Wolver's Gold (The Wolvers)

by Rhoades, Jacqueline

  This was something Rachel had never heard of, probably because, like Mrs. Hornmeyer, folks considered it too shameful to share; work all your life and end up a charity case. She wondered how many men lived off the pack's charity. It was one more thing that didn't seem fair.

  "I shouldn't have told you my secret," Mrs. Hornmeyer said. "It's not something that should be spoken of." In polite society, money was never mentioned. It was another secret that shouldn’t be shared.

  "Yes, you should. A burden shared is a burden halved." Rachel repeated more words her mother used to say, but she was thinking of things that shouldn't be spoken of.

  Why shouldn't they? Why shouldn't Bertie be able to tell the whole world about Victor? They'd done nothing wrong. Why should Mrs. Hornmeyer have to carry her burden alone? She'd done nothing wrong. Why should she, herself, be ashamed to tell others about the kind of men Barnabas Holt and Jack Coogan were?

  It made her wonder how many other secrets were held in Gold Gulch simply because someone decided they were too shameful to be spoken of.

  Bertie said she would have to live with her life as it was or change it.

  "Mrs. Hornmeyer? Shall I tell you what Bertie and I were speaking of back in Room 3? Then you'll share a secret and a burden of mine."

  Mrs. Hornmeyer's red rimmed eyes sparked with interest. She patted the corner of her neatly made bed, inviting Rachel to sit. "If we're going to be sharing our secrets, dear, perhaps you should call me Liddy."

  Chapter 4

  Daisy's bright yellow carriage careening past the Hotel's front porch was what caught Rachel's eye. The fancy open carriage was the same color as the body of the big Victorian house, with wheel spokes painted a garish purple and seats upholstered in pink to mimic the trim on the house.

  The neatly painted sign by the brick walk that led to the house read 'Miss Daisy's Bouquet,' in fancy script and beneath it, in plain bold letters, 'Bordello', and beneath that, 'Family Tours at 10, 12, 2, and 4. Adult Tours at 11, 1, 5 and 7. No children allowed without accompanying adult.'

  The carriage flew past at least three times a day, carrying two or three of the flamboyantly dressed flowers, as Miss Daisy called the girls who made up her bouquet. Soiled Doves is what they were, and the tourists loved their ribald jokes and raucous laughter. Such places were an essential part of any large Victorian aged town in the American west and Gold Gulch prided itself on its authenticity.

  The tourists never cottoned to the fact that the girls weren't playing fictitious roles. They were the real thing and, after closing the gates to outsiders each evening, the bordello was as busy with wolver business as the saloon.

  The goings on at Daisy's Bouquet was a secret everyone knew, but no one talked about. The subject was never broached among the upstanding ladies since they weren't supposed to know what went on behind those bright yellow walls, though a couple of them had resided there before finding respectable mates.

  Rachel envied the Soiled Doves, another secret of hers, not for what they did so much as their freedom to do it. No one frowned or scolded when they laughed too loud. No one turned up their nose when a flower forgot her corset or turned their back and huffed in disgust when one of the girls showed too much leg. Daisy paid others to wash and clean. The flowers hardly worked at all during the day. They took turns leading tours through the house or playing hide and seek with tourist children.

  For some reason, Challenger McCall came to mind, though she couldn't imagine why. She shrugged. Perhaps it was because he was a fine specimen and the flowers would probably have a high time over at the Bordello tonight. And a profitable one. Lucky them.

  She, on the other hand, had to get the Tea tourists out of the dining room, sweep up, mop up, get supper for the hotel guests on the table, iron a fresh shirtwaist for tomorrow…

  "Will you be open Thanksgiving Day?" a pleasant faced woman asked, distracting Rachel from her thoughts and yet adding to them. "There's only my husband and myself and I get so tired of cooking."

  "So do I," she wanted to say, "In fact, I'm so tired, I could cry." But she smiled pleasantly and said instead, "No, Ma'am, I'm afraid not, but we will be open that weekend."

  "That's disappointing," the woman said, and then she shrugged. "Ah, well, I suppose it's not fair to expect you to work just because I don't want to."

