Iron Ties

by Ann Parker

  “Out. Back soon.” He eyed Lucy’s coat. “Needs brushing.”

  “If you would, I’d appreciate it.” Inez lifted the saddlebags off Lucy and settled them over her shoulder. “Jack, if I ever find a man who treats me half as well as you treat these horses, I’ll grab him up in a flash.”

  “Horses easier to understand than women,” countered Jack.

  They traded smiles. Inez dug into the small coin bag in her pocket and handed Jack two bits for his efforts. It’ll no doubt end up in some shark’s pocket.

  Jack was the only reason she stabled Lucy at the C&H livery, a fair trek from her home and business. One-Eyed Jack had impressed Inez with his understanding of horses during his occasional visit to the Silver Queen that winter. Upon inquiring and finding out where he worked, Inez had moved Lucy to Carter’s Livery at Twelfth and Poplar. All in all, she’d been happy with the care and Eli Carter’s polite, businesslike demeanor.

  Soon after Inez had resettled her horse, Hollis had become Eli’s business partner. Inez had, for the most part, managed to avoid Hollis. But now she had questions, what with Eli nowhere to be found.

  She retraced her steps toward the front of the livery, musing. So, Eli sold his share of the business to Hollis and is now “gone.” At least, that’s the story.

  Inez turned to the section of the livery that had been partitioned into an office, called out “hello,” then walked in. A scarred and battered wood desk faced the entrance, a swivel chair positioned to see the comings and goings of horses, mules, wagons, and men. A few straightback chairs awaited the odd patron or friend. Pieces of tack were tossed in the corners and hanging on the walls. A door to the right, slightly ajar, led back into the stable area.

  Or does it?

  She’d not thought much about the door before. Her forays into the office area these days were few and to the point. She’d preferred doing business with the soft-spoken Eli and had kept her greetings short to avoid bumping into Hollis. Lately, the office had always seemed occupied by Hollis and his cronies.

  She walked farther into the office. The door hung open an inch.

  Temptation crooked a finger.

  Inez stepped over to the door and tapped on its splintered panels. If Hollis comes out, I’ll just say I want to pay my account.

  Nothing stirred.

  Inez glanced around the office, then touched the door, causing it to swing inward with a creak of protest.

  A slice of neat, military-style living quarters came into view.

  Light filtered through a thin brown curtain into a single room containing two beds catty-corner and a small warming stove next to a hopper of coal. One bed looked recently slept on, the blanket askew, the stained pillow dented. A pair of expensive snakeskin boots stood at the foot. The other bed was stripped down to the striped ticking. A dead lantern sat on a washstand between the two beds. Inez’s gaze traveled up to the walls.

  A battered tin mirror hung above the washstand, reflecting a broken image of the door and her own half-concealed reflection. It also reflected something hanging on the wall next to the door. Although the image was poor, she was certain it wasn’t a painting. She squinted, tempted to walk into the room, look behind the door, and see what it was. A quilt, perhaps? Or—

  “What the Sam Hill are you doin’ here?”

  Inez clutched the saddlebags to her and whirled to catch Hollis’ furious eyes boring in on her. He stood at the entrance to the office, hand resting on the butt of the six-shooter holstered across his stomach. He looked as if he’d just as soon shoot first, get answers later.

  She held up a hand as if to forestall any gunplay. “I’ve been riding. I know it’s nearly the end of June.”

  The scraggly mustache twitched with his sneer. “I damn well know what month it is.”

  “I wanted to pay Lucy’s stable bill for July.” Inez sauntered away from the door and pulled her coin bag out of her pocket. “I thought you might be in the back.”

  Hollis snorted. “A holler would’ve told ya no one was here. Or old Jack would’ve said, if ya’d bothered to ask.”

  He walked in heavily for such a rail of a man and flung himself into the swivel chair, which squeaked morosely as he rocked in it. “Waaaall, that means I kin tell you to your face. Boardin’ cost is goin’ up.”

  “Again? You upped the charge two months ago.”

