“I will.”
“She shouldn’t dismiss portraiture,” Portia said. “Cheyenne is the state capital. It is overrun with self-important men who want to leave their mark on the world.”
“Portia, that is ungenerous,” Lily said.
“But the truth. What about you, Helen?” Portia said. “What do you do?”
“I’m a midwife.”
The women laughed softly. “Not much call for a midwife in Cheyenne,” Amalia said.
At my perplexed expression, Lily clarified. “Men outnumber women by—what was it at the last census, Amalia?”
“Six to one.”
“Better hope your sister is a good painter,” Amalia said, pragmatically.
“Portia might be a patient soon enough,” Lily said with a sweet smile.
Portia’s face flushed.
“What is going on here!”
Rosemond stood in the door of the room, anger morphing to confusion. Her chest heaved in false indignation beneath the tasteful neckline of my dress. “Hello, Sissy,” I said, brightly. “We’re playing bridge, of course.”
“Oh, is this your sister?” Lily asked.
“Yes. Come in, Eliza. Pull up a chair and watch,” I said.
Rosemond came in hesitantly, her plan to cement her reputation as an upstanding citizen to a room full of men thwarted. I made the introductions. “Eliza Ryan, this is Lily Diamond and Amalia Post. And of course you met Portia Bright today.”
“Yes.” Rosemond’s voice was strained. “Good to see you again. And nice to meet you,” she said, taking in the other two.
“Don’t hover, Sissy. Pull up a chair.” Rosemond glared at me but pulled a chair over and set it between me and Portia.
“Did you have a nice rest?” I asked, voice sweet.
“Yes, I did. Thank you for not waking me.”
“It’s the least I could do. How do you feel?” I looked into Rosemond’s eyes and was happy to see they were steadier than earlier in the day.
“Is that your handiwork, Helen?” Amalia said, nodding toward Rosemond’s temple.
“It is.”
Amalia scrutinized my stitches. “Fine job.”
“Thank you.”
“Helen tells us you’re a painter, Eliza,” Amalia said. The conversation went over the same ground I’d just trod, allowing me to sit back, watch, and listen. Lily and Amalia drove the conversation, with Rosemond answering questions as if she were on the witness stand. For the first time since I’d known her, Rosemond was stiff and ill at ease. Maybe respectability was going to be more difficult for her to pull off than I thought.
When they got back around to my inability to contribute to our livelihood, I said, “I merely came to help my sister settle in. I don’t plan to stay.” Rosemond lifted her chin and studied me. I realized my mistake and kicked myself.
“Too bad, Portia. I suppose Doc Hankins will have to do for you,” Amalia said.
“A doctor? Are you ill?” Rosemond asked, pulling her gaze from me to the minister’s wife.
Portia shook her head, but wouldn’t look up. “No.”
“For the baby,” Lily said.
“You’re pregnant?” Rosemond asked.
The woman blushed again and shook her head. “No.”
“But soon,” Lily said, patting Portia’s hand.
Rosemond relaxed, sensing weakness and eager to pounce. “How long have you been married, Portia? May I call you Portia?”
Portia met Rosemond’s gaze. “Of course. I’ve been married six months.”
“A newlywed,” Rosemond said. “And not pregnant yet.”
“God will bless us in due time.”
“Indeed.” Rosemond turned to me. “You look peaked. I’m happy to take your place if you’d like to go rest.”
“Oh, thank you, Sissy.” We rose together and I took Rosemond in my arms and whispered, “Don’t alienate these women. You’ll need friends when I’m gone.”
Rosemond placed a lingering kiss on my cheek and held me at arm’s length. “I’ll be quiet when I return so as to not wake you.” She stroked my cheek in a very unsisterly way.
“Thank you.” I pulled away. “And thank you, ladies, for being so welcoming. I hope to see you again before I leave.”
“We’re here every Tuesday night,” Lily said.
“Are you?” Rosemond said, sitting in my place. “How fun.”
