by Beth Ciotta
She snatched the pillow from beneath her head, pressed it over her face, and screamed.
A knock sounded at the door. Groaning, she flung the pillow aside, pushed herself upright and dragged her stiff legs over the bed. Five grueling days across the desert. Between the journey, the multiple mishaps, and her vexing attachment to Josh, no wonder she’d been so weepy. As he’d pointed out, she’d had one heck of a week, and it wasn’t going to end until she got this darned song out of her head.
“Miss Paris? Are you in there?”
“Coming.” Ignoring her aches and pains, she padded barefoot across the warped wooden floor, grimacing when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Puffy eyes. Tangled hair. Reddened face. She looked like something the cat coughed up. Good thing she wasn’t out to impress anyone. She cracked open the door, faint with relief. “You came back!”
A portly woman with graying hair and wrinkled, sun-browned skin stood on the threshold, a bustled emerald gown cradled in her pudgy arms. “Of course I came back, dear.” Smiling, Mrs. Loss shuffled into the room, using her elbow to shut the door behind her. “I’m sorry it took me so long, but you’re a tiny thing and I wanted to make sure I borrowed the perfect gown.” She held up a magnificent silk taffeta for inspection. “What do you think?”
Fighting a bout of dizziness, Paris grappled for a polite way to express her dismay. She’d be courting trouble if she walked into a saloon wearing that fancy, low-cut get-up.
Mrs. Loss cupped her chin and leaned close. “Gracious, girl, you’re sunburned. I noticed you were pink when we spoke before, but now … ” She whistled. “Does it pain ya’?”
“A little.” Paris shoved her bed-mussed hair off of her face, wincing as her nails scraped tender flesh. “I know I look a fright.”
“Nonsense, dear. You look lovely, just red and puffy. We can fix that with a dose of chamomile tea.”
Paris dabbed at the sweat trickling between her breasts. Even with the window open, the tiny hotel room was stifling. “I appreciate your offer, but it’s a little warm for hot tea.”
Mrs. Loss smiled kindly. “It won’t be hot, and you won’t be drinking it. We’ll sponge cooled chamomile tea over your face and you’ll feel right as rain.”
Strangers passing in the night, by chance their lips did meet. Though they shared a moment’s fire, the kiss was incomplete.
“Blast!”
“Or … ” the old woman drawled, “we could try vinegar. Doc Farley swears by vinegar.”
It’s not that,” she said in a rush. “I’ve got this song … it’s stuck … and … ” She eyed the gown, sighed. “It’s a beautiful dress, Mrs. Loss. I’d be honored to wear it for the evening. Would you mind helping me? I’m in a hurry.” The sooner she visited the saloon, the sooner she’d get some sleep. Three minutes with a piano. That’s all she needed. Ten at the most. Her hands tingled in anticipation.
Mrs. Loss placed the gown on the bed and laced her into a corset. “Are you all right, dear?”
She grabbed hold of the bedpost, feeling positively ill. Either the corset was too tight or she was delirious with exhaustion. “I’m fine,” she said, even as her vision blurred. “Just hot.”
“I’ll fetch you a glass of cool water.” The woman crossed the room in a blur of ruffled calico. “Are you meeting your fiancé for dinner?” she asked, sounding as if she were calling from the next room.
“My what?” Paris blinked to bring the woman back into focus.
Mrs. Loss poured water from a large-mouth pitcher. “Your fiancé,” she said, floating back toward Paris and placing a glass of water in her tingling hands. “I assume that’s why you’re getting all slicked up. Mr. Grant is taking you out to dinner to make up for whatever he said to make you cry.”
Dazed, Paris tried to make sense out of the woman’s rambling. Fiancé?
“You caught yourself a handsome one, sweetie.” Mrs. Loss urged her to step into a petticoat then pulled the multi-layered slip swiftly to her waist, clasping the waistband tight. “Handsome and romantic. Mr. Loss told me how Mr. Grant rescued you from some mishap and how you fell in love, and—”
“Fate conspired to lend a hand, desire became their curse. Both would fight against the fall, whose heart would be lost first?”
