Maybe it was all for the best. He wouldn’t have trusted himself to be alone with her for two minutes, let alone the ten it would have taken to escort her over from the Gold Dust. Plus, he’d have had to camp outside the door, separated from her and the promise of her lush lips by a scant few feet. Even in the mind-clearing light of full day, it still seemed too much to ask of a mortal man.
Naw, Venice had been just fine. By all accounts—and he had asked around after getting back last night—Venice had that blonde saloon owner fretting over her like a mother hen.
More important, she had money, lots of it. And Leiland money, particularly in Salvage, could buy anything, including a room.
Still, anxiety for her was churning his stomach. Wearily, Noble accepted his fate. He’d never be comfortable until he actually saw for himself that she was all right.
Fetching his shaving gear from the saddlebag, Noble whipped up suds in the mug. He lathered his face and peered into the mirror. He didn’t much like what he saw.
Venice must think he was certifiable. What had he been thinking of, yelling at her like that? Thinking? That was the problem. Ever since he’d heard Venice was here, he’d given up the habit of conscious thought. He didn’t do a whole lot more than react these days. Charging into her room, grabbing her, kissing her, and then all but calling her a trollop before stomping away.
What was it to him if she’d grown up to be like Adele?
The razor slipped in Noble’s hand and a dot of blood blossomed amidst the thick, white lather. He swore. As soon as he saw her, he was going to apologize. Even if it killed him.
Katie blew froth from the mug of beer, topped it off, and slid it down to one of her few paying customers. Surreptitiously, she sliced off a wad of chewing tobacco and dropped it into the keg. It gave the weak brew a bit more kick for the dollar. Lord knew, she needed every cent she could eke out of this place. Here it was, almost eleven o’clock, and all she’d sold was a couple of beers and a half dozen cups of coffee.
She looked over the interior of the Gold Dust Emporium. Oh, it was filled all right; plenty of men sat at the tables, lounged at the counter, and leaned against the walls, all as quiet as sinners on baptism day, their grizzled faces turning with nauseatin’ regularity toward the top of the staircase.
It was disgusting. The fools gawked at Venice like she was a two-headed calf. And now, the jackasses had taken to sitting around, hoping to impress Miz Leiland with their virtuous sobriety, all so she’d smile at ‘em and maybe dance with ‘em at tomorrow’s shindig.
Well, shit, this weren’t no church social hall. This was a saloon!
Katie slapped a wet rag down on the counter. First and foremost, Cayuse Katie Jones was a businesswoman. Alien considerations like friendship aside, one fact stood out like a mud hen in a flock of snow geese: Venice Leiland was bad for business.
Worst of all, it shouldn’t oughta be that way! Venice attracted more men than Reverend Niss’s notorious revival meetings. There had to be some way to turn a profit from her presence here.
A door on the second floor opened and every head in the room snapped to attention. Peggy, auburn ringlets bouncing along with everything else, sashayed into sight. A groan of disappointment rose from the men.
“Wal, excuse me!” Peggy said, mortally offended. “But seems to me like I was good enough fer more ‘an a few of you just last week.”
The men ignored her. Peggy’s face turned a magnificent shade of red. Twitching her tail, she stalked back the way she’d come.
Much more of this, thought Katie, and the girls will be finding other places to board. There was only one thing for it, Katie thought with a sigh. She needed to push Venice off the pedestal all these pipe-dreamin’ fools had put her on.
And the best way to do that, for everyone concerned, was to get Venice bedded.
Once Venice was one fella’s concern, these jerkwater would-be beaus could come drown their sorrows right here at the Gold Dust! And that one feller should be Noble McCaneaghy.
It was a plum good idea. The revelation that Venice was a twenty-two-year-old virgin still unsettled Katie. And while she was absolutely convinced that Venice should choose a groom from New York’s upper crust, maybe, while she had the chance, Venice should have a taste of plain old animal. And Noble McCaneaghy was one fine-looking animal.
The angry swirling of Katie’s rag lost speed, slowing to big, measured circles.