I left the room and with a pang of trepidation. Rosemond was coming into her own, and I wondered which of the women she would insult first. Amalia and Lily seemed oblivious to sarcasm, but I suspect Portia saw straight through me and Rosemond. If Rosemond felt threatened, the minister’s wife didn’t stand much of a chance. I almost felt sorry for her.
CHAPTER
12
The Union Pacific Hotel lobby was quiet, and a different man was behind the front desk. Asking for help finding a female-friendly game would be pointless, I suspected. It couldn’t be that difficult to find a game in a town such as this. But I was a woman, alone, with nothing more than a stolen knife secreted in my boot to protect me. I couldn’t carouse around town searching for a tiger sign pasted to a window indicating a faro game. The tall grandfather clock chimed nine thirty. When it stopped, I heard the sound of faint laughter came from the back of the hotel.
Of course.
I walked down a hall past the dining room and found what I was looking for.
The long, rectangular room spanned the entire east wall of the hotel. A polished bar with a mirror hanging behind it sat at one end of the room. Thick drapes and heavy carpet muted the noise of the roulette table. Brass gas lamps on the wall and a large chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling lit the room with a warm yellow glow. Acrid-smelling cigar smoke hovered over ten playing tables being presided over by white-shirted dealers. I stepped through the door and was immediately stopped by the same burly man who’d delivered Rosemond’s trunk.
“No women allowed.”
I leaned to the left and pointed at a redheaded prostitute with a mole on her left cheek so prominent, I assumed it was fake. “There’s a woman right there.”
The man crossed his arms. “Ruby’s a sporting woman. Are you?”
I smiled. “Not the kind you mean, I fear. I’m here to play.”
A man materialized next to me. “She’s with me.” Salter. I recoiled instinctively, and my stomach lurched. Salter stared at the doorman and didn’t seem to notice my reaction.
The burly man licked his lips and wouldn’t meet Salter’s eyes. He stepped aside and said, “Good luck.”
Salter held out his arm to me. “Ready, dear?”
I took his arm and shuddered. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We walked across the room to the cashier. “What’s your game …?” He looked down at me expectantly. “I never caught your name.”
“Helen Graham.”
His gaze roved over my face, as if searching for familiarity, or a lie. He nodded. “Mrs. Graham, what is your game?”
“Faro.”
I exchanged my five dollars for a single chip. Salter watched with an amused expression but didn’t comment.
I sat down at a faro table and almost laughed when I saw the two men from the lobby sitting across from me. They nodded an acknowledgment at me, and I returned the greeting. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, reminding myself that I was the only one who could give my ruse away. When I opened my eyes, I saw the entire table watching me. I smiled and looked around for a waiter. I lifted my finger and said, “Whisky,” and turned back to the table. The men glanced at one another with raised eyebrows and amused expressions, with Mr. Neck Whiskers letting his gaze linger on my décolletage. I tried not to blanch; distraction was the reason I wore the dress, after all.
My drink arrived and play started. I focused on the game instead of the players, determined to build my stake to give myself some breathing room. It didn’t occur to me that the whisky was bottomless until I
swayed in my chair during a dealer shuffle.
There was no clock on the wall, and the curtains were drawn over the windows. Salter was filling my glass. I put my hand out. “No more, please.” The dealer put the deck in the shoe, killed the first card, and called for bets. I laid my chips out on the cards painted on the green baize and waited. Salter did the same, and alternated between drinking his whisky and smoking his thin cigar.
“I’ve never seen a woman so single-minded on gambling.”
“Have you not?” The dealer paid out on my seven and dealt the next two cards. I kept my eyes on the board but leaned closer to Salter and whispered, “This may surprise you, but men always think women are easy to cheat. I have to be vigilant.”
“Oh, I doubt anyone would put you down as an easy mark.”
I glanced sharply at Salter, who grinned at me as he drank. From the corner of my eye, I saw the dealer take my money from the seven. I swore under my breath, computed what cards had been shown, and put a copper down on a three.