  “Expenses.” He bit off the word. “It ain’t cheap keepin’ this place goin’. And with the railroad comin’, things are changin’ fast. It don’t take a genius to see the haulin’ and freightin’ part of the business is gonna die. The distance to the railhead is shrinkin’ every day. Less haulin’ distance means less money. And once the damn Rio Grande builds spurs to the mines, that’ll be the end of it. Unless I can make a go with just livery and short hauls.”

  “I understand the business is all yours now.” She kept her voice neutral.

  Hollis’ face pulled in, like he’d been forced to suck on a lemon. “And who’ve you been talkin’ to?”

  “It seems that your erstwhile partner, the one who left town without so much as a farewell drink and mislaid his horse halfway to Granite, sold the business to you.” Her voice seemed to arrive from a great distance, formal and cool. It struck her how much like her mother she sounded.

  “Me ’n the bank,” Hollis growled. “Place ain’t mine by half. So don’t lay ’spersions at my door. And weren’t you the one babblin’ ’bout dead men on the tracks?” He spat, hitting a pail that apparently served as a spittoon with remarkable accuracy. Inez was reminded of how often he spat, and missed, in her saloon.

  “So, did he say goodbye for good that morning or did he just take off for a pleasure ride and not return?”

  Hollis heaved to his feet. “Don’t see that it’s any concern of yours. What say you settle up the bill and clear out. I figger we got no more business to conduct here, and Jack and me got a load of shit to shovel.”

  “It’s a lucky thing you’re close to the hospital,” she snapped. “If the horses have any sense at all, they’ll kick you in the head the next time you get close.”

  “Luck’s got nothin’ to do with it.” He stared out the window in the direction of the hospital. Inez saw his hand ball into a fist on the desktop. “Them bastards are gonna pay for every inch they take from me. It’s jest like the damn war. And after. This is what Eli and me fought against. Cain’t believe they’re back, taking our land. Our rights. Tellin’ us what to do.”

  She blinked. “Who? Surely you don’t mean the Sisters of Mercy!”

  His gaze wrenched back to her. “Just hand over that gold eagle and go yer way. Don’t know why Eli trucked with damn fool wimmin anyhow. You and them whores on State and Fifth—”

  “Watch your language. I have nothing to do with those women.”

  “Wantin’ this carriage and that, this horse and that horse.” His voice went up in an exaggerated feminine whine. “‘Deliver it, I’ll ruin my skirts an’ shoes walkin’ over there an’ it wouldn’t be proper.’ Hell, whores talkin’ ’bout proper.” He spat. Hard. The tobacco juice from the chaw bulging in one cheek arced and hit the pail without a splash. “They’re ridin’ all day simperin’ around town, don’t git the horses back on time. Course,” his red-rimmed eyes narrowed in on her like the scope of a rifle, “when it comes to payin’ up, they all drag their feet. Like they’re not makin’ more in a night’s ride than I make in a month. Jest like you.”

  “I’ll repeat, since it didn’t seem to register the first time. I am not of the same ilk as Frisco Flo, Sallie Purple, and the rest of those…women.” She slapped the gold coin on the desktop. Hard. “I want a receipt.”

  Without sitting down, Hollis yanked a battered receipt book from the desk drawer, dipped a pen in an inkwell and scratched out a furious receipt, tearing a hole in the thin paper in the process. “Take yer receipt and git!”

  “If it wasn’t for One-Eyed Jack, you’d best believe I’d �
��git’ permanently!” She mashed the paper into her pocket and escaped out the livery doors.

  Once outside on the packed dirt, her heart still racing from the encounter, she stepped quickly down Poplar toward town, stopping only once at Tenth to gaze first toward the livery and then at the nearby hospital. Her scrutiny traveled beyond both to the future location of the railroad yards and depot. Her hand strayed to her throat, and the conversation drifted back to her, overheard from Susan’s bedside. The sister’s face, serious and taut with fear beneath her wimple: “Another anonymous note. They said they’ll set the place afire this time, if we don’t sell the land.”

  “Ah,” said Inez softly. She turned east and took in the view of town. The tops of buildings gleamed in the sun. She imagined the thin ribbon of track snaking up, heading to town.

  The hospital is sitting on prime real estate, close to the new depot, a tempting target for lot jumpers. And Hollis’ property blocks the path the tracks will take to the Rio Grande depot and yards.