McCaneaghy had raced clear from the other side of town on seeing a little smoke and then shot straight up to Venice’s room, ignoring everything in his path till he’d made certain she was safe. That was interesting. Real interesting.
Poor little Venice, thought Katie pityingly. That man had her so balled up inside, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Whatever McCaneaghy had said or done up in that room had only whet the kid’s appetite.
Katie smiled. She was a good gambler. One of the territory’s best. All she had to do was stand back and watch and see which way the cards fell before she sat in on the game. She would find a way to cash in on Venice Leiland and turn the Gold Dust into a profitable venture. And the one who was going to ante up was Noble McCaneaghy.
Chapter 7
By the time Venice’s feet touched the cold floorboards the next morning, her anger had burned itself out, leaving a few facts amongst the ashes.
Her childhood knight had become a ragged nomad. The soup kitchens and homes that had been funded by the Leiland Foundation were filled with men like Noble; men who’d seen too much.
She knew from reading newspapers that many war veterans were adrift in the territories, seeking to lose themselves in the harsh, unforgiving landscape. It couldn’t be more obvious that Noble had become one of them, she thought, remembering the torn clothes he’d been wearing yesterday. And there hadn’t been a horse to keep him company at that water trough. He probably couldn’t afford one.
She pulled on a russet-and green-striped dress, worked the small, bone buttons through their hooks, and adjusted her fashionable collapsible bustle. As she arranged a large, silk-flowerbedecked bonnet on her head, her thoughts wandered back to nine years before.
After Noble had gone, it had taken her months to screw up the courage and ask her father what had happened to him. She still remembered making the long trip up the marble stairway to her father’s inner sanctum, the fourth-floor library.
His chill expression on seeing her at the door had grown rigid when he had heard her question. He’d motioned her to take a seat on the far side of the huge walnut desk that dominated the hushed, gaslit room.
Noble, he’d explained in a grave voice, had forfeited his sponsorship to Yale and disappeared. Apparently, her father had continued, he hadn’t the strength of character necessary to meet the demands placed upon him. Noble had been a failed experiment and now he was best forgotten. Doubtless he would end an unproductive and purposeless life in circumstances similar to the one Trevor had found him in.
It was the last mention her father had ever made of Noble McCaneaghy.
Venice stared down at her hands, surprised to find she’d twisted the fringed end of her silk shawl into a tangled knot.
No wonder Noble had reacted so strongly to seeing her. He was embarrassed. And Noble had ever been a proud lad. If she saw him again, she’d do what she could for him. He’d been her friend. She owed him more than she could ever repay.
She left the room and started down the hallway. She might not see Noble again. He might already have gone, drifting toward some vague future, a shadow slipping from her life. Well, she thought sadly, what more could she expect.
Besides, she abjured herself, she should be worrying about Salvage’s future, not her own past. At least in Salvage she might make a difference.
At the top of the staircase she stopped and peeked around the corner. Sure enough, they were waiting.
Doesn’t anyone in Salvage have a job? she wondered, taking a deep breath and starting down the stairs. Everyplace she went s
eemed to be crowded with men picking their teeth, their noses, or their fingernails.
She stepped off the last riser and the men turned toward her. Several stumbled to their feet. Those wearing hats swept them from their heads, crushing them against their chests as she passed. It was a little unnerving. She smiled tentatively. Mumbled “ma’ams” met her overture.
“Hey, Venice,” Katie called from the opposite side of the room. With a sense of relief, Venice headed toward her. The men fell back, parting like the Red Sea.
“Good morning, Miss Jones,” Venice said. “Have you been able to ascertain the identity of the owner of the local bank? I do not wish to indulge in paranoia, but I begin to suspect a conspiracy is afoot. Not only has the bank been closed since I arrived, but no one can tell me who actually works there.”
Katie frowned over a thick piece of twine she was securing to the brass rail at the end of the bar. “Someone’s gotta know something.” She handed Venice the end of the rope. “Tie this to the leg of that chair, will ya?”