I lost track of time but was aware enough of my surroundings to know that people were taking notice of me, and Salter had decamped to the arms of the redheaded whore. When my current game ended I tipped the dealer, took my winnings, and left the table. I counted my chips. Sixty dollars. A good showing considering I’d started with five, but nowhere close to two hundred. I needed a higher-stakes game.
Remembering Kindle’s advice on the Grand Republic, I secreted twenty dollars’ worth of chips in the hidden pockets Rosemond had sewn into her gown. I would at least leave this den with money for food, a room for another night or two, and Dunk’s burial.
Mr. Neck Whiskers materialized at the bar next to me. He motioned to the bartender, who poured a drink automatically. “Are you new in town?” the man asked.
“Passing through.”
“Going where?”
I smiled thinly. “Depends on how much money I win.”
The man’s watery blue eyes settled on my breasts. “There’s an easier, more pleasant way to earn money.”
“I can’t imagine anything more pleasant than gambling.”
“You seem like the kind of woman who can.”
If I were Rosemond, or Camille, my madam friend in New York City, I could charm and manipulate this man out of money without having to spread my legs. I would confess to manipulating my fair share of people in my life, but this type of game was beyond me, and I knew it. I’d delved into many facets of my personality in the past year, brought parts of me to the forefront to play different parts when necessary so that I wasn’t sure who or what I was. I might gamble with my life, but I couldn’t gamble with sex. A man laughed behind me, and my palms went slick with threat, memories I thought I’d banished creeping back into my mind.
I called for a whisky, hoping it would numb my mind and drown out the images trying to flicker back to life. Mr. Neck Whiskers watched me, waiting for an answer to a question I’d forgotten.
“Good luck with your game,” I said, grasping my whisky.
“There you are,” Salter said, putting his arm around my waist. Mr. Neck Whiskers took his drink and scurried off.
“Please take your hand off of my waist.”
Salter did so and motioned to the bartender. “Beer.”
“Why is everyone frightened of you, Mr. Salter?”
“Are they? I hadn’t noticed. Are you frightened of me, Mrs. Graham?”
“No.”
He grinned and sipped his beer.
A man lost everything and vacated a chair at the blackjack table.
“Excuse me,” I said, and moved away.
I sat down, hoped the chair wasn’t cursed, and anted up, relieved no one would dare talk to me during a game.
I was almost broken twice but managed to play my way back in as I became more familiar with my opponents’ tells. Between hands I would catch sight of Salter sitting across the room at a poker table, the prostitute draped over his shoulder like a poncho. It seemed no matter when I glanced in his direction, he was staring at me. The whore noticed, and her eyes shot daggers at me. My stomach growled loudly, as good a signal to end the night as any.
I cashed out and tried not to look too pleased at the one hundred seventy-one dollars the bank counted out.
“You lied to me, Mrs. Graham.”
I turned to find Salter standing behind me, a thin cigar in the corner of his mouth.
“What about?”
“Faro isn’t your game. Blackjack is.”
“I am surprised as you, I assure you.”
“Can I buy you dinner?”
Of course my stomach growled again, but I ignored it and hoped the noise in the room covered my body’s betrayal. I couldn’t imagine any situation where I would agree to dine with this man.
“Thank you, but my sister is expecting me. Good night.”
I turned, but Salter grasped my hand and threaded it through his crooked arm. “I’ll see you to your room.”
“Thank you, but I know the way.”
His grasp on my hand tightened. “I turned Ruby’s proposition down because I knew I had a commitment from you.”
“You really shouldn’t have. I gave you no commitment.”
“You took my help to enter the room easy enough. Who did you think paid for your drinks all night? What, did you think it was free?”
Salter put his arm around my waist and pinned me close to him. Panic flooded my chest and paralyzed me. My body trembled. Salter steered me across the lobby toward the stairs. The knife in my boot was out of reach. I feared that causing a scene would only bring attention and not the aid I required. There were few men in the lobby this late at night, and they all glanced at us and looked away, giving the discretion to Salter they would expect if escorting a whore to their room.
