Monday’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t be implying anything by that, would you, Clete?”
Quickly, Clete held up his hands and shook his head. “Not a thing, Doc, I swear. Just that you’re too good at this game for the likes of us.”
“In that case . . .” Monday gave the men at the table a friendly nod, then moved to meet the woman coming toward them.
“Excuse me,” she said as she looked up at him. “Would you happen to be Mr. Ennis Monday?”
He touched the brim of his hat. “You have the advantage of me, ma’am. I am indeed Ennis Monday. But my friends call me Doc.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Monday.” Her voice was a bit pointed as she addressed him formally. “My name is Lettie Margrabe.” She paused, then added, “Mrs. Lettie Margrabe.”
Something about the way she said that struck him as being off, but he didn’t press the issue. “It’s an honor, Mrs. Margrabe. What can I do for you?”
“Perhaps if we could sit down at a table where it’s quiet . . .”
“We’re in a saloon, ma’am. There’s only a certain level of privacy and decorum we can hope to attain. However, that said”—he gestured toward an empty table in the corner—“let’s try over there.”
Once they were seated, Monday took a better look at the woman. She was dressed in a decent traveling outfit, but it wasn’t anything fancy or expensive. A waiter came over and Monday asked her if she’d like anything to drink, but she shook her head.
“Bourbon,” Monday told the waiter, who left to fetch it. “Now, you obviously know who I am. Were you given a description of me?”
“That’s right,” Lettie Margrabe replied. “An old friend of yours told me to look you up. Belle Robb.”
“Belle . . .” The memory brought a smile to Monday’s lips under his neatly trimmed mustache. “I haven’t seen her in a long time. How is she? As lovely as ever?”
“Yes, I suppose so. She, ah, provided me with a letter to give to you.”
“A letter of introduction, eh?” Monday cocked an eyebrow. “Are you in the same line of work as Belle? Looking to get into that game here in Denver? I must say, with all due respect to Belle, you don’t really look the sort.”
In fact, even in the shadowy confines of the saloon, he could tell that Lettie was blushing furiously at the suggestion she might be a lady of the evening like Belle.
“We were friends, back in the town where I come from in Missouri,” she said. “That’s all. I . . . I taught school there and helped Belle by tutoring her with her own reading.”
“I see. Belle always did enjoy improving her mind,” Monday said with a sardonic smile. “About this letter . . . ?”
“Of course.” Lettie reached in her handbag and brought it out. “Here.”
Monday unfolded the paper. As he read what was written in Belle Robb’s extravagant hand, his expression grew more solemn. He looked up from the letter and said, “My apologies, Mrs. Margrabe, and my sympathy, as well. I didn’t realize your husband was dead. And to be killed in the very first battle of the war that way.”
“Yes, it was . . . tragic,” Lettie agreed. “You can understand why I wanted to leave. I had to get away from all those . . . bitter memories. Belle suggested I might come to Denver and make a fresh start.”
“She thought I could help you with that?” Monday murmured.
“She said you were a good man, Mr. Monday. She said you would treat me well.”
His eyebrows arched. “My God. You’re not thinking that I’ll marry you, are you? Not even Belle would suggest—”
“No. No, marriage isn’t necessary. I just need a place to stay, perhaps a job . . .”
“I spend practically all my time in saloons,” Monday growled. “All the jobs I know of for women aren’t what you’d call respectable. They’re not anything a former schoolteacher would want to do.”
“Perhaps a former schoolteacher who is desperate enough would,” Lettie said.
Monday studied her in silence for a moment. “You’re plainspoken. I like that in a man, and I find that I appreciate it in a woman, too. I’ll tell you what. I have a room in a boardinghouse where the landlady doesn’t ask many questions. You can stay there for now.” He held up a hand to forestall any protest she might make. “I’m not suggesting anything improper. There are plenty of other places I can stay for the time being.”
“With other women, I suppose.”