“That’s lovely, dear. Is it a poem?” The woman gathered up Paris’s hair, twisting it into a loose knot. “Maybe Preacher Davis can include it in the ceremony.”
Yellow dots danced before her eyes. “Preacher Davis?” The room spun.
“The gospel sharp who’ll be performing your wedding.”
The water glass crashed to the floor.
The Sand Spur was eerily quiet. Fifteen men tops, aside from Josh, Seth, the pianist, the barkeep, and a lone dove occupied the stale-smelling gurdy. Three wranglers stood at the bar, nursing warm beers. Josh and Seth lingered at the far end, opting for whiskey. The rest of the men took up three tables near the front door, half-roostered and immersed in various card games. The dove sat at the third table, acting as a slicked-up gambler’s good luck charm.
Seth spun his empty shot glass on the polished mahogany bar. “I’m beginning to think you don’t know the Garrett girl as well as you claim.”
“She’ll be here.” He signaled the bartender for another bottle. When he’d warned her against seeking out M.B., he hadn’t considered her obsession with the piano. Wrung out as she was, he’d expected her to fall asleep soon after he left. “She must have a song stuck in her head.”
Seth poured them both another shot. “What?”
He nodded to the upright across the room. “The only way to get a song out of her head once it sticks there is to give it life.” Christ, had that been a mere week ago that she’d offered that warped explanation? How had she managed to get under his skin in so little time?
“I can’t believe she’d risk getting pawed by a bunch of cowpokes just to get to a piano.” Seth set the bottleaside with a disgusted growl. “You should’ve tied her to the damned bedpost.”
“She’d find a way to drag the bedpost. She’s that determined when it comes to her music. Just let her get it out of her system.” Then he’d confront her about Chance.
“Can’t.” Seth lit up a cheroot. “Her brothers are against her performing in a saloon and so am I.” He blew out a blue plume of smoke and gestured toward the scruffy clientele. “These boys are easily riled. I don’t need the headache.”
“Who does?” Josh nursed his drink. He’d given himself a whopper figuring out how he was going to deter her from singing at the Moon. Between her sweet face and sultry voice she’d have the miners worked into a lustful lather by mid-song. After a calming shot of whiskey, he’d decided his best course was to lay his cards on the table. As his wife she could play the Moon’s piano to her heart’s content, but he’d be damned if he’d allow her to prance around on stage serenading an audience of lonely drunks.
“You’re not going to honor Mason’s telegram, are you? The men of Florence are saints compared to those hellraisers in Chance.”
“I’ll protect what’s mine.” Those hellraisers would treat his wife with respect or suffer the consequences.
“She’s not legally yours. Yet,” Seth added with a frown. “You are going to wait for Preacher Davis to get back before you drag that girl off, aren’t you?”
“When do you expect him?”
Seth shrugged. “Depends on how long Bo Jenkins hangs on.”
“I can’t hang around here indefinitely. Oscar Pike has been running the Desert Moon on his own for three weeks now. He’s good, but he’s no match for Niles. If my cousin is cooking up trouble, I’m the one to douse the fire. Just send the preacher up to me as soon as he returns.”
“I hate to ask, but where is Paris going to stay?”
“With me.”
Seth ran an exasperated hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “You better hope Davis gets there before the Garretts, otherwise they’re liable to shoot you dead. I’d hate to see that
happen.”
“I’d be more worried about my shooting the Garretts.”
“Shit. You don’t honestly believe they’d hurt their little sister.”
“Not physically, but emotionally … ” He studied the amber liquid in his glass. “Someone twisted her priorities. Don’t even get me started on her cock-eyed opinion on relationships.”
“Run that last one by me again.”
“Let’s just say she’s … open-minded.”
“That sounds like trouble.”
“With a capital T.”
“I don’t mind telling you none of this makes a lick of sense.” Seth drummed his fingers on the bar while studying Josh for a long, annoying minute. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Would you leave me the hell alone?”
“You said you don’t love her. Claim she’s loco. So why are you all-fired intent on marrying her? Hasn’t your life been turned upside down enough?” He swiped off his hat, and leaned in, green eyes sparking. “You’re a lawman, Josh. Keeping the peace. Protecting folk. It’s what you do. Who you are. Now you’re moving to a boomtown to run a damned opera house. I know you feel like you owe Mason, but trading your life for his? Ain’t that carrying gratitude a bit far?”