  How right she was, but again, Rachel only smiled and exchanged her thought for a pleasant comment.

  "I'll still be cooking," she said, cheerfully, "We have a community Thanksgiving. The whole town will be there."

  "Did you hear that, Harry? That's so sweet!" the woman said to her husband, "Wouldn't it be wonderful to turn back the clock and live the simple life they lived back then; no rushing here and there, and spending time with neighbors instead of being distracted with TV or computers."

  "I'll take that check, now," Harry told Rachel and to his wife, "I want to get back to the hotel in time to catch the end of the ball game."

  "You see?" the woman laughed.

  Rachel took the bill from her apron pocket and waited while the man fished his credit card from his wallet. She did see, but the woman didn't. Like most people, this woman saw the past as a simpler time, less stressful than the modern world, more peaceful. They thought it quaint and enviable that the folks of Gold Gulch lived that life even when the town was closed to tourists. They had no idea of the endless drudgery involved.

  Rachel ran the credit card through the machine concealed behind a high wall built atop the counter to further the illusion that this was the 1800s and electricity was a thing of the future.

  'A necessary evil' is what Mayor Hoffman called electricity and each business and household was restricted in its use. Rachel had a vacuum, for instance, but she could only use it before or after business hours. It was the same for washers and dryers, which were a godsend, though the all-natural fabrics still had to be ironed. Refrigerators, for businesses at least, were required by law.

  Tourists often commented on two features that couldn't be hidden; flushing toilets and hot, running water. Shouldn't there be outhouses, they'd laugh. Rachel would laugh with them, but modern bathrooms were one thing she wouldn't mind giving up. Each one of the hotel's fifteen bedrooms had one and each one needed to be cleaned.

  Bertie, who shared most duties with Rachel, was just finishing up when Rachel came back to the kitchen, having finished her dining room chores.

  "Pots and pans are done," she said as soon as Rachel came through the door. She drew her shawl around her shoulders and picked up the two plates covered in foil; supper for her and Victor. "And you remember to tell that Eustace if he soaks my fry pan one more time, his keester's goin' to be the next thing frying in it. Where is the little weasel anyway? Always disappearing when there's work to be done."

  Rachel would have challenged the criticism of Eustace, but she knew Bertie didn’t mean it. The two made a game of bickering and complaint. "Papa sent him to fetch luggage. We have a new guest. Remember?" she asked tiredly. The extra money would be welcome, but it meant more work as well.

  "Ah, yes, the new sheriff with the funny name. What was it again?"

  "Might be new sheriff," Rachel corrected, "and I don't think there's anything funny about Challenger McCall. It's a very masculine name and it suites him. As it would any officer of the law," she added when Bertie snickered.

  The cook nodded, but her lips kept twitching. "Where's your father? Sleepin' or primpin' to go out?"

  "Sleeping and don't start, Bertie."

  "It would be a waste of breath. I know you love him," the older woman said with as much as kindness as her personality allowed, "It don't mean I have to and it don't change what he is."

  "Please?" Rachel knew how Bertie felt about Josephus Kincaid, but she just couldn't listen to another tirade about her father's selfishness. "Not tonight."

  Bertie must have seen it in Rachel's face because she changed the subject. "That guest feller, the might-be new sheriff, he alone or got somebody with hi
m?"

  "He has a dog, a big one, and Papa woke up in time to tell him he could keep it in the room."

  Rachel tried repeatedly to enforce the no dog rule, but Papa, just as repeatedly, rescinded it and it was Rachel who was left to scrub out the stains the animals left in the carpets or the puddles they left in the hall.

  Bertie whipped off her shawl and reached for another plate from the shelf. "Not likely he had supper. I'll just fill a plate with leftovers and you can bring it to him when he comes in." She loaded a plate with roast beef and added a dab of potato salad and coleslaw on the side. "I'll put it right here next to Eustace's supper."

  "Bertie," Rachel warned.

  "What? The man might be hungry," she said, "and as he's paying for his supper, he ought to get one."

