In the morning she shopped and found a harmonica for Willy and a carved ivory brooch for Violet. She passed a tobacconist’s shop and paused.
No, Agatha, it won’t do. You’re a single woman and he’s a single man. It simply wouldn’t be proper.
Resolutely, she moved on, but a short distance beyond the shop she stopped and retraced her steps. She stood before the window, admiring cherrywood pipes, tulipwood humidors, and boxed cigars. She looked up and saw her reflection in the pane, lit by the early morning sun of the warm autumn day. She imagined Scott Gandy beside her, the two of them out for a stroll to the market, he in his flat-crowned Stetson and crisp fawn suit, she with her pert dress and gable bonnet, her hand caught in the crook of his elbow.
A horse and dray passed on the cobbles behind her. The clatter awoke her from her musing and she entered the shop.
Inside, it was dusky and aromatic, the smells heady, rich, and masculine. So different from the smell of dyes and starches and machine oil.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the owner greeted her.
“Good morning.”
“Something for your man today?” His handlebar moustache and rosy cheeks lifted as he smiled.
Your man. The thought was unduly provocative. Scott Gandy was not her man, nor would he ever be. But, for the moment, it was fun pretending. She knew nothing about brands, however, and realized she’d give herself away by questioning: What wife wouldn’t know her husband’s favorite brand?
“Yes. A pair of trimming scissors, perhaps.”
“Ah, I have just the thing.”
She left the store with a tiny gold blunt-nosed pair of scissors in a flat leather slipcase, wondering if when she reached home she’d have the nerve to give it to him after all.
How forward of you, Agatha. How unseemly.
But he has given me a Singer sewing machine. What is a tiny pair of scissors, compared to that?
You’re rationalizing, Agatha.
Oh, go lick! I’ve been a prude all of my life, and what has it gotten me? For once I’m going to follow my heart.
Her heart led her home, hammering with expectation as the train pulled into the Proffitt depot late that day. Her heart told her she must not search the crowd for Gandy, must not expect him to be there. But she adjusted her hat and checked her hair and hoped her skirt wasn’t too wrinkled and searched the depot for him in spite of herself.
He wasn’t there. But Willy was—still in his stiff blue britches, standing on a bench of the depot veranda, exuberantly waving and jumping.
She stepped from the train and he came hurtling against her. “Gussie, guess what!”
“What?”
“I gots a cat!”
“A cat!” Her smile was radiant, though it took some effort not to search the platform in the hope that Scott might step out of the building belatedly. She told herself it was absolutely ridiculous to be disappointed at his absence.
Willy jabbered a mile a minute. “Vy-let, she said Miss Gill had a litter of ‘em down at the boardin’ house, and if she didn’t git rid of ‘em soon they was gonna have t’ drown ‘em, so I went over there and there was this one, he was purple and white—”
Agatha laughed. “Purple and wh—”
“And he was my fav-rite and I ast her if I could have it and she says yes, so I brung it to Scotty’s and Scotty says I could keep it long as it slep’ in my room nights so’s it wouldn’t get underfoot in the saloon, and during the day Moose can do mousin’ in the storeroom.”
“M... Moose?” Agatha chuckled.
“That’s what I named him, cuz he’s bigger’n all the others.”
“And Moose is purple?” Agatha wondered how she’d ever made it through a day without Willy to brighten it. He scratched his head now from excitement, not even realizing what he was doing, till his hair stuck up like hard-crack taffy.
“Well, sorta—Scotty says he’s gray, but he looks purple t’ me, with white specks where his whiskers come out, and he slep’ with me last night and I din’t roll over and squash ‘im or nothin’! Wait’ll you see ‘im, Gussie! He’s the most beautiful cat you ever seen!”
“Saw.”
“Yeah, well, come on. Hurry up! He’s at the saloon and Jack’s takin’ care of ‘im for me, but I hafta get back and watch ‘im.”
She had little choice but to “hurry up.” Willy picked up her carpetbag and ran.
“Willy, wait! I can carry that.”
“Nuh-uh! Scotty says I’m supposed t’ carry it for you.”
Oh, he does, does he? she thought as she hurried after him, chuckling.