With a shaky voice I said, “I am not a whore, Mr. Salter.”
Salter assessed me and lingered for an uncomfortably long time on my décolletage. I determined not to quell under his gaze and hoped the flush from earlier wouldn’t show my confidence as a lie.
“Your sister is.”
“My sister is an artist.”
Salter laughed. “No, she ain’t. This dress hers? What are you playing at, Mrs. Graham?”
Salter stopped us at the bottom of the stairs and released me. His dark eyes were knowing, as if puzzling out liars were second nature. He suspected I wasn’t who I said I was, but did he suspect I was Catherine Bennett?
“Nothing, I assure you. I’m here to help my sister get established, and I will return east.”
Salter chewed his cigar and nodded slowly. He removed the cigar and released a cloud of smoke in my face. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “You’re hiding something.”
I leaned away but met his eyes. I gave him a brittle smile. “Isn’t everyone?”
He was studying my features again when I heard a train whistle sound. If I hadn’t already planned to sneak away, I would have to now. If Salter suspected who I was, it would be best for me, and Rosemond, to leave immediately. My plan hadn’t changed; I only needed to get rid of Salter to execute it.
“Thank you, Mr. Salter, for your assistance. Good night.” I lifted my skirt and walked up the stairs. I rounded the corner out of sight from the lobby and went into the bathroom and locked the door. Though my breaths came in shallow bursts, I couldn’t breathe. I clutched at the bodice of my dress, but it buttoned up the back. Panic flooded me. I cupped my hands over my mouth and nose and thought only of breathing in and out. Eventually, my breathing slowed, and my lungs stopped burning. I grasped the edge of the vanity and forced my mind to settle. I heard another train whistle and knew my time was running short. I hurried back downstairs and went to the desk and rang the bell.
A different clerk came from the back room. “May I help you?”
“Yes, could I buy an envelope and paper from you?”
“Are you a guest at the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“No need to purchas
e.” I took the paper and pencil he gave me and walked to a secluded alcove to scribble a note to Rosemond. I enclosed the money and note in the paper, wrote Eliza Ryan on it, and asked the clerk to see that she received it. “You’re holding a bag for me.”
“Do you have your ticket?”
“Yes.” I pulled the ticket from my pocket when I heard Rosemond call to me. I turned and hid the ticket behind my back.
Rosemond stood at the top of the stairs. “Helen.” Her voice was tender.
“Ros—Eliza, what are you doing awake?” I asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”
She came down the stairs. “It’s morning. I waited up for you.” Her gaze fell to the paper she held in her hands. She looked up at me, her face full of compassion. “I left the bridge game and went to the telegraph office last night.” She held the open telegram out to me.
Now that the moment was here, I didn’t want to know. I wanted to live in ignorance a while longer, the place where Kindle was alive and well, was on his way to find me, the place where we lived a long and happy life together. The paper trembled in Rosemond’s hand, but I couldn’t reach out for it. Tears pooled in her eyes and she said, almost inaudibly, “My condolences.”
My body went numb. I took the telegram and walked away. When I was far enough away, I unfolded the paper.
Capt. WK convicted of desertion and disobeying a direct order. Stop. Executed by firing squad …
The words swam off the paper. Far away, I heard a woman scream.
PART TWO
CALICO ROW
CHAPTER
13
Dear Cousin,
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve forgiven me for not making our ship in New Orleans. We were betrayed on the Mississippi. Kindle was taken into custody by the Army and I was whisked off to safety in Cheyenne, Wyoming, by a whore who said she was working on Kindle’s orders. I suspect she was lying to gain my trust, or my acquiescence.
Word to the wise, Charlotte: don’t trust whores.
It doesn’t matter what I do, a swath of death and destruction follows me. By my count, eighteen deaths have resulted from my choosing Texas over staying and facing my accusers.
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