  A smile curved her lips. Now I know who the “bastards” are.

  Chapter Twenty

  Inez hurried through the doors of the Silver Queen and swiped the back of her gloved hand across her forehead. Sweat and dirt left a dark streak across the worn leather glove. Shifting the saddlebags to her other shoulder, she pulled out her handkerchief. The day’s use had given it an unhealthy gray tinge. She dabbed at her face and neck, scanning the room. Miners, off from their shifts at the large mines, ranged along the bar, nursing their beers. They were readily identified by physique—broad shoulders, strong arms—as well as by hands and faces, which, although scrubbed clean, still maintained a tinge not unlike her handkerchief.

  A couple of desultory card games progressed without much energy at the tables close by. A handful of malingerers, the day’s newspapers spread before them, along with bowls of stew and plates of pickled eggs and Bridgette’s biscuits, occupied other tables scattered about.

  Could be more, but at least it’s not less.

  Sol was tapping a beer keg and chatting with a couple of swells who, by the cut of their cloth, were new to town.

  In the shadows close to the kitchen, a familiar figure rose from a table.

  “Mrs. Stannert. We were wonderin’ if you were gonna make it.” Abe walked toward her. She quickly took in the figures still at the table—a man and a woman.

  Holy mother, am I late?

  She hated being late. It gave the advantage to those doing the waiting.

  Abe stopped in front of her and handed her a cup of coffee. He was already in his evening working clothes—a starched white shirt, sleeve garters adjusted, waistcoat buttoned. His hair was slicked back as best as it would go, the brilliantine darkening some of the gray. She gulped the coffee. The strong dark taste, buffered by a generous dollop of brandy, seared all the way down, burning a clean path through her dusty throat to her stomach.

  She sighed gratefully. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson. I needed that terribly. And I’m so sorry I’m late. I’m a sight, I know.”

  Abe smiled at her, an expression that warmed her nearly as much as the coffee. She realized, with some surprise, that it had been a long, long time since she’d seen Abe smile like that. Particularly at her. He spoke just loud enough for her to hear. “Mrs. Stannert, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I was beginnin’ to worry some. Your reverend came through ’bout quarter hour ago, thought you’d be here. I’m glad to see you all in one piece. Now come on over and meet the folks that’ll help us mine the miners and get us back on our feet in this town.”

  He escorted her over to the table. The man had stood immediately when Abe had conferred with her, and held his silk top hat in one gloved hand. If mother could see him, she would declare him a “fine figure of a man.” That term of approbation had always been saved for men in coats of finest wool, facial hair neatly trimmed, fingernails clean, and of a figure that bespoke wealth and girth. Inez could nearly hear her mother’s further comment: But not too much girth…that would be a sign of the sin of gluttony and, by extension, avarice.

  The scent of bay rum and lavender from the two strangers washed over her, strong enough to make her giddy. She was all too aware of how she must look—dusty, riding skirt creased and stained around the hem where she’d stood in the stream, over-large panama hat now trailing down her back and her hair no doubt askew. Not to mention the smell that must be emanating from her. A combination of horse sweat and my own, no doubt.

  Nevertheless, the gentleman smiled widely, exposing teeth of nearly preternatural whiteness, broken only by a large gap between his two front teeth and a diamond winking from an upper incisor. “Charles Ambrose Fairplay, at your service, madam. And such a pleasure we anticipate that service to be.” His voice had an underlying drawl that reminded her suddenly of Mark.

  Inez mustered her best hostess smile, as if she stood in her parents’ reception hall in New York City rather than in a bar in a Rocky Mountain mining town. She held out her hand. “Please pardon me for being late. I can only plead the congestion on Leadville’s streets. I should have allowed more time for returning from my afternoon constitutional.”

  He seized her hand and, as if her fingers were encased in the finest silk from China rather than stained leather, executed a deep bow and kissed her hand.

  She resisted the impulse to pull away.

  “Ah, a ride in the bracing breezes of the pristine wilderness of the frontiers. Salubrious. Invigorating. Exhilarating, no doubt. Not to mention healthful.”

  The words rolled out easy and embracing, reminding Inez more and more of her missing husband as he prepared to play a mark for his money.