What a sight Willy made. The bag was bigger than he. He clutched the handle with both hands, his scrawny shoulders arched high as he struggled along cheerfully. Once it reared back and caught him in the knees and he stumbled, falling over it. But he didn’t stop jabbering. Just popped up again and ran on while Agatha limped along trying to keep up with him, falling more in love by the second.
He led her straight through the swinging doors at the Gilded Cage. It was mid-afternoon, early enough that there were only a few customers. They were all gathered around the bar—Mooney Straub, Virgil Murray, Doc Adkins, Marcus, Jube, Jack, and Scott—laughing and talking and leaning on their elbows with entranced expressions on their faces. Between them, across the top of the bar, paraded an adorable eight-week-old kitten. It stepped in a puddle, shook its paw, then crossed to Mooney’s beer mug, nosed the foam, shook its head, and sneezed.
“Gussie’s back! I brung her t’ see Moose!”
Every head turned toward the door.
“Moose is up here, entertaining us,” Jube told him.
Willy dropped the carpetbag and snatched Agatha’s hand. “C’mon, Gussie!”
Her eyes locked on Scott’s as Willy tugged her across the floor. He stood behind the bar with Jack, dressed in a black suit and amber waistcoat, looking excessively handsome, as usual. Behind him Dierdre displayed herself in her Garden of Delights, but Agatha scarcely noticed. She saw only Scott. It seemed as if she’d been away from him for a week. The fleeting expression on his face told her he, too, was glad she was back.
Then Marcus caught Willy beneath the arms and sat him on the edge of the bar.
“See him, Gussie?” Willy’s eyes gleamed with pride. “Ain’t he cute?”
She turned her attention to the gray-and-white fuzzball. “He’s adorable.”
Jube shifted over to make room for Agatha, and she found herself, for the first time in her life, elbowing up to a bar. They all watched Moose sniff the beer in Doc’s mug and take a delicate lap. Everyone laughed, but Doc pulled the mug back. “Oh no, you don’t. Enough of that stuff’ll kill a little thing like you.”
Marcus extracted a coin from his pocket and spun it on the bar. Immediately, Moose poised himself, his eyes intent on the spinning gold piece. It lost momentum and rolled across the kitten’s toes. He skittered backward, arched his back, and hissed comically. Everyone laughed. Then Willy took several turns spinning the coin and finally the kitten advanced cautiously and batted it over with its paw. Marcus rested a hand on Jube’s shoulder and watched from behind her. Willy got right up on the bar and sat cross-legged. Jack drew himself a beer and took idle sips while the cat entertained them all.
Agatha looked up and found Scott watching her. All the others’ attention remained focused on the cat. The coin whirred as it spun. They all laughed again, but neither Scott nor Agatha heard. Nor did they smile. His gaze was steady, his eyes as dark as the level brim of his hat.
Her entire body seemed to pulse.
God help me, I love him.
As if he’d read her mind, his gaze dropped to her mouth. She grew warm with physical awareness such as she’d never experienced. When his eyes reclaimed hers, she felt a blush forming and turned to Willy, tapping him on the knee.
“I have to go relieve Violet Come over later. I have something for you.”
He forgot the cat and snapped a bright-eyed look at her.
“For me?”
“Yes, but it’s packed in my carpetbag. Come over later after I’ve unpacked.”
As she withdrew from the bar, he called, “How long will it take you?”
She smiled indulgently. “Give me a half hour.”
“But I can’t tell time!”
Scott chuckled and dropped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you when a half hour is up, sprout.”
As Agatha picked up her carpetbag and left, she realized she and Scott had not spoken a word to each other. Not verbally, anyway. But something had passed between them that seemed more powerful than audible phrases. He had missed her—she was sure of it. He had feelings for her—his eyes seemed to say so. Yet how could that be? It seemed too incredible to believe. But if it were true, might that not be the very reason he had refrained from meeting her at the depot? If he was as confused about those feelings as she, it would be natural for Scott to exercise extreme caution in exploring them.
Violet was thrilled with her ivory brooch and immediately fastened it at her throat. As Agatha had known he would, Willy came long before thirty minutes were up. He gave one blow on his harmonica and Moose arched. Violet, who claimed to be Moose’s “godmother,” took him in hand and stroked him while Willy tooted some more.