“Certainly,” Venice said, uncertain what Katie was up to but glad to be of service. “Do you think the postal service might have any information?”
“Don’t know, hon. Now, where is that . . . ?” Katie muttered, rummaging beneath the counter.
Venice finished tying a sturdy square knot. Seeing Katie’s preoccupation, she decided not to pester her with any more questions. She sidled past the men, nodding and smiling her way to the door and out into the bright spring sunshine.
Her plan had seemed so simple. She would interview the owners of the larger businesses in Salvage and determine to what extent they relied on the spur line. Then she would assess the town’s resources and, finally, develop a plan for their self-sufficiency.
And if she were successful, her father would have to take note. He’d have to admit she had an aptitude for something other than scandal.
But first, she needed the townspeople’s help. And, by heavens, she was going to get it. With that thought, Venice forged across the dust-laden street, making for Grundy’s Mercantile.
The second she stepped inside, her nostrils were assailed by the pungent odor of rancid bacon. Two men, one she recognized as the cook over at the Pay Dirt and the other unfamiliar, were haggling over a greenish side of pork lying on the counter. No shopkeeper was present to mediate the proceedings.
The men paused long enough to offer her gap-toothed grins before returning to their argument. Venice walked along the shelf-lined walls. Grundy’s was well—if untidily—stocked with all manner of supplies: candle molds, feather beds, chamber pots, spades, holsters, tents, and stakes. Barrels of beans, molasses, flour, rice, and sugar stood open to the elements—and the local insect population. A few grains of brown rice in one barrel started to move of their own volition.
At the back of the store a length of canvas was hung across an open doorway. Voices floated from beyond it.
“Dammit, Anton,” a reedy voice piped, “if’n you’d jes hold the damn thing, it’d set up fine.”
“It’s too heavy,” another voice insisted. “Yore gonna have ta bolt it.”
“Oh, yeah,” the first voice returned sarcastically, “that’s gonna look real natural now, ain’t it?”
Venice peered around the curtain into what seemed to be a storage room. Tall shelves, piled with heaps of mismatched goods, obstructed her view. “Excuse me,” she called.
A sharp-featured, red-haired man popped up from behind a massive workbench. His eyes widened and a sickly smile creased his pockmarked cheeks.
“Miz Leiland! Anton! Look who come callin’.” He seemed to kick something—or someone. A blurted oath confirmed Venice’s suspicions. A blocky, thunderously scowling face rose from behind the same workbench, towering over the redheaded man.
“Shi-it, Harry! Why’d you kick me? I knowd who this is fer . . .” The behemoth’s little eyes followed the other man’s riveted gaze. His small, round mouth formed an oh of surprise.
Venice smiled. “Might one of you gentlemen be the proprietor of this establishment?”
“Yup.” Both men gulped simultaneously.
“Then you are Misters Grundy?”
The redhead shouldered past the giant, scrambling to a halt in front of her. He started to hold out his hand and then, as an afterthought, wiped the palm on his pant leg and offered it to her again. She shook it.
“Harry Grundy, Miz Leiland.” He jerked his head back toward the giant who was still openmouthed and mute. “That’s Anton.”
“Delighted.”
“Yup. Well . . .” Without a word of warning, Harry grabbed Venice’s elbow and spun her around, yanking her out of the storage room. “Now, what kin I do fer you, ma’am?”
“Ah, I was wondering if I might have a few moments of your time,” she said as Harry reached behind her and jerked the canvas back over the doorway. “My family finances the foundation that maintains the Leiland-Hawkness Spur Line.”
Harry bobbed his head in understanding. Venice continued. “The spur line’s raison d’être has been my uncle’s archaeological expeditions. But as my uncle has failed to find anything of scientific significance in his seven years here, he will be moving on next season. Thus the spur line’s original function ceases to exist.”
Harry’s eyes looked a bit glazed over.
“Do you understand?” she asked gently.
“Nah-uh.”