Monday laughed. “You go beyond plainspoken to blunt, but I don’t mind. It’s a pretty refreshing attitude, to be honest. Anyway, you can stay there, and I’ll ask around and see if I can find something for you to do. Agreed?”
Lettie hesitated, but only for a second. Then she extended her hand across the table. “Agreed.”
“We’d drink to it,” Monday said as he shook her hand, “if you drank . . . and if that slovenly waiter had come back with my bourbon. At any rate, we have a deal. I hope you knew what Belle was letting you in for.”
“Salvation,” Lettie Margrabe said.
Ennis Monday was good as his word, for which Lettie was exceedingly grateful. He allowed her to stay in his room at the boardinghouse without ever making any improper advances, and he found her a job keeping the books for a store on Colfax Avenue. Her knowledge of arithmetic gained from being a teacher came in very handy.
Within a few weeks of her arrival in Denver, however, two things began to be obvious. One was that Ennis, or Doc as he preferred to be called, was smitten with her.
The other was that Lettie was with child.
The letter from Belle Robb had given her a perfectly reasonable excuse for that, of course—the dead “husband” who tragically had lost his life at the Battle of Bull Run. In truth, Lettie had never been married, and while it was certainly possible the father of her child had been killed in battle, she didn’t know that. It was just as possible that Luke Jensen was still alive. She hadn’t seen him since he’d joined the Confederate Army and gone off to war.
That blasted war had played a part in her current predicament. The night before he left, Luke had come to Lettie’s room to say good-bye, and their passion for each other had caused them to get carried away. Luke had spent the night and was gone the next day without ever knowing that he had planted new life inside her.
Once she’d discovered it, she hadn’t written to tell him. He had enough to do, trying to stay alive in the madness of war. He didn’t need anything distracting him. Someday, when the terrible times were over and if he came home safely, she would let him know he was a father.
When her belly had swollen enough that only a blind man could miss it, she finally said something to Doc when they were out to dinner one evening. Two or three times a week, he took her to dinner in one of Denver’s better restaurants. As he was chewing a bite of steak, she leaned forward on the other side of the table. “Mr. Monday, there’s a subject we should discuss.”
He swallowed. “Let’s discuss why you still resist calling me Doc. It’s what my friends call me, and I think we’re friends by now, don’t you? You don’t object when I call you Lettie.”
“I could hardly object. You’ve been so kind to me—”
“So you really do mind, is that it?”
She shook her head and reached out to rest her hand on his. “No, I don’t mind. In fact, I like it . . . Doc.”
“Good. That’s settled,” he said with a grin.
“But that’s not what I want to talk about.”
His grin disappeared and was replaced by a frown. “Blast it, you sound serious. You know I’m not fond of serious matters. That’s why I spend most of my time in saloons, playing cards.”
“You spend most of your time in saloons playing cards because you’re a rapscallion.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment of her comment. “Guilty as charged, ma’am.”
Lettie drew in a deep breath. “What I’m talking about is that I . . . I’m in the family way, and you know it, Doc.”
H
e shrugged, but Lettie wondered if he truly felt as casual as he was trying to act.
“You were a married woman until recently. There’s nothing unusual or unexpected about a married woman being with child.”
“I know that. It’s just—” Her hand still rested on his.
He turned his hand over and gripped hers. “Do you think it really matters to me, Lettie? I’ll be honest with you. I’ve grown quite fond of you in the time we’ve known each other. Why, if I had anything to offer you other than a wastrel’s life—No, best not go down that path, I suppose. The facts are what they are. But the fact that you’re expecting doesn’t change the way I feel about you. Not one bit.”
Her fingers tightened on his as she smiled. “You are a dear man, Ennis Monday.”
“Don’t let my enemies hear you say that. They’ll laugh themselves silly.” He took her hand in both of his. “Let’s just put this behind us, shall we? When the child is born, I’ll be there for you. Whatever you need, I’ll provide, if it’s in my power to do so.”
“All right,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
She knew she ought to do something to express her gratitude in a more tangible manner. He had hinted that he wanted to marry her. In many ways, that would be a good thing to do. Her child could grow up with a father and would never have to know the truth . . .