  Rachel dug in the pocket of her apron and pulled out the day's tips. She doled out some to Bertie, saved some for Eustace and some for the cookie jar on the top shelf over the stove and the rest would go in the bag for Arnold Slocum, the pack's banker.

  "You shouldn't," Bertie said, but it didn't stop her from stuffing the money in her own apron pocket. "One of these days Arnie's gonna catch on."

  All money earned was supposed to be turned in to The Bank where Arnold Slocum withheld the proper taxes and paid the pack's bills. He then returned what was left to the people who earned it.

  "You think Daisy's girls turn in all of their tips?" she asked as she always did.

  "Daisy's girls earn their tips from the men's pay packets. That's different," Bertie answered as she always did.

  "Of course it is. We work for it," Rachel told her with a wink. "Don't spend it all in one place."

  Later, much later, when the day's work was almost done, she heard Eustace laughing, and the new guest shushing him, as they came in through the back entrance with the luggage that should have been brought in hours ago. She left them to it, though she would get after Eustace later for leaving her to do all of the cleanup alone. She wasn't his regular employer, but she fed him three squares a day and gave him a warm, dry place to sleep in the shed. He did his bathing and she did his wash at the hotel, too, so she shouldn't feel guilty for expecting something in return.

  But as soon as she thought it, she felt just that. Eustace might be an omega in the pack, the lowest of the low, but he earned his keep far more than many of the higher ups and she shouldn't begrudge him a few hours of fun.

  She wasn’t sure what he’d done to be reduced to his low station. No one spoke of it as if it was too shameful to whisper. It wasn’t because of his handicaps, no matter what the Second hinted.

  She put their suppers on the table with forks and napkins, but it was only Eustace who came whistling down the stairs a few minutes later, and swaggered into the kitchen on his crooked legs. He was grinning like the cat who stole the cream.

  "Don't know why we had to drag all that shit up there, when we're gonna drag it all down tomorrow," he said.

  He smelled of the pickled eggs they served at the saloon and beer had loosened his tongue enough for bad words to slip out, something that rarely happened in front of Rachel. She ought to reprimand him for it, but didn't have the heart.

  "Why's that, Eustace?" she asked instead, because she knew he'd want her to and she was curious. "Is he leaving tomorrow?" She poured the last of the lemonade in a glass and set it on the table next to his napkin and fork.

  "Yep."

  The lemonade teetered, but didn't spill.

  "He's already met with the Mayor, then?" The Mayor was Sterling Hoffman, the Alpha of Gold Gulch pack. Her curiosity grew along with something else she couldn't identify.

  "Yep."

  "So he didn't get the job?" Was it disappointment she felt? Surely not.

  "Yep."

  With each single word answer, Eustace's grin grew wider and Rachel's annoyance grew along with it. She blew at the tendril of hair that always managed to fall down the middle of her forehead when her patience was wearing thin. Then she remembered the bargain she'd made. She pulled the remainder of her tips from her apron pocket. Adding her cookie jar money to Eustace's portion, she slapped it on the table and sat.

  "Tell," she insisted. "Every word."

  Eustace's grin disappeared. "Aw, Miss Rachel, I was just having some fun watching the looks on your face. You sure do got some doozies. I don't want your money."

  "Never mind the looks on my face and a bargain is a bargain. Sit in that chair and tell me what happened."

  Eustace now looked ready to begin. He sat at the table and leaned forward, fork in fist, his body braced on his forearms.

  "Well," he said, drawing the word out, "He's movin' out, but he's not movin' on. No, ma'am, he's stayin' right here in Gold Gulch. We got us a new sheriff in town, Miss Rachel, and he's movin' into the back room of the jail." Eustace started in on his dinner.

  "Oh. I thought he would stay here," she said, this time making sure whatever it was she was feeling didn't show. "We could use the money."

  "The Mayor looked disappointed, too, and said he's welcome to stay here, but McCall says he and his dog are used to their own company and don't need much in the way of space."

  "I think, perhaps, we should call him Mr. McCall, Eustace," Rachel chided gently. "He's neither family nor friend." He seemed so proud and happy in the use of Mr. McCall's familiar name, but someone in Eustace's position needed to be careful.