“It’s not your business.”
“You’re my friend. I’m making it my business. I’ve held my tongue until now, but hell! You actually think you’ll be able to stand behind that bar and abide by the lawlessness that abounds in Chance?”
“I aim on doing what comes naturally.”
Presently Mr. Loss busted through the swinging doors, bow tie and spectacles askew. He near about tripped over his own two feet trying to get to them. Red-faced, he sputtered for a full five seconds before Seth slapped him on the back. “Spit it out, Percy. What’s wrong?”
“It’s Miss Paris.” Loss pinned Josh with a frantic look. “You better come quick.”
“Don’t you ever, no, no never, even if you think you’re clever, don’t ignore the Doc. Ooh-ooh-ooh. Doc knows what’s best. Drink, eat and rest, or else.
“He will wonder, then he’ll ponder, he will even travel yonder for the perfect cure. Ooh-ooh-ooh. Doc knows what’s best. Drink, eat and rest, or else!”
“She’s delirious,” the doctor said, laying his palm to Paris’s burning forehead.
“I’m not delirious,” she said, her voice a raspy scratch. “It just came out.” Josh sat to the left of her bed. A stranger, a tall fair man with vivid green eyes, sat to her right. She was afraid to look at Josh. What if he had that expression? The one that said, “She’s crazy.” The hurtful expression perfected by the majority of Heaven’s citizens.
The green-eyed stranger chuckled. “You’ve been immortalized, Doc.”
Unimpressed, Doc Farley snapped shut his worn black bag. “She’s suffering from heat exhaustion and a pesky fever. Get her out of that stifling contraption. Cover her body with cool, wet cloths, and make sure she drinks lots of sassafras tea. Mrs. Loss should be up with a pot momentarily.” Snagging his bag, he turned to take his leave. “Fetch me if you need me.”
“Ooh-ooh-ooh. Doc knows what’s best. Drink, eat and rest, or else.”
“Delirious,” the doctor said, then shut the door.
“Stop ogling,” Josh ordered Green Eyes as he jerked the quilt to her chin.
“I’m hot,” she complained, shoving the blanket to her waist. Swear to heaven if she didn’t get out of this corset, and soon, she was going to suffocate.
“I’m not ogling,” Green Eyes said. “I’m admiring. Beautiful and a sense of humor.” He grinned, displaying a set of endearing dimples. “Now I understand.”
“Understand what?” she asked. The stranger was really quite handsome, she realized. Though not as striking as Josh.
“My friend’s fascination.”
“With what?”
His grin broadened. “You.”
A wave of depression washed over her, rivaling the dizziness that had committed her to bed. “He’s not fascinated. He’s just being noble.”
She heard Josh grunt as he yanked the quilt back up. She tried to fling it aside, but he shoved her hand away.
“What do you mean?” Green Eyes asked.
She pouted, wishing Josh would hold her hand instead of batting it away. Darn him. “He only wants to marry me because of what we did.”
“Hush, Paris.” Josh lifted strands of damp hair from her face, his gentle touch kicking her temperature higher. “You’re delirious.”
“No, I’m not. I’m hot.” Didn’t he know he was making her miserable?
Green Eyes frowned down at her. “Specifically, what did you do?”
She struggled to sit up, groaning at the effort. Her head felt as big and heavy as a two-ton boulder. “Who are you?”
“Seth Wright.” Josh pushed her back down on the bed. He lay a damp cloth to her brow. “Say goodbye. He’s leaving.”
“Not until Mrs. Loss gets here,” the other man said, eyes intent on her face as if waiting to catch her in a lie. “Why does Josh want to marry you?”
“He made me purr.”
He glanced up at Josh. “That so?”
She tugged on Seth’s shirtsleeve to get his attention, beckoning him to lean closer.
“He’s fine where he is,” Josh protested.
Seth winked at her. “What, darlin’?”