“I thought Marcus could teach you how to play it properly. He’s very musical. I’m sure he can play more than just the banjo.”
“Gee, thanks, Gussie!” It took very little to light Willy’s eyes with wonder and bring on a hug and kiss.
“I gotta go show Marcus!” He grabbed Moose and headed for the door.
Agatha made a snap decision. “Wait!”
Impatiently, he turned back. Violet looked on, but didn’t that make it seem less... less personal? And somehow, after the graphic looks Agatha had exchanged with Gandy, she’d lost her nerve to give him the gift herself.
“I’ve bought something for Scott, too. Would you take it to him?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Nothing much. Just a pair of cigar snips.”
She handed the packet to Willy and he hit for the door. “I won’t tell ‘im what’s inside till he opens ‘em.”
She smiled and watched him disappear, the cat climbing on his shoulder. If she’d expected Violet to take her to task for giving Scott a gift, she was wrong. Violet was too smitten with the man to claim good reason where he was concerned.
Agatha thought back to the time when Violet’s titters over Scott Gandy used to irritate her. How featherbrained she’d thought her. Now she herself felt quite the same each time she was in the same room with him. She imagined that if people knew, they’d think she, too, was featherbrained. And probably she was. Probably she only imagined those pulse-raising looks of probing intensity. And even if they were real, how could she possibly guess what thoughts moved inside his head?
Her introspection was interrupted when Joseph Zeller entered the shop through the front door.
“Miss Downing, Miss Parsons, how’re you?”
They exchanged civilities and eventually Zeller got around to the reason for his visit.
“Miss Downing, I understand you’ve been to Topeka to meet the governor.”
Oh, no, Agatha thought. But while she struggled for an insipid answer, Violet bubbled proudly. “She most certainly was. She received an engraved invitation to tea in the governor’s rose garden, didn’t you, Agatha?”
Impressed, Zeller smiled. “It’s not every day a citizen of Proffitt rubs elbows with the governor, now, is it?”
He stayed for nearly thirty minutes, asking her question after question, and there was little Agatha could do except answer. But the feeling of betrayal intensified with each response she gave. He extracted from her every innovative move under way to enhance the public’s awareness of the dangers of alcohol.
The article ran, front page, in the Gazette, and it brought about a flurry of propaganda from unexpected sources, all strongly favoring constitutional reform.
The Gazette itself ran an editorial recapping how temperance was emerging as the first issue to unite women all over the country. From the pulpit of Christ Presbyterian, Reverend Clarksdale encouraged his fold to vote for prohibition, reasoning that the dangers of cholera, which had first prompted people to mix ale with their water—thus beginning the alcoholic craze—no longer existed; thus, the need for the “purifying agent” was past. Teachers began lecturing in their classrooms on the danger of drinking intoxicants, and children, in turn, repeated the warnings at home, many of them badgering their fathers not only to stop drinking liquor, but to vote in November for ratification of the constitutional amendment banning it. The superintendent of schools announced an essay contest on the same subject, the winner in each school to receive a bronze medal and have his name engraved in a commemorative plaque to be sent to Lemonade Lucy herself. The Proffitt Literary Society announced a series of open debates at their weekly meetings, inviting members of both factions to participate.
Amid all this furor, Agatha and Scott avoided each other. Since her return from Topeka, she’d seen him only in passing, or through the hole in the wall late at night. It was from this vantage point that she first saw him use the gold cigar snips, though he sent no word of thanks, nor even acknowledged that he’d received them.
Agatha was chagrined. How humiliating to have given a man a gift for the first time in her life and not receive so much as a thank-you for it. Willy became their only link. As the boy bounced back and forth between them, he brought his usual enthusiastic reports on the everyday occurrences in the two halves of the Gandy building.
“Scotty says...”
“Gussie says...”
“Me and Scotty went...”
“On the way to church yesterday, Gussie an’ me...”
“I lost Moose, so Marcus an’ Scotty had t’ move the piano...”
“Gussie an’ Violet got this order for...”
“Pearl says if the probe-isshun law passes, she’s goin’ back t’...”