  "Yes he is," Eustace said, a bit defensively, Rachel thought. "You want this from the beginning or just the gist."

  "From the beginning," she said decisively. She was paying for it, wasn't she? She didn't really care what was said, but the money was spent and she always made sure to get her money's worth.

  "Then let me tell it my way." Eustace sat back in his chair, made himself comfortable, and began.

  "Well, Me and McCall was moseying through town kind of slow like so I could tell him this and that about the place. He seemed real interested and asked a lot of questions about the businesses and the pack. You know, people's names and what the shops sell 'n such. He was particularly interested in the women. You want to hear about that?"

  Rachel almost said yes, but caught herself in time. Why would she be interested in his interest in the women? Besides, getting one's money's worth and being bored to tears by information you already knew were two different things.

  "No, Eustace, go on."

  "Gotcha. You only want the important stuff," he began again, "So I'm guessing that starts when we were almost to the end of town when he says, “Eustace, do you have time for a chat before we get my gear?"

  "Now you know me, Miss Rachel, I always got time to chat so I says, Might as well wet our whistles while we do." and with that, Eustace began his tale.

  With the dog trotting between them, McCall and Eustace walked a short distance back along Main Street. It was late and most of what was left of the tourist crowd was making their way to the parking lot. McCall wanted a quiet table where he could discreetly ask his questions.

  "But I figured the bar was the place to chat, so in I went and bellied up with one foot on the rail. Me and my friend here could use a couple of beers, I says to Billy and well, you know how Billy is."

  Rachel did indeed know the owner of the Saloon, not because she frequented the place, but because her father had brought him around as a possible mate. William Smith was a widower who’s mate had died, as so many did, in childbirth. He was a beefy looking wolver who looked like he should be pounding railroad spikes for a living instead of polishing glasses and stacking them neatly on trays. He had a habit of looking at the wolvers beneath him as if eyeing a bug and deciding if it needed to be squashed. Apparently, in Eustace's case, it did, but Eustace made no editorial comment.

  "Looks like the dog found a new master," Billy says, real mean like.

  Though Rachel could see no sense in it, calling a wolver a dog was a slur sometimes used between male friends in fun. The bartender’s use of it wasn't friendly.

  "Next thing I know, th
at German Shepherd of McCall's, who'd been sitting real quiet, is raising its head and baring its teeth at Billy.

  "Dog seems to take exception to that," McCall says, like Billy was talking about his animal. "He doesn't take kindly to masters. He prefers partners." He moved his hand a bit and don't you know, that shepherd stood, hackles raised and snarling. "Now, how about those beers for me and my friend?"

  Billy tried to stare him down, but McCall wasn't having none of that. He stared right back. No wolver's gonna get the best of him in a staredown," Eustace said of his new idol's reaction to the wolver display of dominance. "He showed that Billy who's boss. Billy blinked and poured one beer and set it on the bar. McCall's smiling as he passes it on to me and then he says as sweet as you please,

  "One more for myself, thank you."

  And Billy did it, but you could tell he didn't like it."

  Rachel did, though. Eustace couldn't help it if his body was crooked. He worked hard and deserved respect. Apparently Mr. McCall thought so, too.

  "Billy slammed that glass on the counter, hard, but McCall just smiled," Eustace continued, enjoying his tale. "Then who do you think calls out to him?"

  "Mayor Hoffman."

  "Yes-siree-bob." Then Eustace's grin faded and he leaned forward again. "I got my opinions on what happened next, but I'm just gonna tell it like I'm telling a tale and let you do your own ciphering."

  Chapter 5

  "Come, come, Billy, that's no way to treat our guest. He's soon to be a member of our family."

  The wolver rising from the table where he was sitting with two other men was of medium height and strongly built. His hair was silvery gray, his jaw firm and square. He was wearing an old fashioned, but expensive looking suit and his full tie was held in place by a diamond stick pin. His jovial voice held an air of authority and any wolver would know who he was before introductions were made.

  "Come over here, man, and introduce yourself. I expected to see you sooner," Mayor Hoffman continued, gently chiding McCall for his lapse.