She didn’t know why she was confiding in this man. Maybe because he reminded her of Athens. Athens would definitely make this dreadful hurt better. He knew all about matters of the heart. She could barely get the words past the dratted lump in her throat. “Tell Josh he wasted his time contacting the preacher.”
“He’s standing right next to you, sweetheart.”
“I can’t look at him.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t think straight when I look in his eyes.” She quirked a sad smile. “When he kisses me, angels sing.”
The stranger looked to the heavens, or maybe he was rolling his eyes. She couldn’t tell. His tone, however, was most amiable. “Seems the angels might be in favor of this marriage. Why aren’t you?”
“I have to be someone.”
“You are someone,” Josh snapped.
Why did he sound so cross? “I have to be a star,” she told Seth.
“Do you want to be a star?”
She imagined herself center stage, strutting and posing, wooing nameless strangers with dramatic monologues and dynamic songs. Her body shivered in rebellion. “Not really.”
Seth massaged the back of his neck just as she’d seen Josh do a hundred times. “Then why bother?” he asked.
My little girl is destined for greatness. Her eyes misted. “I promised.”
Someone knocked on the door. Paris felt herself drifting away. Her head swam and her limbs tingled. Voices blended and blurred. Someone wanted Mrs. Loss to look after her. Mrs. Loss didn’t mind. Josh minded. He told everyone to get out. Seth, at least she thought it was Seth, told Josh he was digging his own grave. Was he sick?
“I want Josh,” she croaked. Now why had she said that? He was her doom.
She heard a muffled curse, reluctant goodbyes, followed by silence. Blissful, peaceful silence.
Someone whipped the quilt aside. She sighed, enjoying a brief rush of cool air. She forced open her heavy lids, locking gazes with Josh for the first time this evening. The unexpected tenderness in his eyes caused her to smile. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re beautiful?”
He laughed softly, rolling her to her side. “Just you.”
“What are you doing?”
“Getting you out of these clothes.”
She opened her mouth to object but couldn’t think why. She was burning up. Mrs. Loss had dressed her in layers of frilly underthings, and though she appreciated the effort she couldn’t wait to shed the suffocating garments. “Thank you,” she said, fumbling with the waistband.
“I’ll get it, honey.”
“I li
ke Mrs. Loss.”
“So do I.” He quickly ridded her of the cumbersome petticoat and tossed it over a chair.
“She thinks we’re getting married.”
“We are.” He unlaced her corset, blessedly easing the pressure on her ribs.
“Mama and Papa were married,” she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice. “They fought all the time.” Before she knew it, she’d been stripped down to her chemise and bloomers. She felt immeasurably cooler, but not cool enough. “I’m thirsty.”
“Mrs. Loss brought tea. Sassafras for fever. Chamomile for sunburn. I think we’ll go with the sassafras.” He stood and walked toward the rosewood bureau.
She shimmied out of her unmentionables and fell back on the damp sheets. “That’s better.”
“Ah, hell,” she heard him say, as her eyes drifted shut and shades of the past enveloped her consciousness.
“What did you think, Songbird?”
“Miriam’s monologue was swell, Papa.” Paris applauded as the dramatic actress took her bows. Several members of the audience threw flowers at her feet and the actress, famous for her emotional outbursts, blew kisses in return. “But I liked Julio best.”
William Garrett regarded his young daughter with amusement. “The singing juggler?”
Paris fidgeted on her backstage stool. “He was funny.”
“You liked his rhymes.”
She nodded, rolling her eyes when Miriam’s leading man draped a silk cape over her shoulders and gently escorted her from the wings to her dressing room. Miriam, unlike Julio and the other novelty performers, was a snob.
“His lyrics are not half as witty as yours and you are only six,” said Papa.
Paris wasn’t sure what “witty” meant, but from the twinkle in Papa’s eyes, she guessed it was good.
“You are going to excel in the theater, Songbird. You’re destined to be a musical actress, just like your beautiful mama. Only you’ll stick with it.”
She hopped off the stool, turning her back on the Gilded Garrett stage. She couldn’t imagine performing in front of all those people, but she’d very much like to help behind the scenes. “I’d rather play the piano, Papa.”