“Violet says Gussie’s sulled up...”
“Scotty an’ Jube had a fight...”
“Gussie’s makin’ me some warmer shirts for...”
“Scotty an’ Jube made up again...”
* * *
It was October. Less than a month to go before Election Day. The weather had cooled. The flies rarely bothered anyone at night, the cattle drives had dwindled to a near halt, the saloon closed earlier, but still Agatha slept poorly. She didn’t have nightmares, exactly. But it seemed as if the Proffitt Literary Society debates were happening inside her head while she slept.
In her dreams she listened to one in which Mustard Smith argued vociferously with Evelyn Sowers, and when he realized he was losing, he gave way to hard agitated breathing, staring at Evelyn like an enraged bull getting ready to charge. The air seemed to hiss between his teeth: in... out... in... out...
Agatha came awake in a single second.
The breathing was real. Coming from right beside her bed. Heavy, hissing, asthmatic. Fear shot through her. Her palms turned to sweat. Her muscles tightened. She lay corpse-still, staring, wondering who it was behind her shoulder. Oh, God, what should I do? Where is the closest heavy object? Can I reach it faster than he can reach me? What should I do first, scream or jump?
She did both at once, closing her fingers around a pillow and swinging backward as hard as she could. It never even touched him. He ripped it from her hand and pounced. Her scream was severed as his palm clapped over her mouth. His opposite arm caught her across her breast and ribs and hauled her backward till she was half off the bed.
“I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen,” he hissed in her ear. “You’re gonna listen now, lady. I got somethin’ here gonna make you listen real good.”
The pressure moved up to both breasts. Something pricked her beneath the left jaw.
“I can’t see too good in the dark. Is it cuttin’ you yet?”
It was. She felt the tip of the knif
e enter her flesh and screamed behind his hand, clawing at his knife arm.
“Be careful, lady.”
She stopped clawing. If she pulled on him and he flexed against her grip, the knife could go in clear up to her eye.
She heard her own voice whimpering. “Hmp-hmp-hmp,” with each panicked breath. Scott, help me! Sheriff Cowdry... Violet... somebody! Pleeeeeease!
“You’re the one who started all this prohibition bullshit around here. Organizin’ and preachin’ and prayin’ on the saloon steps. Then goin’ to whine to the governor until you got this goddamned state in an uproar. Well, there’s eleven of us in this town don’t like it. Understand?”
His grip tightened. Her teeth sliced her lip and she tasted blood.
She tried to beg, but the sound came out in muffled grunts against his sweating, salty hand.
“Now, you’re gonna back off, sister, you understand? Tell them women to quit their goddamned debates. Tell that mealy-mouthed preacher to shut his yap. And break up that temperance society! You understand?”
She nodded in a crazed, frantic fashion and felt something warm trickle down her neck. The sharp pain from the knife tip made it feel as if the blade had actually pierced her eyeball. She screamed again. He squeezed her face until she feared her jaw had broken. Each heartbeat felt as if it would explode her veins.
The whimpering hastened as she went past panic to mindlessness. “Hmp... hmp... hmp!”
The smell of cigar smoke and sweat entered her dilated nostrils.
“You think I’m afraid to kill you, think again.” Her eyes felt as if they’d pop from their sockets. “One dead organizer could do wonders as far as puttin’ the dampers on all them self-righteous reformers out there. But I’ll give you one last chance, ‘cause I got a big heart, see?” He laughed maliciously.
“Hmp... hmp... hmp.”
“Say there, sister, what’s this I feel?” The knife blade left her flesh and his hand closed over her breast. “You know, for a gimp, you ain’t half bad. Maybe I got a better way to keep you in line than killin’ you, huh?” His hand slid down her belly and he laughed evilly as her thighs involuntarily tightened. A moment later she felt her own nightgown pushed inside her body. She stifled the urge to scream again, but her eyelids slid closed and tears trickled from their corners. “I’ll bet you ain’t never had it, have you, gimp? Well, I ain’t got time tonight, with that goddamned nosy sheriff walkin’ the alley. But you better do right, or I’ll be back. And it makes no difference to me whether you can wrap them legs around me or not. I’ll make use of this.”
The Gamble (I) Page 27