by Jeanne Rose
Which meant blonde in Spanish, Frances knew.
When Ruby returned, she brought a couple of other women with her. Though they'd never officially met, Frances recognized Avandera, a plump and pretty Mexican girl, and Magdalena, an attractive woman despite her slightly flat face and coarse black hair she wore in multiple braids. Belle had told her Magdalena was half Pueblo Indian. Both girls were dressed in loose, free-flowing garments like Ruby's.
Belle arranged several brushes and combs on a side table. Everyone was so enthusiastic and sweet, Frances didn't have the heart to act cool or to ignore the younger women because of their profession. After all, perhaps some females simply didn't have much choice in what they did to survive.
She closed her eyes tightly as Belle started to cut her hair. The blades of the scissors snipped softly.
"Don't worry, this is gonna look real nice," Belle assured her.
When she was done, Ruby and Avandera wound Frances's hair around the hot curling iron.
Imagining flames, Frances wrinkled her nose. "It smells like I'm burning!"
"It's just hot," said Ruby. "It'll only take a minute."
But Frances was ready to squirm with the pulling and fussing before they finally finished. Still, Belle wouldn't let her look until she'd plaited and looped up the long hair in back as well, piling it on top of her head.
"There! Now all you have to do is get dressed. You really are pretty, Frankie," Belle said, startling Frances with the name. "You simply don't make as much of yourself as you could."
"Very pretty! Bonita!" added Avandera with a dimpled smile.
"You have nice hair but you could make it more shiny if you washed it with yucca leaves, Senora Gannon," added Magdalena, toying with the little pouch she wore on a cord around her neck. "I have some in a jar in my room if you would like to try them."
"Or she could use lemon juice," put in Ruby. "I rinse my hair with that when I can afford it."
"Thank you, I'll think about that," Frances told the beaming group as she rose to look in the mirror. With surprise, she realized the new hairdo did look good on her. Smiling, she gingerly touched a curl softly falling over her forehead. "Nice."
Belle grinned. "Course, a little dab of paint around the eyes and mouth wouldn't be a bad idea, either."
"Paint?" Now that was too much. "I don't think so."
"Only a little," Belle wheedled. "You'll hardly be able to tell."
It took some doing to convince Frances to try a trace of brown at the edges of her eyelids and the tiniest touch of rouge on her lips. But she had to admit she really couldn't tell that the additions weren't natural when all was done. Ruby and Avandera left, but Belle and Magdalena helped her into the red gown.
"Now you're ready for the evening," Belle announced. "And don't take any guff off of them men. Like I said, they'll treat you like a lady if you act like one. In fact, some of them behave themselves better around a woman. Keep your eyes on the tables and try to smile once in a while. If anyone gets too drunk, have Adolfo show him out. That little hombre loves to flaunt his authority."
"Watch out for drunken men. Wonderful," muttered Frances.
"Also watch out for problems at the tables. Some men stick cards up their sleeves or under their shoes. Have Adolfo throw them out also."
Still uncomfortable, Frances merely nodded. Her policing activities had always been limited to young girls. She decided it would be best to have a word with Adolfo, a wiry little Mexican with a fierce reputation. He'd been so courteous when she'd met him crossing Blue Sky's placita a couple of times, she could hardly believe he was the same man who reputedly carried several knives.
"Meanwhile, have you tried finding someone else for this job?" she asked Belle pointedly.
The older woman laughed, which didn't make Frances one whit happy.
But Magdalena tried to be helpful. "My Uncle Tomas knows someone who would like to manage a casino. He is already coming. Tonight. Tomas told him to wait at the bar."
"I guess you can talk to him then," Belle said. "I'll be busy. What does this man look like?"
Magdalena shrugged. "Dark, black hair."
"Which describes three-quarters of the people in Santa Fe." Belle looked irritated.
"He's tall," added Magdalena.
Frances inquired, "What's his name?"
"I think it's Pedro, Pablo, Chico, well, um..." Magdalena looked embarrassed. "Truly, I forget. Only ask him if he knows Magdalena, Senora Gannon. That will be good enough."