  “You may call me C.A.,” the actor continued, “since I look forward to a pleasant, not to mention financially rewarding, relationship with both you and Abraham here.” His voice boomed in the confines of the barroom and seemed to echo off the tin ceiling.

  Abraham? Inez raised her eyebrows at Abe. Since when did he revert to all those syllables? Abe raised his eyebrows a fraction back and smoothed his mustache, perhaps, she thought, to hide a grin.

  “My dear, you forget your manners.” The cultured voice from across the table sounded amused and gently chiding.

  C.A. Fairplay smacked his forehead in comical exaggeration. “My dearest, forgive me.”

  The seated woman rose, the fabric of her triple-flounced, box-pleated underskirt rustling. “Now you must, in turn, forgive C.A. He tends to get lost in the sound of his own voice when pontificating. Which has its good points and bad points when we’re on stage together.”

  Inez smiled faintly back, wishing she were dressed more on a par and had her own fan to flutter in such an animated fashion as the woman before her.

  “My wife,” C.A. said, a hand going protectively about her waist. “Maude Fairplay. An actress known from San Francisco to New York, and particularly beloved in Cincinnati and Chicago.”

  Maude smiled. Deep down, Inez experienced a little tweak of satisfaction that Mrs. Fairplay’s teeth were not perfect specimens like her husband’s. However, the green of her eyes—reminding Inez of the startling green of absinthe—served to draw attention from the fact that her teeth were a tad yellow and incisors crooked.

  “You may,” she said in a rich contralto, “call me Maude.”

  Abe spoke up. “Now that Mrs. Stannert’s arrived and we’re done with the introductions, I suggest we retire to the office upstairs to talk business.”

  Suggest? Retire? Inez flashed him an amused glance. Very well, four can play at this etiquette game.

  “Mr. Jackson, why don’t you take our visitors to the office, and I’ll have coffee sent up,” said Inez, as if a fleet of servants were ready to jump at the pull of a cord.

  C.A. held out an arm, which Maude, with a graceful twist of her fan, took. Abe gestured toward the stairs. Inez became aware that, sometime during the exchange of introductions, the barroom had gone stone silent, right down to the tink of
glassware and knives on plates. As Maude and C.A. began moving toward the stairs, every head swiveled to watch their progress. The actors had nearly reached the stairs when one fellow stepped up to them, broad-brimmed hat clutched to his breast, and said fervently, “Pardon, ma’am. Mrs. Fairplay.”

  Maude turned.

  He cleared his throat. “I seen you in Dodge City, coupla years back. When you sang, I thought you was sent from heaven.”

  Dodge City. A shock, like an icy mountain waterfall, poured down Inez’s back. She stared hard, with new eyes, at Maude Fairplay.

  Maude’s eyelids fluttered in unison with her fan. “How kind. A few years ago, you say?” She turned to her husband. “We were there about three years ago, isn’t that so? On our way to San Francisco?”

  “So many places, so many faces. Without my journal at hand, I have a hard time keeping them all straight.” C.A. turned to the man. “Well, you’ll have an opportunity, my fine fellow, to see Mrs. Fairplay create magic with Shakespeare. Yes, pure magic with the bard at Tabor’s Opera House, continuing through the end of July. And perhaps,” he laid a finger by his nose and winked, “just perhaps a special performance here at this fine establishment as well.” He looked up at Inez, beaming as if their business was a done deal—all perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect suit.

  Perfect scoundrel!

  Inez kept the smile on her face until she reached the kitchen.

  “It’s her, I’m certain!” she hissed, startling Bridgette as she swung through the door and dumped her saddlebags on a kitchen chair.

  “Lands, ma’am, her who?” Bridgette clapped a floury hand to her aproned breast and looked around apprehensively. One end of the large wooden kitchen table was covered with rolled-out dough, punctuated where the biscuit cutter had stamped out neat holes.

  “You didn’t see her? That, that…actress?”

  “Here?” Bridgette sounded confused. “In my kitchen?”

  “Out there.” Inez waved a hand at the saloon proper. “Jesus. I don’t believe it. Here in Leadville. In my saloon! She was blonde three years ago. Now, mousy brown. But I’d swear it was her.”