But what about Luke? If he lived through the war, didn’t he have a right to know about the child? Besides, in many ways she still loved him. Luke Jensen was a good strong man from a decent family. Back in Missouri, Luke’s younger brother and sister, Kirby and Janey, had been in Lettie’s class. Janey was a bit of a flirt but a decent girl at heart, Lettie believed, and Kirby was a fine young man. Lettie would have been quite happy to be part of the Jensen family by marriage . . . if only the rest of the world hadn’t gotten in the way.
But as Doc had said, the facts were what they were. Luke was gone and might not even be living. Lettie was in Denver, growing larger by the day, and Ennis Monday’s friendship had proven to be the salvation for which she had hoped.
That night when he took her back to the boardinghouse, she took hold of his hand as he started to turn away at the door and told him that he didn’t have to leave.
“You can stay if you like,” she told him.
And so he did.
Not many more weeks passed before Lettie knew that something was . . . well, not wrong, exactly, but not the way she expected it to be.
Doc, despite his nickname, had no medical training whatsoever. He found a good physician for her, and after an examination, the man told her, “It’s my considered opinion, Mrs. Margrabe, that you’re carrying twins.”
“Twins!” Lettie gasped. “But that’s . . . I started to say impossible, but I suppose . . . Are you sure, Doctor?”
“As sure as I can be at this point in time.” The man frowned. “It’s a bit worrisome, too. Let me phrase this carefully. You’re somewhat of a . . . delicate woman. Giving birth to one baby may be rather difficult for you. If we’re talking about two . . .” He spread his hands. “But we’ll give you the best of care, you have my word on that. Do everything I tell you, and there’s every chance that in a few more months you’ll be the proud mother of two infants.”
“Sons,” Lettie said, surprising herself.
“Well, there’s no way to know that until the time comes, of course.”
She knew it, though. Somehow she knew that the babies inside her were boys, and she didn’t question it.
Winter had settled in on Denver, bringing with it cold winds and blowing snow. Doc leaned against the wall just outside the door of his room in the boardinghouse and smoked a cigar. He heard the pane in the window at the end of the corridor rattle as the howling wind struck it, but he was really listening for something else.
He was waiting to hear a baby’s cry.
The sawbones had run him out of the room, making some excuse about how the place wasn’t big enough for the doctor, the nurse he had brought with him, Lettie, and Doc. He knew the man just wanted him out because he was afraid Lettie was going to have a hard time of it.
Judging from the screams that had sounded earlier, that was what had happened. The cries had twisted his guts. Even worse was the knowledge that he couldn’t do anything to help her. Being one of the best poker players in the territory didn’t mean a damn thing.
Doc puffed anxiously on the cigar. Over the past six months, he had grown closer to Lettie than any woman he had ever known. He had done his best to talk her into marrying him, but she steadfastly refused. She said she couldn’t marry another man until after the babies were born. That didn’t make any sense to him, but he hadn’t been able to get her to budge from her decision.
Now it might be too late. He tried not to allow that thought to sneak into his brain, but it was impossible to keep it out.
He straightened and tossed the cigar butt into a nearby bucket of sand as a wailing cry came from inside the room, followed a moment later by another. Doc’s heart slugged hard in his chest. He was no expert, but to him it sounded as if both babies had healthy sets of lungs. That was encouraging.
But he still didn’t know how Lettie was doing.
After a few minutes that seemed like an eternity, the door opened. The doctor looked out, and the gloomy expression on the man’s face struck fear into Doc’s heart. “You can come on in, Mr. Monday, but I should caution you, the situation is grave.”
“The babies—?” Doc asked with a catch in his throat.
“That’s the one bright spot in this affair. Or rather, the two bright spots. Two healthy baby boys. I think they’ll be fine.”
Doc closed his eyes for a second. He wasn’t a praying man, but he couldn’t keep himself from sending a few unspoken words of thanks heavenwards.