"All right." Frances only hoped she could find someone to manage the casino floor. Perhaps she'd be lucky and tonight would be her one and only experience.
After Belle and the Pueblo woman left, she gazed into the mirror one last time. A woman with curls, pink lips and a shockingly cut garnet-hued dress stared back at her. Even if Miss Llewellyn saw her dressed like this, Frances thought, she'd never recognize her.
In the space of a few short weeks, Frances hardly recognized herself.
CHAPTER FIVE
CHACO JONES ROAMED the streets of Santa Fe, heading down one of the narrow byways that opened off the central plaza.
He no longer worked for Ralston's Double Bar, having returned a little over a week ago to quit, collect his pay and pick up his belongings. Afterward, he'd headed back north, unsure of what to do next but sick of being a hired gun.
Taking a room at a cheap hotel in the territorial capital, he'd gotten into the habit of wandering at all times of the day and night, strangely alert for any danger. The dreams that haunted him when he slept – moonlight and restless wind and eyes that suddenly glowed out of the dark – made him wonder if something was actually stalking him in waking life.
Not that he'd had any unusual experiences, not unless he counted the afternoon someone had sliced the rawhide strip off his gunbelt while he sat inside that church talking to the padre.
And then he'd been too distracted to pay much attention to anything except the letter from de Arguello. Leaving the church, he'd thrown the piece of paper away and cursed a blue streak. He had nothing to say to de Arguello unless the old man wanted to hear what he thought about the Spanish practice of enslaving mixed-breeds and Indians.
Tonight, Chaco suddenly found himself approaching the Blue Sky Palace. Nathan Gannon's place. He hadn't thought much about the man since he'd paid for the prayers at the church. He hoped the widow was getting along.
Pausing before the double doors that led into the building's open air placita, he listened to the guitar music strumming from within, to murmuring voices and the soft laughter of a woman. He felt drawn to the sounds, wanted to go inside.
And why not? Chaco decided, though he didn't linger with the small group gathered about the guitarist in the placita. Instead, he handed over his gunbelt to the man outside the door of the casino and entered. It was early, so only a few gamblers were placing bets at the roulette table and none of the poker or faro games had started. Looking around, he passed through the area and went on into the saloon where he ordered a shot of tequila.
The liquor traced a burning path down his throat and into his gullet. Chaco ordered another.
"Senor Jones!"
Glass of liquor in hand, he turned to the throaty voice.
"I have not seen you in so long a time!" the woman went on, an attractive Pueblo breed Chaco used to ask for at Pedro's in Burro Alley.
She sidled up beside him and lowered her lashes seductively. "Don't you remember me, Senor? Magdalena?"
"I remember." He smiled, touched her cheek. And now that he recalled the sort of evenings they'd had, he realized he could use one tonight. Magdalena had acted like she had a special fondness for him, and he couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd slept with a woman. "Are you working here now?"
"Yes." Then Magdalena's mouth turned down. "I am busy tonight, though."
"Too bad."
"You can come back tomorrow?"
"Suppose I could."
Magdalena's expression cl
osed when he didn't act anxious. "Or you could ask for one of the other girls." She tossed her head as if she'd been forced to say that. "La Rubia is pretty."
"An Anglo?"
Her dangly earrings were still jingling. "She is wearing red and is very friendly."
"Well, if she comes by me, I'll buy her a drink." And see what else developed, now that he was in the mood. After all, it wasn't a personal thing with Magdalena. Not for him, anyway. But he assured the woman, "I'll bet she's not as fiery as you."
The compliment drew her slow, measured smile. Chaco slugged the second tequila as Magdalena moved reluctantly away. This time the warmth spreading from his belly made him think about soft bodies, smooth thighs, round breasts. He turned to lean back against the bar. That's when he saw her.
The Anglo woman dressed in red was moving directly toward him. Her abundant golden brown hair was piled on top of her head, ringlets escaping to curl about her heart-shaped face. Her mouth was soft, her greenish eyes clear and direct.