“The spur line may close down,” she said.
“Oh.”
“I am hoping to find something on which to anchor Salvage’s future. Some resource, some distinction—”
Harry gave short, understanding jerks of his head. “How long we got?”
“Excuse me?”
“How long we got before you close down the spur line?”
“I am not—”
“It’s okay, Miz Leiland. We understand. Salvage has gotta make the grade, pure and simple.”
“But I don’t have any inten—”
“But jes’ counta Milt didn’t find nuthin’ don’t mean there ain’t anythin’ sci-en-tific here to discover.”
“I understand your feelings, Mr. Grundy. But my uncle is a trained paleontologist. If there were any fossils around here, he would have found them,” she said.
“Don’t be too sure!”
She looked up, startled. Anton’s big, rough features floated, bizarrely disembodied, above the canvas curtain leading to the storage room.
“This mountain’s just about bustin’ its seams with real live ark-te-facts . . .” Anton said.
Harry glared at his brother. The giant’s voice petered out.
Harry turned his attention back to Venice. “Mebbe I can help you, Miz Leiland.”
“I’d appreciate any help I can get,” she replied eagerly. Finally here was someone willing to tell her something. “Do you know where the bank owner—”
Harry cut in as smoothly as if Venice hadn’t opened her mouth. “Ain’t surprising you missed some of the rare things we got around here. You ain’t even been in our fair city a week yet.”
Venice felt her lips twitch. Fair city. “That’s only too true.”
“Has you even been to the Ringo Clements camp?”
“No.”
“Gotta see that. It’s where Ringo Clements up and ate his partner, Matthew Morris, back in the winter of ‘53. Didn’t know he was only three miles out of Salvage or he probably wouldn’ta done it. Now there’s a regular tourist attraction.”
“I’m sure.” Venice pressed a hand to her stomach.
“People’ll line up to get a look-see. Sorta exciting.” Harry winked at Venice. “I heard you like a little excitement yerself.”
The word “excitement” acted like a red flag to Venice. She hated that word. She hated reading it, she hated hearing it, she hated its use in any connection with herself. And she especially hated this . . . person thinking she would find Wingo Clemens’s disgusting and unnatural dining habits in any way “exciting.” She’
d had enough.
“Thank you for your help,” Venice said with chill formality before sweeping from the room. “Good day.”
“Excitement, indeed!” she muttered furiously, tears of frustration stinging her eyes as she stomped out the door and straight into a rock-hard male chest.
She hit him with enough force to produce an audible woof from him and knock her off balance and into the street. She staggered a second until her boot heel caught in her hem and tripped her. She landed on her bottom in the dust, her fashionable collapsible bustle collapsing beneath her. Her huge, elegant bonnet tipped over her eyes, blinding her.
“Damnation!” she ground out.
The next instance someone caught her beneath the elbows and lifted her effortlessly to her feet. The same someone gingerly lifted the brim of her hat and peered at her, scowling. Noble McCaneaghy. Of course.
“Where are you hurt?” he asked worriedly. Only by an enormous strength of will did she manage not to rub her behind.
“I’m not.” She blinked up into his golden eyes, waiting warily for him to resume the verbal battle they’d started last night. He didn’t.
“Why are you crying, then?” he demanded.
“I’m not crying,” she answered, surprised. “I’m . . . I’m mad!”
He released the breath in a whoosh of what she was sure was relief. There was no way she was mistaking it, she realized. He was still worrying about her, even after all these years. The thought produced an unexpected flush of pleasure in her.
Almost as much pleasure as the feeling of his fingers, solid and strong, still wrapped lightly about her forearms.
“Shoulda known,” he said. “Even as a kid, you never cried when you were hurt, only when you didn’t get your way.”
She lifted an imperious eyebrow. “I got over that years ago.”
“Sure.” He grinned. His very eyes seemed to smile. She’d almost forgotten that smile, the way it invited a person—no, the way it invited her—to join. It was still too tempting to resist. She smiled back.
Connie Brockway Page 8