But there was still Lettie to see about. He followed the doctor into the room.
She was propped up a little on some pillows, and her face was so pale and drawn that the sight of it made Doc gasp. Her eyes were closed and for a horrible second he believed she was dead. Then he saw the sheet rising and falling slightly over her chest.
There was no guarantee how long that would last, however. When the doctor motioned him closer, he went to the bed, dropped to a knee beside it, and took hold of her right hand in both of his.
Her eyelids fluttered and then opened slowly. She had trouble focusing at first, then her gaze settled on his face and she sighed. A faint smile touched her lips. “Doc . . .” she whispered.
His hands tightened on hers. “I’m here, darling.”
“The . . . babies?”
“They’re fine. Two healthy baby boys.”
“Ahhhh . . .” Her smile grew. “Twins. Are they . . . identical?”
Doc glanced up at the physician, who spread his hands, shook his head, and shrugged.
“They look alike to me,” Doc said to Lettie, although in truth he hadn’t actually looked at the babies yet. They were in bassinets across the room, being tended to by the nurse. Of course, to him all babies looked alike, Doc thought, so he wasn’t actually lying to Lettie.
“That’s . . . good. They’ll be . . . strong, beautiful boys. Doc . . . you’ll raise them?”
“We’ll raise them. You’ve no excuse not to marry me now.”
“No excuse,” she repeated, “except the best one of all . . .”
“Don’t talk like that,” he urged. “You just need to get your strength back—”
“I don’t have . . . any strength to get back. This took . . . all I had.” She paused, licked her lips, and with a visible effort forced herself to go on. “Their name . . .”
“We’ll call them anything you like.”
“No, I mean . . . their last name . . .”
“Margrabe,” Doc said. “Your late husband—”
“No,” Lettie broke in. “I’m ashamed to admit it . . . even now . . . but I was . . . never married to their father. His last name is . . . Jensen . . . I want you to name them . .
. William, after my father . . . and Benjamin, after my grandfather . . . William and Benjamin . . . Jensen.”
“If that’s what you want, my dear, that’s what we’ll do,” Doc promised. “I give you my word.”
“You’ll take care . . . of them?”
“We—”
“No,” she husked. “You. They have . . . no one else . . .”
Lord, Lord, Lord, Doc thought. This couldn’t be. He’d barely spent time with her, barely gotten to know her. She couldn’t be taken away from him now.
But he couldn’t hold her. He sensed she was slipping away. A matter of moments only. He felt a hot stinging in his eyes and realized it was tears—for the first time in longer than he could remember.
“Take . . . take care . . .” she breathed.
He could barely hear the words. Her eyes began to close and he gripped her hands even tighter, as if he could hold on to her and keep her with him that way. “I will. I’ll take care of the boys. I love you, Lettie.”
“Ah,” she said again, and the smile came back to her. “And I love . . .”
The breath eased out of her, and the sheet grew still.
Doc bent his head forward and tried not to sob.
The doctor gripped his shoulder. “She’s gone, Mr. Monday. I’m sorry.”
“I . . . I know,” Doc choked out. He found the strength to lift his head. “But those boys. They’re here. And they need me.”
As if to reinforce that, both babies began to cry.
“Indeed they do,” the doctor agreed. “Would you like to take a look at them?”
Gently, Doc laid Lettie’s hand on the sheet beside her and got to his feet. He turned, feeling numb and awkward, and the doctor led him over to the bassinets. Doc had seen babies before, of course, and always thought of them as squalling, red-faced bundles of trouble.
Not these two, though. There was something about them . . . something special.
“William and Benjamin. Those are fine names, but . . . so formal. I’m not sure they suit you. We’ll put them down on the papers because that’s what your mother wanted, but I think I’ll call you”—he forced a smile onto his face as he looked at the infant with darker hair—“Ace. And your brother . . . well, he has to be Chance, of course. Ace and Chance Jensen. And what a winning pair you’ll be.”
Those Jensen Boys! Page 2