Chaco's first thought was that she was the fanciest-looking whore he'd ever seen, a woman pretty enough to have stepped out of one of those photographs from a newspaper back east. His second thought was that she looked slightly familiar...
"Do you know Magdalena?" she asked, her low articulated voice as cultured as her appearance.
Mesmerized by the creamy breasts whose tops swelled from the low cut bodice, Chaco silently stared down into the soft shadow of her cleavage. He was already aroused. The way she was gazing at him made him think she was not only interested but attracted.
"Well, do you?" she repeated.
"Do I what?" He forced himself to focus. "Know Magdalena? Sure. Can I buy you a drink?
"I guess I could have a sarsaparilla."
Chaco thought her manner a little cool but then he hadn't been with many Anglo women and maybe that was their way. Besides, he really liked this one's looks. Tall, she could nearly gaze square into his eyes and she surely must have real long legs. He imagined those legs wrapped around him and immediately grew hard.
"So you're interested in the job?" she asked.
He had to focus on words again. "Job?" And on her face, again thinking she seemed familiar.
"You have done this kind of work before?"
He had to laugh. "I wouldn't call it work." At least not for the man. And not for the woman either, hopefully. "But I've had plenty of experience, sure. You won't have to show me anything...unless you want something that's new-fangled." The very thought of which was highly exciting. He leaned closer to inhale her scent and get another look at that cleavage. "I'm ready for some relaxation now."
"Relaxation?" Her finely drawn eyebrows shot upward.
"When a woman's with me, she doesn't know she's working at all."
"A woman? Working?" Her voice rose, quivering, now also sounding familiar. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"Going upstairs." But even as he added, "Or wherever you have a room," Chaco had an odd feeling.
She took a shuddering breath, blinked, backed up and flushed.
"Sir, I don't know who you are but I am certainly not talking about...going upstairs!" She gulped another big breath of air. "I am the manager of this casino and if you aren't looking for an honest day's work, I have made a terrible mistake!"
The manager? Suddenly, Chaco, felt as embarrassed as she looked. Not to mention disappointed.
"I thought you were Pablo or Chico," she went on. "Whoever Magdalena's uncle sent."
"You aren't La Rubia?"
"Certainly not! I'm Mrs. Frances Gannon!"
A thrill shot through Chaco. "Mrs. Gannon?" The veil and the emotions and the dirt had obscured the widow's face in Galisteo Junction. She cleaned up right nice.
"And who are you?" she demanded.
He straightened, figuring he'd better leave. "Nobody you'd want to know."
"Your voice..."
"Name's Chaco Jones."
Her expression immediately changed and a load of guilt burdened him once more as Chaco wondered how many other widows held such hatred for him in their eyes.
UNABLE TO BELIEVE the gall of the man, Frances stared into the pale gray eyes she should have recognized immediately. The gunfighter might have bathed and shaved, might have tied his long black hair back, but his voice and eyes were a dead giveaway.
"You dare to proposition me?" she finally sputtered, not caring if the bartender or the other saloon patrons heard. "You killed my husband and then you come here to sully his wife? You are lower than base vermin!"
"Vermin?"
"Rats!" cried Frances. "You are a murderer! That lawman in Galisteo Junction should have arrested and hanged you!"
His eyes remained cool, his face expressionless. How could anyone show so little emotion? she wondered. But then, perhaps the scoundrel didn't have any emotions.
"I told you it was an accident, Mrs. Gannon," he said, his voice also cool now.
He started to leave but she stepped right in front of him. "As if that exonerates you. Your very profession should be considered a crime – walking around with a gun and killing people!"
"I never killed anyone unless I had to."
"Except my husband!"
His expression actually seemed to change, to harden and intensify, making him look dangerous and attractive at the same time, a fact that angered her the more.
"I paid for his funeral and burial," he said evenly. "Do you want more money?"
"Money won't pay for a life!"
