”
Chapter
21
But it could.
The scuttlebutt was, on good authority from Mrs. Dorothea Beamguard, that the newlyweds wore out their marriage bed the very first night.
“Disgraceful,” was the sentiment echoed in the female huddle at the section of the mercantile where Oscar kept the leghorn poultry feed. “Shameful.”
“If I hadn’t been standing in the storeroom behind the drawn curtains,” Dorothea stated, “I would have missed hearing the entire transaction.” She pursed her lips. “Mr. Brody said to my husband, he wanted the biggest, and sturdiest, bed we could order. And to have it delivered to his new residence on Inspiration Lane.”
Tsks of censure erupted.
“Gracious, the very idea of such a passionate wedding night,” Dorothea said, “made me swallow a bonbon whole.”
Esther Parks piped in, “What kind?”
“Yum Yum royal cream.”
“I thought you promised Mr. Beamguard you were going to refrain from sweets until you trimmed your waistline down,” Viola Reed noted.
Dorothea waved off Viola’s concern. “Bother any promises I make to Oscar. Why do you think I was hiding in the storeroom?”
Louella Spivey removed a speck of gray lint from her gloves. “I still can’t believe Amelia married Frank Brody. I thought Narcissa had been fibbing to us yesterday.”
“I still can’t believe I didn’t see a thing,” Dorothea said. “Why, I’m always looking out from the porch to see what’s going on. The church is in a blind spot, otherwise I would have been able to spy them coming out. Instead, I had to get secondhand information.”
“I wonder why Amelia married him,” Esther mused, adjusting her puff-bang wig. “You don’t suppose they . . . that she’s . . .”
“Esther!” Altana Applegate spoke up for the first time. “How could you even suggest such a thing? She obviously loves him.”
“Loves him,” the four peeped, as if that weren’t possible.
Altana said, “Well, I for one feel responsible for Amelia getting married in such a hurry. If we hadn’t jumped to conclusions, she might not have. Maybe there was an explanation for what our boys saw.”
“Really, Altana,” Dorothea chastised. “You’re too kind.”
“Well I’m not.” Viola Reed squared her shoulders in military precision. “We must do something about those floozies he hired.”
A round of agreement nods circulated through the clutch.
Louella asked, “What can we do?”
Dorothea spouted, “I think it’s time the thunderbolts of heaven shiver the Moon Rock Saloon and its contents. We’ve been far too lenient.”
“Yes.” Esther nodded. “Lips that touch liquor shall not touch mine. Is that what you mean, dear?”
“Precisely.” Dorothea put her hands on her full hips. “It’s long past due Weeping Angel formed an anti-saloon league. Temperance, ladies. Complete extermination. The Moon Rock Saloon must be shut down.”
* * *
Frank slept in the saloon the day he and Amelia argued, his old bed feeling cold and empty. When he woke up this morning, he was in a foul mood, made even worse when he faced the mess in the joint. Without Pap around, the place hadn’t been cleaned up the night before. Butts of crushed smokes littered the floor, mixing with the sawdust that hadn’t been swept out. The spittoons were unemptied. The chairs weren’t on the tables. Water rings marred the walnut bar top.
Wearing only his underdrawers, Frank walked stiffly through the debris. He headed for the counter to brew some coffee strong enough to grow fur on the pot. He bent to open the icebox. There wasn’t anything inside besides beer, so he closed the door. He wasn’t hungry anyway; his stomach was recuperating from Pap’s fist and One-Eye Otis’s poor victuals. He’d taken the girls over to the Chuckwagon for supper last night after he’d made sure they got settled into the Oak Tree hotel. Eugene Thistlerod had been reluctant to allow the ladies to stay in his establishment, but Frank had convinced him otherwise by paying the first month’s bill up front.
As Frank set the enamel pot on the burner, he put the flat of his hand on his belly. He felt sick. And it wasn’t just from the food and Pap’s pummeling. He felt sick in the heart.
He turned and put his arms on the bar, resting his head on the tops of his hands. “Amelia . . .”
He missed her.
He missed waking up in her bed . . . her hair draped over his chest. He missed her smile . . . her laugh. He already missed her coming into the saloon.
He could understand why she was upset. He’d wanted to tell her about the boys but hadn’t been able to before she’d overheard him arguing with Pap. And right after that, the girls had arrived. If he’d known he was going to be married to Amelia, he never would have sent for the dancers. Now it was too late. In Amelia’s mind, he’d betrayed her like Jonas Pray. Except Frank had no intentions of running off. If only he could convince Amelia. But she didn’t want to talk to him. He should have explained things to her on their wedding night, but he hadn’t wanted to spoil anything. His silence was costing him big now.
Lifting his head, he gazed at the New American upright. He was out a wife, and he was out a friend. And he’d lost them both in one day.
None of the new girls could play, so there was a big problem with dancing when there wasn’t any music to step lively to. However, they had enticed enough curiosity seekers with their presence to make the Moon Rock do a prosperous business for a Tuesday evening. But what would happen when their newness wore off and Lloyd’s organ lured customers over? He hated to think a stack of pipes that needed a tonic dropped down them could sway customers from socializing with four hurdy-gurdy girls. He didn’t like the idea of leaving the dancers high and dry.
Frank straightened, rubbing his throbbing jaw. He had to think clearly, but his mind wasn’t working. He had a headache so big, it wouldn’t fit in a corral. Pap had knocked him ass over teakettle. “Dammit,” he mumbled, “I should have hit him at least once.”
He ran his fingers through his hair while he turned to grab a clean cup. Frank walked to a chair and sat down with his hot cup. He took a sip, the thick coffee potent enough to inoculate an ox. While he nursed the brew he thought. He could go to Amelia and try reasoning with her again. She’d had a night to think about everything. Maybe she’d be more forgiving. Maybe she wouldn’t be. In any case, he could try.
“Frank?” Cobb peeked his face through the doors.
Frank dropped his chin to his chest. He wasn’t in the mood for one of Cobb’s beaver stories. Lifting his head, Frank said, “Yeah, Cobb. What is it?”
Cobb took Frank’s greeting as a sign he could enter the saloon. He strode in on quiet moccasins, the fringe on his pants slapping against his outer thighs. His wild hair fell around his face, looking more bedraggled than ever. He plopped into a chair opposite Frank, his eyes wistful. “I’ve got a problem, Frank.”
“Isn’t it a little too early in the morning to be finagling free beers off me, Cobb?”
“It ain’t that.” Cobb combed his unruly beard with his fingers. “I did jist like you told me about the shirt.”
“Shirt?”
“You know, the shirt you give me the dollar and twenty-five cents to buy.”
“Yeah.” Though at the moment, he was sketchy as to why he’d told Cobb to buy a shirt.
“I dirtied it up real good and brought it to Miz Shelby. She looked surprised as a dawg encountering its first porcupine when she see’d me in her laundry store. She wasn’t one for talking much, so I saved her the trouble. Told her all about that beaver den I found up near Yeller Creek. She don’t like beavers much,” Cobb said with melancholy. “Anyway, she took the shirt to was
h. When I got it after, it smelled purdy, jist like Miz Shelby herself. I kind of like the smell of soap, and—”
“Is there a point to this, Cobb?” Frank pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Yes, sir. Remember that dollar and ninety-five cents you let me borrow last night?”
Looking over the tops of his knuckles, Frank frowned. “I told you I didn’t want to know what you needed that money for.”
Cobb disregarded Frank’s admonition. “I bought a thirty-pound pail of mixed candy from the mere.”
Frank brought his hand down. “Thirty pounds?”
“Yes, sir. I gave the candy to Miz Shelby this morning.” Cobb’s expression grew forlorn. “She said she didn’t have a sweet tooth. She weren’t looking herself. Said she didn’t sleep well last night, and for me not to bother her in her store no more.”
Frank guessed Emmaline Shelby must have heard the news about him and Amelia getting married.
“I was wondering what you think I ought to do now, Frank?” Cobb asked. “I don’t know what move to make. You see, the thing of it is, I ’spect I’m in love with Miz Shelby.”
An edge of cynicism spilled into Frank’s voice when he said, “Well, Cobb, I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person. You should be talking to someone who understands love. I sure as hell don’t.”
* * *
“Miz Brody—”
“Please, Mr. Weatherwax,” Amelia broke in while standing on the threshold of her front door, “it isn’t necessary to address me so formally.”
His hat scrunched in his hands, Cobb replied, “But I can’t call you Miz Marshall no more ’cause you ain’t Miz Marshall. You’re Miz Brody now.”
“Just call me Amelia then.”
His gaze grew contemplative. “Only if you call me Cobb.”
“Very well.”
Weeping Angel Page 33