"Then do you want to kill me, seeing as the lawman wouldn't do the job?"
That startled her. "Of course not!"
"I can't offer you anything else."
She couldn't decide if his manner was more disquieting or calming, but she felt her pulse slow down. "You can give me something else. You can at least act sorry."
"I paid for prayers for your husband."
He had? Not wanting to soften toward him, she demanded, "And you can stay out of the Blue Sky."
"I was just about to leave."
She moved out of the way and he started to go, then paused. "Do you yourself mourn your husband, Mrs. Gannon?"
As his eyes swept over her garnet red gown, she felt ashamed and defensive. "Certainly." It had been little more than a week since Nate's death, but this costume hadn't been her first choice. "I have to work in the casino."
"But you could wear a dress that didn't show so much of your breasts."
Her face flamed. Was this the way men spoke to a woman in a place like the Blue Sky? Her shame intensified as she felt warmth also creep up from her lower parts. Forced to live in a house of wantons, was she becoming one herself?
Furious again, she cried, "How dare you!"
And he kept staring at her, making her want to shiver. "That kind of dress gives a man ideas."
She'd give him ideas! "Get out of here!" She gazed around desperately. "Adolfo? Where is he? I want him here right now!" The bartender was already gesturing and the little Mexican came running. "Escort this man outside!"
Adolfo stared at Chaco Jones. "Compadre? You are causing trouble?"
They knew each other? Holding onto the last shred of her dignified authority, Frances straightened her spine. "Throw Mr. Jones out, Adolfo. He is not welcome here."
Thank goodness, Adolfo saw fit to obey. With one last questioning glance that flicked from her to the gunfighter, then back again, he took hold of the man's arm and moved him away. "Si, Senora."
Frances stood in place until the two went out the door. Then, keeping her eyes straight ahead, she strode to the nearest stairway and ascended, heading for her rooms. She didn't have time to change her clothing but she could at least drape a shawl over her bare shoulders.
"Damn Chaco Jones!"
Damn him for even making her want to use such language!
The man had given her nothing but trouble and sorrow since the day she had first sighted him in Galisteo Junction. First, he had robbed her of her husband, had taken aw
ay the shield who surely would have helped her better deal with her new and confusing situation.
Now the gunfighter had barged into the awful place where she was forced to work and had tried to rob her of her dignity. For Frances MacDonnell Gannon was no longer sure of exactly who she was. How else could she be wearing a gown that exposed half her breasts? And have actually been titillated because her husband's killer had admired them?
LOUISA WAS BORED. Arising early as usual, she went out to take care of Susie, the old paint, and Mancha, her other Indian pony. But there would be nothing else to do today unless she took yet another ride across familiar countryside.
Maria Rodriquez, the little friend who'd lived next door for years, who used to gossip and wander about town with Louisa, had gotten married at the age of fifteen and moved to the southern part of the territory. Fifteen...Louisa had been appalled.
And the neighbor boys on the other side of the road, the ones who'd traded boasts and raced their horses against hers, had left to work on their cousin's ranch through the spring and summer.
Louisa was spending far too many hours alone, with only the choice of sitting in the house with a fussy old housekeeper or waiting for her mother to come home. She wasn't allowed to visit the Blue Sky, though she knew full well what went on there. She'd managed to take Frances out for a carriage ride earlier in the week anyway, but the poor woman had been distracted. With a new home, a new profession and no Nate, Louisa could understand.
Louisa missed Uncle Nate, too. She immediately thought of him when she read the hand-printed sign tacked onto a young cottonwood growing outside the pasture:
SALE OF HORSES BY U.S. CAVALRY
SOME GAITED AND BLOODED STOCK
THURSDAY AT FORT MARCY
Blooded. Wasn't that the sort of horse Uncle Nate had talked about? The kind of animals that had fire in their eyes and hearts, the long-legged steeds he'd grown up with in Kentucky?
Drat, and the sale was today, she thought, wanting more than anything to go. Uncle Nate would have gone with her. Louisa felt another wave of sadness for his loss.